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#20,152,428html<p>Declaration of Independence</p>
<p>In Congress, July 4, 1776</p>
<p>The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.</p>
<p>We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.</p>
<p>He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.</p>
<p>He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.</p>
<p>He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.</p>
<p>He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.</p>
<p>He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.</p>
<p>He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.</p>
<p>He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.</p>
<p>He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.</p>
<p>He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.</p>
<p>He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.</p>
<p>He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.</p>
<p>He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.</p>
<p>He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:</p>
<p>For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:</p>
<p>For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:</p>
<p>For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:</p>
<p>For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:</p>
<p>For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:</p>
<p>For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences</p>
<p>For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:</p>
<p>For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:</p>
<p>For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.</p>
<p>He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.</p>
<p>He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.</p>
<p>He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.</p>
<p>He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.</p>
<p>He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.</p>
<p>In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.</p>
<p>Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.</p>
<p>We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.</p>
<p>Georgia</p>
<p>Button Gwinnett</p>
<p>Lyman Hall</p>
<p>George Walton</p>
<p></p>
<p>North Carolina</p>
<p>William Hooper</p>
<p>Joseph Hewes</p>
<p>John Penn</p>
<p></p>
<p>South Carolina</p>
<p>Edward Rutledge</p>
<p>Thomas Heyward, Jr.</p>
<p>Thomas Lynch, Jr.</p>
<p>Arthur Middleton</p>
<p></p>
<p>Massachusetts</p>
<p>John Hancock</p>
<p>Maryland</p>
<p>Samuel Chase</p>
<p>William Paca</p>
<p>Thomas Stone</p>
<p>Charles Carroll of Carrollton</p>
<p></p>
<p>Virginia</p>
<p>George Wythe</p>
<p>Richard Henry Lee</p>
<p>Thomas Jefferson</p>
<p>Benjamin Harrison</p>
<p>Thomas Nelson, Jr.</p>
<p>Francis Lightfoot Lee</p>
<p>Carter Braxton</p>
<p></p>
<p>Pennsylvania</p>
<p>Robert Morris</p>
<p>Benjamin Rush</p>
<p>Benjamin Franklin</p>
<p>John Morton</p>
<p>George Clymer</p>
<p>James Smith</p>
<p>George Taylor</p>
<p>James Wilson</p>
<p>George Ross</p>
<p>Delaware</p>
<p>Caesar Rodney</p>
<p>George Read</p>
<p>Thomas McKean</p>
<p></p>
<p>New York</p>
<p>William Floyd</p>
<p>Philip Livingston</p>
<p>Francis Lewis</p>
<p>Lewis Morris</p>
<p></p>
<p>New Jersey</p>
<p>Richard Stockton</p>
<p>John Witherspoon</p>
<p>Francis Hopkinson</p>
<p>John Hart</p>
<p>Abraham Clark</p>
<p></p>
<p>New Hampshire</p>
<p>Josiah Bartlett</p>
<p>William Whipple</p>
<p></p>
<p>Massachusetts</p>
<p>Samuel Adams</p>
<p>John Adams</p>
<p>Robert Treat Paine</p>
<p>Elbridge Gerry</p>
<p></p>
<p>Rhode Island</p>
<p>Stephen Hopkins</p>
<p>William Ellery</p>
<p></p>
<p>Connecticut</p>
<p>Roger Sherman</p>
<p>Samuel Huntington</p>
<p>William Williams</p>
<p>Oliver Wolcott</p>
<p></p>
<p>New Hampshire</p>
<p>Matthew Thornton</p>
<p>---------------------------</p>
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#19,964,056textKing Lear
By William Shakespeare
ACT I
SCENE I. King Lear's palace.
Enter KENT, GLOUCESTER, and EDMUND
KENT
I thought the king had more affected the Duke of
Albany than Cornwall.
GLOUCESTER
It did always seem so to us: but now, in the
division of the kingdom, it appears not which of
the dukes he values most; for equalities are so
weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice
of either's moiety.
KENT
Is not this your son, my lord?
GLOUCESTER
His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have
so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am
brazed to it.
KENT
I cannot conceive you.
GLOUCESTER
Sir, this young fellow's mother could: whereupon
she grew round-wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son
for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed.
Do you smell a fault?
KENT
I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it
being so proper.
GLOUCESTER
But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year
elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account:
though this knave came something saucily into the
world before he was sent for, yet was his mother
fair; there was good sport at his making, and the
whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this
noble gentleman, Edmund?
EDMUND
No, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
My lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my
honourable friend.
EDMUND
My services to your lordship.
KENT
I must love you, and sue to know you better.
EDMUND
Sir, I shall study deserving.
GLOUCESTER
He hath been out nine years, and away he shall
again. The king is coming.
Sennet. Enter KING LEAR, CORNWALL, ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, CORDELIA, and Attendants
KING LEAR
Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER
I shall, my liege.
Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EDMUND
KING LEAR
Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.
Give me the map there. Know that we have divided
In three our kingdom: and 'tis our fast intent
To shake all cares and business from our age;
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we
Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,
And you, our no less loving son of Albany,
We have this hour a constant will to publish
Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife
May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love,
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,
And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters,--
Since now we will divest us both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state,--
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,
Our eldest-born, speak first.
GONERIL
Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e'er loved, or father found;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
CORDELIA
[Aside] What shall Cordelia do?
Love, and be silent.
LEAR
Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,
With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd,
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady: to thine and Albany's issue
Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.
REGAN
Sir, I am made
Of the self-same metal that my sister is,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short: that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,
Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
And find I am alone felicitate
In your dear highness' love.
CORDELIA
[Aside] Then poor Cordelia!
And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love's
More richer than my tongue.
KING LEAR
To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferr'd on Goneril. Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess'd; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
CORDELIA
Nothing, my lord.
KING LEAR
Nothing!
CORDELIA
Nothing.
KING LEAR
Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.
CORDELIA
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more nor less.
KING LEAR
How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,
Lest it may mar your fortunes.
CORDELIA
Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty:
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.
KING LEAR
But goes thy heart with this?
CORDELIA
Ay, good my lord.
KING LEAR
So young, and so untender?
CORDELIA
So young, my lord, and true.
KING LEAR
Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower:
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;
By all the operation of the orbs
From whom we do exist, and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me
Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved,
As thou my sometime daughter.
KENT
Good my liege,--
KING LEAR
Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!
So be my grave my peace, as here I give
Her father's heart from her! Call France; who stirs?
Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany,
With my two daughters' dowers digest this third:
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.
I do invest you jointly with my power,
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation of an hundred knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode
Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain
The name, and all the additions to a king;
The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,
This coronet part betwixt you.
Giving the crown
KENT
Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honour'd as my king,
Loved as my father, as my master follow'd,
As my great patron thought on in my prayers,--
KING LEAR
The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.
KENT
Let it fall rather, though the fork invade
The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly,
When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man?
Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak,
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound,
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom;
And, in thy best consideration, cheque
This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment,
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.
KING LEAR
Kent, on thy life, no more.
KENT
My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it,
Thy safety being the motive.
KING LEAR
Out of my sight!
KENT
See better, Lear; and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye.
KING LEAR
Now, by Apollo,--
KENT
Now, by Apollo, king,
Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.
KING LEAR
O, vassal! miscreant!
Laying his hand on his sword
ALBANY CORNWALL
Dear sir, forbear.
KENT
Do:
Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow
Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom;
Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,
I'll tell thee thou dost evil.
KING LEAR
Hear me, recreant!
On thine allegiance, hear me!
Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,
Which we durst never yet, and with strain'd pride
To come between our sentence and our power,
Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,
Our potency made good, take thy reward.
Five days we do allot thee, for provision
To shield thee from diseases of the world;
And on the sixth to turn thy hated back
Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following,
Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions,
The moment is thy death. Away! by Jupiter,
This shall not be revoked.
KENT
Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear,
Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
To CORDELIA
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,
That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said!
To REGAN and GONERIL
And your large speeches may your deeds approve,
That good effects may spring from words of love.
Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu;
He'll shape his old course in a country new.
Exit
Flourish. Re-enter GLOUCESTER, with KING OF FRANCE, BURGUNDY, and Attendants
GLOUCESTER
Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord.
KING LEAR
My lord of Burgundy.
We first address towards you, who with this king
Hath rivall'd for our daughter: what, in the least,
Will you require in present dower with her,
Or cease your quest of love?
BURGUNDY
Most royal majesty,
I crave no more than what your highness offer'd,
Nor will you tender less.
KING LEAR
Right noble Burgundy,
When she was dear to us, we did hold her so;
But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands:
If aught within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced,
And nothing more, may fitly like your grace,
She's there, and she is yours.
BURGUNDY
I know no answer.
KING LEAR
Will you, with those infirmities she owes,
Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,
Dower'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her, or leave her?
BURGUNDY
Pardon me, royal sir;
Election makes not up on such conditions.
KING LEAR
Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,
I tell you all her wealth.
To KING OF FRANCE
For you, great king,
I would not from your love make such a stray,
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you
To avert your liking a more worthier way
Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed
Almost to acknowledge hers.
KING OF FRANCE
This is most strange,
That she, that even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence
Must be of such unnatural degree,
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection
Fall'n into taint: which to believe of her,
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Could never plant in me.
CORDELIA
I yet beseech your majesty,--
If for I want that glib and oily art,
To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,
I'll do't before I speak,--that you make known
It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,
No unchaste action, or dishonour'd step,
That hath deprived me of your grace and favour;
But even for want of that for which I am richer,
A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue
As I am glad I have not, though not to have it
Hath lost me in your liking.
KING LEAR
Better thou
Hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.
KING OF FRANCE
Is it but this,--a tardiness in nature
Which often leaves the history unspoke
That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the lady? Love's not love
When it is mingled with regards that stand
Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.
BURGUNDY
Royal Lear,
Give but that portion which yourself proposed,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Duchess of Burgundy.
KING LEAR
Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.
BURGUNDY
I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father
That you must lose a husband.
CORDELIA
Peace be with Burgundy!
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.
KING OF FRANCE
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflamed respect.
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
KING LEAR
Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again. Therefore be gone
Without our grace, our love, our benison.
Come, noble Burgundy.
Flourish. Exeunt all but KING OF FRANCE, GONERIL, REGAN, and CORDELIA
KING OF FRANCE
Bid farewell to your sisters.
CORDELIA
The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes
Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;
And like a sister am most loath to call
Your faults as they are named. Use well our father:
To your professed bosoms I commit him
But yet, alas, stood I within his grace,
I would prefer him to a better place.
So, farewell to you both.
REGAN
Prescribe not us our duties.
GONERIL
Let your study
Be to content your lord, who hath received you
At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you have wanted.
CORDELIA
Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:
Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
Well may you prosper!
KING OF FRANCE
Come, my fair Cordelia.
Exeunt KING OF FRANCE and CORDELIA
GONERIL
Sister, it is not a little I have to say of what
most nearly appertains to us both. I think our
father will hence to-night.
REGAN
That's most certain, and with you; next month with us.
GONERIL
You see how full of changes his age is; the
observation we have made of it hath not been
little: he always loved our sister most; and
with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off
appears too grossly.
REGAN
'Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever
but slenderly known himself.
GONERIL
The best and soundest of his time hath been but
rash; then must we look to receive from his age,
not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed
condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness
that infirm and choleric years bring with them.
REGAN
Such unconstant starts are we like to have from
him as this of Kent's banishment.
GONERIL
There is further compliment of leavetaking
between France and him. Pray you, let's hit
together: if our father carry authority with
such dispositions as he bears, this last
surrender of his will but offend us.
REGAN
We shall further think on't.
GONERIL
We must do something, and i' the heat.
Exeunt
SCENE II. The Earl of Gloucester's castle.
Enter EDMUND, with a letter
EDMUND
Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true,
As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,
Got 'tween asleep and wake? Well, then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land:
Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund
As to the legitimate: fine word,--legitimate!
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper:
Now, gods, stand up for bastards!
Enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER
Kent banish'd thus! and France in choler parted!
And the king gone to-night! subscribed his power!
Confined to exhibition! All this done
Upon the gad! Edmund, how now! what news?
EDMUND
So please your lordship, none.
Putting up the letter
GLOUCESTER
Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?
EDMUND
I know no news, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
What paper were you reading?
EDMUND
Nothing, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
No? What needed, then, that terrible dispatch of
it into your pocket? the quality of nothing hath
not such need to hide itself. Let's see: come,
if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.
EDMUND
I beseech you, sir, pardon me: it is a letter
from my brother, that I have not all o'er-read;
and for so much as I have perused, I find it not
fit for your o'er-looking.
GLOUCESTER
Give me the letter, sir.
EDMUND
I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The
contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.
GLOUCESTER
Let's see, let's see.
EDMUND
I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote
this but as an essay or taste of my virtue.
GLOUCESTER
[Reads] 'This policy and reverence of age makes
the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps
our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish
them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage
in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways, not
as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to
me, that of this I may speak more. If our father
would sleep till I waked him, you should half his
revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your
brother, EDGAR.'
Hum--conspiracy!--'Sleep till I waked him,--you
should enjoy half his revenue,'--My son Edgar!
Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain
to breed it in?--When came this to you? who
brought it?
EDMUND
It was not brought me, my lord; there's the
cunning of it; I found it thrown in at the
casement of my closet.
GLOUCESTER
You know the character to be your brother's?
EDMUND
If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear
it were his; but, in respect of that, I would
fain think it were not.
GLOUCESTER
It is his.
EDMUND
It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is
not in the contents.
GLOUCESTER
Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business?
EDMUND
Never, my lord: but I have heard him oft
maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age,
and fathers declining, the father should be as
ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.
GLOUCESTER
O villain, villain! His very opinion in the
letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested,
brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah,
seek him; I'll apprehend him: abominable villain!
Where is he?
EDMUND
I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please
you to suspend your indignation against my
brother till you can derive from him better
testimony of his intent, you shall run a certain
course; where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the
heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life
for him, that he hath wrote this to feel my
affection to your honour, and to no further
pretence of danger.
GLOUCESTER
Think you so?
EDMUND
If your honour judge it meet, I will place you
where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an
auricular assurance have your satisfaction; and
that without any further delay than this very evening.
GLOUCESTER
He cannot be such a monster--
EDMUND
Nor is not, sure.
GLOUCESTER
To his father, that so tenderly and entirely
loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him
out: wind me into him, I pray you: frame the
business after your own wisdom. I would unstate
myself, to be in a due resolution.
EDMUND
I will seek him, sir, presently: convey the
business as I shall find means and acquaint you withal.
GLOUCESTER
These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend
no good to us: though the wisdom of nature can
reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself
scourged by the sequent effects: love cools,
friendship falls off, brothers divide: in
cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in
palaces, treason; and the bond cracked 'twixt son
and father. This villain of mine comes under the
prediction; there's son against father: the king
falls from bias of nature; there's father against
child. We have seen the best of our time:
machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all
ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our
graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall
lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the
noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his
offence, honesty! 'Tis strange.
Exit
EDMUND
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that,
when we are sick in fortune,--often the surfeit
of our own behavior,--we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as
if we were villains by necessity; fools by
heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards,
liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of
planetary influence; and all that we are evil in,
by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion
of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish
disposition to the charge of a star! My
father compounded with my mother under the
dragon's tail; and my nativity was under Ursa
major; so that it follows, I am rough and
lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am,
had the maidenliest star in the firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar--
Enter EDGAR
And pat he comes like the catastrophe of the old
comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a
sigh like Tom o' Bedlam. O, these eclipses do
portend these divisions! fa, sol, la, mi.
EDGAR
How now, brother Edmund! what serious
contemplation are you in?
EDMUND
I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read
this other day, what should follow these eclipses.
EDGAR
Do you busy yourself about that?
EDMUND
I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed
unhappily; as of unnaturalness between the child
and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of
ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and
maledictions against king and nobles; needless
diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation
of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.
EDGAR
How long have you been a sectary astronomical?
EDMUND
Come, come; when saw you my father last?
EDGAR
Why, the night gone by.
EDMUND
Spake you with him?
EDGAR
Ay, two hours together.
EDMUND
Parted you in good terms? Found you no
displeasure in him by word or countenance?
EDGAR
None at all.
EDMUND
Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended
him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence
till some little time hath qualified the heat of
his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth
in him, that with the mischief of your person it
would scarcely allay.
EDGAR
Some villain hath done me wrong.
EDMUND
That's my fear. I pray you, have a continent
forbearance till the spied of his rage goes
slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my
lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to
hear my lord speak: pray ye, go; there's my key:
if you do stir abroad, go armed.
EDGAR
Armed, brother!
EDMUND
Brother, I advise you to the best; go armed: I
am no honest man if there be any good meaning
towards you: I have told you what I have seen
and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image
and horror of it: pray you, away.
EDGAR
Shall I hear from you anon?
EDMUND
I do serve you in this business.
Exit EDGAR
A credulous father! and a brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honesty
My practises ride easy! I see the business.
Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:
All with me's meet that I can fashion fit.
Exit
SCENE III. The Duke of Albany's palace.
Enter GONERIL, and OSWALD, her steward
GONERIL
Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?
OSWALD
Yes, madam.
GONERIL
By day and night he wrongs me; every hour
He flashes into one gross crime or other,
That sets us all at odds: I'll not endure it:
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us
On every trifle. When he returns from hunting,
I will not speak with him; say I am sick:
If you come slack of former services,
You shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer.
OSWALD
He's coming, madam; I hear him.
Horns within
GONERIL
Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows; I'll have it come to question:
If he dislike it, let him to our sister,
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,
Not to be over-ruled. Idle old man,
That still would manage those authorities
That he hath given away! Now, by my life,
Old fools are babes again; and must be used
With cheques as flatteries,--when they are seen abused.
Remember what I tell you.
OSWALD
Well, madam.
GONERIL
And let his knights have colder looks among you;
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so:
I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,
That I may speak: I'll write straight to my sister,
To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.
Exeunt
SCENE IV. A hall in the same.
Enter KENT, disguised
KENT
If but as well I other accents borrow,
That can my speech defuse, my good intent
May carry through itself to that full issue
For which I razed my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent,
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd,
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lovest,
Shall find thee full of labours.
Horns within. Enter KING LEAR, Knights, and Attendants
KING LEAR
Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.
Exit an Attendant
How now! what art thou?
KENT
A man, sir.
KING LEAR
What dost thou profess? what wouldst thou with us?
KENT
I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve
him truly that will put me in trust: to love him
that is honest; to converse with him that is wise,
and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I
cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
KING LEAR
What art thou?
KENT
A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.
KING LEAR
If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a
king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?
KENT
Service.
KING LEAR
Who wouldst thou serve?
KENT
You.
KING LEAR
Dost thou know me, fellow?
KENT
No, sir; but you have that in your countenance
which I would fain call master.
KING LEAR
What's that?
KENT
Authority.
KING LEAR
What services canst thou do?
KENT
I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious
tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message
bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am
qualified in; and the best of me is diligence.
KING LEAR
How old art thou?
KENT
Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor
so old to dote on her for any thing: I have years
on my back forty eight.
KING LEAR
Follow me; thou shalt serve me: if I like thee no
worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet.
Dinner, ho, dinner! Where's my knave? my fool?
Go you, and call my fool hither.
Exit an Attendant
Enter OSWALD
You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter?
OSWALD
So please you,--
Exit
KING LEAR
What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.
Exit a Knight
Where's my fool, ho? I think the world's asleep.
Re-enter Knight
How now! where's that mongrel?
Knight
He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
KING LEAR
Why came not the slave back to me when I called him.
Knight
Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would
not.
KING LEAR
He would not!
Knight
My lord, I know not what the matter is; but, to my
judgment, your highness is not entertained with that
ceremonious affection as you were wont; there's a
great abatement of kindness appears as well in the
general dependants as in the duke himself also and
your daughter.
KING LEAR
Ha! sayest thou so?
Knight
I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken;
for my duty cannot be silent when I think your
highness wronged.
KING LEAR
Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I
have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I
have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity
than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness:
I will look further into't. But where's my fool? I
have not seen him this two days.
Knight
Since my young lady's going into France, sir, the
fool hath much pined away.
KING LEAR
No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you, and
tell my daughter I would speak with her.
Exit an Attendant
Go you, call hither my fool.
Exit an Attendant
Re-enter OSWALD
O, you sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I,
sir?
OSWALD
My lady's father.
KING LEAR
'My lady's father'! my lord's knave: your
whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!
OSWALD
I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.
KING LEAR
Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?
Striking him
OSWALD
I'll not be struck, my lord.
KENT
Nor tripped neither, you base football player.
Tripping up his heels
KING LEAR
I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I'll
love thee.
KENT
Come, sir, arise, away! I'll teach you differences:
away, away! if you will measure your lubber's
length again, tarry: but away! go to; have you
wisdom? so.
Pushes OSWALD out
KING LEAR
Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there's
earnest of thy service.
Giving KENT money
Enter Fool
Fool
Let me hire him too: here's my coxcomb.
Offering KENT his cap
KING LEAR
How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou?
Fool
Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
KENT
Why, fool?
Fool
Why, for taking one's part that's out of favour:
nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits,
thou'lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb:
why, this fellow has banished two on's daughters,
and did the third a blessing against his will; if
thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb.
How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!
KING LEAR
Why, my boy?
Fool
If I gave them all my living, I'ld keep my coxcombs
myself. There's mine; beg another of thy daughters.
KING LEAR
Take heed, sirrah; the whip.
Fool
Truth's a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped
out, when Lady the brach may stand by the fire and stink.
KING LEAR
A pestilent gall to me!
Fool
Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech.
KING LEAR
Do.
Fool
Mark it, nuncle:
Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest,
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest;
Leave thy drink and thy whore,
And keep in-a-door,
And thou shalt have more
Than two tens to a score.
KENT
This is nothing, fool.
Fool
Then 'tis like the breath of an unfee'd lawyer; you
gave me nothing for't. Can you make no use of
nothing, nuncle?
KING LEAR
Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.
Fool
[To KENT] Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of
his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.
KING LEAR
A bitter fool!
Fool
Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a
bitter fool and a sweet fool?
KING LEAR
No, lad; teach me.
Fool
That lord that counsell'd thee
To give away thy land,
Come place him here by me,
Do thou for him stand:
The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,
The other found out there.
KING LEAR
Dost thou call me fool, boy?
Fool
All thy other titles thou hast given away; that
thou wast born with.
KENT
This is not altogether fool, my lord.
Fool
No, faith, lords and great men will not let me; if
I had a monopoly out, they would have part on't:
and ladies too, they will not let me have all fool
to myself; they'll be snatching. Give me an egg,
nuncle, and I'll give thee two crowns.
KING LEAR
What two crowns shall they be?
Fool
Why, after I have cut the egg i' the middle, and eat
up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou
clovest thy crown i' the middle, and gavest away
both parts, thou borest thy ass on thy back o'er
the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,
when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak
like myself in this, let him be whipped that first
finds it so.
Singing
Fools had ne'er less wit in a year;
For wise men are grown foppish,
They know not how their wits to wear,
Their manners are so apish.
KING LEAR
When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
Fool
I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy
daughters thy mothers: for when thou gavest them
the rod, and put'st down thine own breeches,
Singing
Then they for sudden joy did weep,
And I for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep,
And go the fools among.
Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach
thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie.
KING LEAR
An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipped.
Fool
I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are:
they'll have me whipped for speaking true, thou'lt
have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am
whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any
kind o' thing than a fool: and yet I would not be
thee, nuncle; thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides,
and left nothing i' the middle: here comes one o'
the parings.
Enter GONERIL
KING LEAR
How now, daughter! what makes that frontlet on?
Methinks you are too much of late i' the frown.
Fool
Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to
care for her frowning; now thou art an O without a
figure: I am better than thou art now; I am a fool,
thou art nothing.
To GONERIL
Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue; so your face
bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum,
He that keeps nor crust nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some.
Pointing to KING LEAR
That's a shealed peascod.
GONERIL
Not only, sir, this your all-licensed fool,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth
In rank and not-to-be endured riots. Sir,
I had thought, by making this well known unto you,
To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done.
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance; which if you should, the fault
Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence,
Which else were shame, that then necessity
Will call discreet proceeding.
Fool
For, you trow, nuncle,
The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,
That it's had it head bit off by it young.
So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
KING LEAR
Are you our daughter?
GONERIL
Come, sir,
I would you would make use of that good wisdom,
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away
These dispositions, that of late transform you
From what you rightly are.
Fool
May not an ass know when the cart
draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee.
KING LEAR
Doth any here know me? This is not Lear:
Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?
Either his notion weakens, his discernings
Are lethargied--Ha! waking? 'tis not so.
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Fool
Lear's shadow.
KING LEAR
I would learn that; for, by the
marks of sovereignty, knowledge, and reason,
I should be false persuaded I had daughters.
Fool
Which they will make an obedient father.
KING LEAR
Your name, fair gentlewoman?
GONERIL
This admiration, sir, is much o' the savour
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd and bold,
That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shows like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust
Make it more like a tavern or a brothel
Than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy: be then desired
By her, that else will take the thing she begs,
A little to disquantity your train;
And the remainder, that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your age,
And know themselves and you.
KING LEAR
Darkness and devils!
Saddle my horses; call my train together:
Degenerate bastard! I'll not trouble thee.
Yet have I left a daughter.
GONERIL
You strike my people; and your disorder'd rabble
Make servants of their betters.
Enter ALBANY
KING LEAR
Woe, that too late repents,--
To ALBANY
O, sir, are you come?
Is it your will? Speak, sir. Prepare my horses.
Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child
Than the sea-monster!
ALBANY
Pray, sir, be patient.
KING LEAR
[To GONERIL] Detested kite! thou liest.
My train are men of choice and rarest parts,
That all particulars of duty know,
And in the most exact regard support
The worships of their name. O most small fault,
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!
That, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature
From the fix'd place; drew from heart all love,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,
Striking his head
And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.
ALBANY
My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant
Of what hath moved you.
KING LEAR
It may be so, my lord.
Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful!
Into her womb convey sterility!
Dry up in her the organs of increase;
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen; that it may live,
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child! Away, away!
Exit
ALBANY
Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?
GONERIL
Never afflict yourself to know the cause;
But let his disposition have that scope
That dotage gives it.
Re-enter KING LEAR
KING LEAR
What, fifty of my followers at a clap!
Within a fortnight!
ALBANY
What's the matter, sir?
KING LEAR
I'll tell thee:
To GONERIL
Life and death! I am ashamed
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus;
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,
Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee!
The untented woundings of a father's curse
Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes,
Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck ye out,
And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay. Yea, it is come to this?
Let is be so: yet have I left a daughter,
Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable:
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails
She'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find
That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think
I have cast off for ever: thou shalt,
I warrant thee.
Exeunt KING LEAR, KENT, and Attendants
GONERIL
Do you mark that, my lord?
ALBANY
I cannot be so partial, Goneril,
To the great love I bear you,--
GONERIL
Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho!
To the Fool
You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.
Fool
Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool
with thee.
A fox, when one has caught her,
And such a daughter,
Should sure to the slaughter,
If my cap would buy a halter:
So the fool follows after.
Exit
GONERIL
This man hath had good counsel:--a hundred knights!
'Tis politic and safe to let him keep
At point a hundred knights: yes, that, on every dream,
Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike,
He may enguard his dotage with their powers,
And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!
ALBANY
Well, you may fear too far.
GONERIL
Safer than trust too far:
Let me still take away the harms I fear,
Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart.
What he hath utter'd I have writ my sister
If she sustain him and his hundred knights
When I have show'd the unfitness,--
Re-enter OSWALD
How now, Oswald!
What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
OSWALD
Yes, madam.
GONERIL
Take you some company, and away to horse:
Inform her full of my particular fear;
And thereto add such reasons of your own
As may compact it more. Get you gone;
And hasten your return.
Exit OSWALD
No, no, my lord,
This milky gentleness and course of yours
Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon,
You are much more attask'd for want of wisdom
Than praised for harmful mildness.
ALBANY
How far your eyes may pierce I can not tell:
Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.
GONERIL
Nay, then--
ALBANY
Well, well; the event.
Exeunt
SCENE V. Court before the same.
Enter KING LEAR, KENT, and Fool
KING LEAR
Go you before to Gloucester with these letters.
Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing you
know than comes from her demand out of the letter.
If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you.
KENT
I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered
your letter.
Exit
Fool
If a man's brains were in's heels, were't not in
danger of kibes?
KING LEAR
Ay, boy.
Fool
Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall ne'er go
slip-shod.
KING LEAR
Ha, ha, ha!
Fool
Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly;
for though she's as like this as a crab's like an
apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.
KING LEAR
Why, what canst thou tell, my boy?
Fool
She will taste as like this as a crab does to a
crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands i'
the middle on's face?
KING LEAR
No.
Fool
Why, to keep one's eyes of either side's nose; that
what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.
KING LEAR
I did her wrong--
Fool
Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?
KING LEAR
No.
Fool
Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.
KING LEAR
Why?
Fool
Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his
daughters, and leave his horns without a case.
KING LEAR
I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my
horses ready?
Fool
Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the
seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.
KING LEAR
Because they are not eight?
Fool
Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.
KING LEAR
To take 't again perforce! Monster ingratitude!
Fool
If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'ld have thee beaten
for being old before thy time.
KING LEAR
How's that?
Fool
Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst
been wise.
KING LEAR
O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven
Keep me in temper: I would not be mad!
Enter Gentleman
How now! are the horses ready?
Gentleman
Ready, my lord.
KING LEAR
Come, boy.
Fool
She that's a maid now, and laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.
Exeunt
ACT II
SCENE I. GLOUCESTER's castle.
Enter EDMUND, and CURAN meets him
EDMUND
Save thee, Curan.
CURAN
And you, sir. I have been with your father, and
given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan
his duchess will be here with him this night.
EDMUND
How comes that?
CURAN
Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad;
I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but
ear-kissing arguments?
EDMUND
Not I pray you, what are they?
CURAN
Have you heard of no likely wars toward, 'twixt the
Dukes of Cornwall and Albany?
EDMUND
Not a word.
CURAN
You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.
Exit
EDMUND
The duke be here to-night? The better! best!
This weaves itself perforce into my business.
My father hath set guard to take my brother;
And I have one thing, of a queasy question,
Which I must act: briefness and fortune, work!
Brother, a word; descend: brother, I say!
Enter EDGAR
My father watches: O sir, fly this place;
Intelligence is given where you are hid;
You have now the good advantage of the night:
Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall?
He's coming hither: now, i' the night, i' the haste,
And Regan with him: have you nothing said
Upon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany?
Advise yourself.
EDGAR
I am sure on't, not a word.
EDMUND
I hear my father coming: pardon me:
In cunning I must draw my sword upon you
Draw; seem to defend yourself; now quit you well.
Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here!
Fly, brother. Torches, torches! So, farewell.
Exit EDGAR
Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion.
Wounds his arm
Of my more fierce endeavour: I have seen drunkards
Do more than this in sport. Father, father!
Stop, stop! No help?
Enter GLOUCESTER, and Servants with torches
GLOUCESTER
Now, Edmund, where's the villain?
EDMUND
Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,
Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon
To stand auspicious mistress,--
GLOUCESTER
But where is he?
EDMUND
Look, sir, I bleed.
GLOUCESTER
Where is the villain, Edmund?
EDMUND
Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could--
GLOUCESTER
Pursue him, ho! Go after.
Exeunt some Servants
By no means what?
EDMUND
Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;
But that I told him, the revenging gods
'Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;
Spoke, with how manifold and strong a bond
The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine,
Seeing how loathly opposite I stood
To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion,
With his prepared sword, he charges home
My unprovided body, lanced mine arm:
But when he saw my best alarum'd spirits,
Bold in the quarrel's right, roused to the encounter,
Or whether gasted by the noise I made,
Full suddenly he fled.
GLOUCESTER
Let him fly far:
Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;
And found--dispatch. The noble duke my master,
My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night:
By his authority I will proclaim it,
That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks,
Bringing the murderous coward to the stake;
He that conceals him, death.
EDMUND
When I dissuaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to do it, with curst speech
I threaten'd to discover him: he replied,
'Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposal
Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee
Make thy words faith'd? No: what I should deny,--
As this I would: ay, though thou didst produce
My very character,--I'ld turn it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potential spurs
To make thee seek it.'
GLOUCESTER
Strong and fasten'd villain
Would he deny his letter? I never got him.
Tucket within
Hark, the duke's trumpets! I know not why he comes.
All ports I'll bar; the villain shall not 'scape;
The duke must grant me that: besides, his picture
I will send far and near, that all the kingdom
May have the due note of him; and of my land,
Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means
To make thee capable.
Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, and Attendants
CORNWALL
How now, my noble friend! since I came hither,
Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.
REGAN
If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord?
GLOUCESTER
O, madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd!
REGAN
What, did my father's godson seek your life?
He whom my father named? your Edgar?
GLOUCESTER
O, lady, lady, shame would have it hid!
REGAN
Was he not companion with the riotous knights
That tend upon my father?
GLOUCESTER
I know not, madam: 'tis too bad, too bad.
EDMUND
Yes, madam, he was of that consort.
REGAN
No marvel, then, though he were ill affected:
'Tis they have put him on the old man's death,
To have the expense and waste of his revenues.
I have this present evening from my sister
Been well inform'd of them; and with such cautions,
That if they come to sojourn at my house,
I'll not be there.
CORNWALL
Nor I, assure thee, Regan.
Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father
A child-like office.
EDMUND
'Twas my duty, sir.
GLOUCESTER
He did bewray his practise; and received
This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.
CORNWALL
Is he pursued?
GLOUCESTER
Ay, my good lord.
CORNWALL
If he be taken, he shall never more
Be fear'd of doing harm: make your own purpose,
How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund,
Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend itself, you shall be ours:
Natures of such deep trust we shall much need;
You we first seize on.
EDMUND
I shall serve you, sir,
Truly, however else.
GLOUCESTER
For him I thank your grace.
CORNWALL
You know not why we came to visit you,--
REGAN
Thus out of season, threading dark-eyed night:
Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise,
Wherein we must have use of your advice:
Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,
Of differences, which I least thought it fit
To answer from our home; the several messengers
From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,
Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow
Your needful counsel to our business,
Which craves the instant use.
GLOUCESTER
I serve you, madam:
Your graces are right welcome.
Exeunt
SCENE II. Before Gloucester's castle.
Enter KENT and OSWALD, severally
OSWALD
Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?
KENT
Ay.
OSWALD
Where may we set our horses?
KENT
I' the mire.
OSWALD
Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.
KENT
I love thee not.
OSWALD
Why, then, I care not for thee.
KENT
If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee
care for me.
OSWALD
Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
KENT
Fellow, I know thee.
OSWALD
What dost thou know me for?
KENT
A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.
OSWALD
Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail
on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee!
KENT
What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou
knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up
thy heels, and beat thee before the king? Draw, you
rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon
shines; I'll make a sop o' the moonshine of you:
draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw.
Drawing his sword
OSWALD
Away! I have nothing to do with thee.
KENT
Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the
king; and take vanity the puppet's part against the
royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I'll so
carbonado your shanks: draw, you rascal; come your ways.
OSWALD
Help, ho! murder! help!
KENT
Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat
slave, strike.
Beating him
OSWALD
Help, ho! murder! murder!
Enter EDMUND, with his rapier drawn, CORNWALL, REGAN, GLOUCESTER, and Servants
EDMUND
How now! What's the matter?
KENT
With you, goodman boy, an you please: come, I'll
flesh ye; come on, young master.
GLOUCESTER
Weapons! arms! What 's the matter here?
CORNWALL
Keep peace, upon your lives:
He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
REGAN
The messengers from our sister and the king.
CORNWALL
What is your difference? speak.
OSWALD
I am scarce in breath, my lord.
KENT
No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. You
cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a
tailor made thee.
CORNWALL
Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?
KENT
Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or painter could
not have made him so ill, though he had been but two
hours at the trade.
CORNWALL
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
OSWALD
This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared
at suit of his gray beard,--
KENT
Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My
lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this
unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of
a jakes with him. Spare my gray beard, you wagtail?
CORNWALL
Peace, sirrah!
You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
KENT
Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.
CORNWALL
Why art thou angry?
KENT
That such a slave as this should wear a sword,
Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain
Which are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passion
That in the natures of their lords rebel;
Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With every gale and vary of their masters,
Knowing nought, like dogs, but following.
A plague upon your epileptic visage!
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,
I'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
CORNWALL
Why, art thou mad, old fellow?
GLOUCESTER
How fell you out? say that.
KENT
No contraries hold more antipathy
Than I and such a knave.
CORNWALL
Why dost thou call him a knave? What's his offence?
KENT
His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL
No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.
KENT
Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain:
I have seen better faces in my time
Than stands on any shoulder that I see
Before me at this instant.
CORNWALL
This is some fellow,
Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb
Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he,
An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth!
An they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.
These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness
Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends
Than twenty silly ducking observants
That stretch their duties nicely.
KENT
Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity,
Under the allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire
On flickering Phoebus' front,--
CORNWALL
What mean'st by this?
KENT
To go out of my dialect, which you
discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no
flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain
accent was a plain knave; which for my part
I will not be, though I should win your displeasure
to entreat me to 't.
CORNWALL
What was the offence you gave him?
OSWALD
I never gave him any:
It pleased the king his master very late
To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;
When he, conjunct and flattering his displeasure,
Tripp'd me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd,
And put upon him such a deal of man,
That worthied him, got praises of the king
For him attempting who was self-subdued;
And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,
Drew on me here again.
KENT
None of these rogues and cowards
But Ajax is their fool.
CORNWALL
Fetch forth the stocks!
You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart,
We'll teach you--
KENT
Sir, I am too old to learn:
Call not your stocks for me: I serve the king;
On whose employment I was sent to you:
You shall do small respect, show too bold malice
Against the grace and person of my master,
Stocking his messenger.
CORNWALL
Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour,
There shall he sit till noon.
REGAN
Till noon! till night, my lord; and all night too.
KENT
Why, madam, if I were your father's dog,
You should not use me so.
REGAN
Sir, being his knave, I will.
CORNWALL
This is a fellow of the self-same colour
Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
Stocks brought out
GLOUCESTER
Let me beseech your grace not to do so:
His fault is much, and the good king his master
Will cheque him for 't: your purposed low correction
Is such as basest and contemned'st wretches
For pilferings and most common trespasses
Are punish'd with: the king must take it ill,
That he's so slightly valued in his messenger,
Should have him thus restrain'd.
CORNWALL
I'll answer that.
REGAN
My sister may receive it much more worse,
To have her gentleman abused, assaulted,
For following her affairs. Put in his legs.
KENT is put in the stocks
Come, my good lord, away.
Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER and KENT
GLOUCESTER
I am sorry for thee, friend; 'tis the duke's pleasure,
Whose disposition, all the world well knows,
Will not be rubb'd nor stopp'd: I'll entreat for thee.
KENT
Pray, do not, sir: I have watched and travell'd hard;
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle.
A good man's fortune may grow out at heels:
Give you good morrow!
GLOUCESTER
The duke's to blame in this; 'twill be ill taken.
Exit
KENT
Good king, that must approve the common saw,
Thou out of heaven's benediction comest
To the warm sun!
Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,
That by thy comfortable beams I may
Peruse this letter! Nothing almost sees miracles
But misery: I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately been inform'd
Of my obscured course; and shall find time
From this enormous state, seeking to give
Losses their remedies. All weary and o'erwatch'd,
Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold
This shameful lodging.
Fortune, good night: smile once more: turn thy wheel!
Sleeps
SCENE III. A wood.
Enter EDGAR
EDGAR
I heard myself proclaim'd;
And by the happy hollow of a tree
Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place,
That guard, and most unusual vigilance,
Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may 'scape,
I will preserve myself: and am bethought
To take the basest and most poorest shape
That ever penury, in contempt of man,
Brought near to beast: my face I'll grime with filth;
Blanket my loins: elf all my hair in knots;
And with presented nakedness out-face
The winds and persecutions of the sky.
The country gives me proof and precedent
Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,
Strike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms
Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;
And with this horrible object, from low farms,
Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,
Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,
Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
Exit
SCENE IV. Before GLOUCESTER's castle. KENT in the stocks.
Enter KING LEAR, Fool, and Gentleman
KING LEAR
'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
And not send back my messenger.
Gentleman
As I learn'd,
The night before there was no purpose in them
Of this remove.
KENT
Hail to thee, noble master!
KING LEAR
Ha!
Makest thou this shame thy pastime?
KENT
No, my lord.
Fool
Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied
by the heads, dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by
the loins, and men by the legs: when a man's
over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden
nether-stocks.
KING LEAR
What's he that hath so much thy place mistook
To set thee here?
KENT
It is both he and she;
Your son and daughter.
KING LEAR
No.
KENT
Yes.
KING LEAR
No, I say.
KENT
I say, yea.
KING LEAR
No, no, they would not.
KENT
Yes, they have.
KING LEAR
By Jupiter, I swear, no.
KENT
By Juno, I swear, ay.
KING LEAR
They durst not do 't;
They could not, would not do 't; 'tis worse than murder,
To do upon respect such violent outrage:
Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way
Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage,
Coming from us.
KENT
My lord, when at their home
I did commend your highness' letters to them,
Ere I was risen from the place that show'd
My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post,
Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth
From Goneril his mistress salutations;
Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission,
Which presently they read: on whose contents,
They summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse;
Commanded me to follow, and attend
The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks:
And meeting here the other messenger,
Whose welcome, I perceived, had poison'd mine,--
Being the very fellow that of late
Display'd so saucily against your highness,--
Having more man than wit about me, drew:
He raised the house with loud and coward cries.
Your son and daughter found this trespass worth
The shame which here it suffers.
Fool
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild-geese fly that way.
Fathers that wear rags
Do make their children blind;
But fathers that bear bags
Shall see their children kind.
Fortune, that arrant whore,
Ne'er turns the key to the poor.
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours
for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.
KING LEAR
O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!
Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow,
Thy element's below! Where is this daughter?
KENT
With the earl, sir, here within.
KING LEAR
Follow me not;
Stay here.
Exit
Gentleman
Made you no more offence but what you speak of?
KENT
None.
How chance the king comes with so small a train?
Fool
And thou hadst been set i' the stocks for that
question, thou hadst well deserved it.
KENT
Why, fool?
Fool
We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee
there's no labouring i' the winter. All that follow
their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and
there's not a nose among twenty but can smell him
that's stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel
runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with
following it: but the great one that goes up the
hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man
gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I
would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.
That sir which serves and seeks for gain,
And follows but for form,
Will pack when it begins to rain,
And leave thee in the storm,
But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly:
The knave turns fool that runs away;
The fool no knave, perdy.
KENT
Where learned you this, fool?
Fool
Not i' the stocks, fool.
Re-enter KING LEAR with GLOUCESTER
KING LEAR
Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary?
They have travell'd all the night? Mere fetches;
The images of revolt and flying off.
Fetch me a better answer.
GLOUCESTER
My dear lord,
You know the fiery quality of the duke;
How unremoveable and fix'd he is
In his own course.
KING LEAR
Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!
Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,
I'ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.
GLOUCESTER
Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.
KING LEAR
Inform'd them! Dost thou understand me, man?
GLOUCESTER
Ay, my good lord.
KING LEAR
The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father
Would with his daughter speak, commands her service:
Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood!
Fiery? the fiery duke? Tell the hot duke that--
No, but not yet: may be he is not well:
Infirmity doth still neglect all office
Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves
When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind
To suffer with the body: I'll forbear;
And am fall'n out with my more headier will,
To take the indisposed and sickly fit
For the sound man. Death on my state! wherefore
Looking on KENT
Should he sit here? This act persuades me
That this remotion of the duke and her
Is practise only. Give me my servant forth.
Go tell the duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them,
Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me,
Or at their chamber-door I'll beat the drum
Till it cry sleep to death.
GLOUCESTER
I would have all well betwixt you.
Exit
KING LEAR
O me, my heart, my rising heart! but, down!
Fool
Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels
when she put 'em i' the paste alive; she knapped 'em
o' the coxcombs with a stick, and cried 'Down,
wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother that, in pure
kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.
Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, GLOUCESTER, and Servants
KING LEAR
Good morrow to you both.
CORNWALL
Hail to your grace!
KENT is set at liberty
REGAN
I am glad to see your highness.
KING LEAR
Regan, I think you are; I know what reason
I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb,
Sepulchring an adultress.
To KENT
O, are you free?
Some other time for that. Beloved Regan,
Thy sister's naught: O Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here:
Points to his heart
I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not believe
With how depraved a quality--O Regan!
REGAN
I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope.
You less know how to value her desert
Than she to scant her duty.
KING LEAR
Say, how is that?
REGAN
I cannot think my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance
She have restrain'd the riots of your followers,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As clears her from all blame.
KING LEAR
My curses on her!
REGAN
O, sir, you are old.
Nature in you stands on the very verge
Of her confine: you should be ruled and led
By some discretion, that discerns your state
Better than you yourself. Therefore, I pray you,
That to our sister you do make return;
Say you have wrong'd her, sir.
KING LEAR
Ask her forgiveness?
Do you but mark how this becomes the house:
'Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;
Kneeling
Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg
That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.'
REGAN
Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:
Return you to my sister.
KING LEAR
[Rising] Never, Regan:
She hath abated me of half my train;
Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue,
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart:
All the stored vengeances of heaven fall
On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,
You taking airs, with lameness!
CORNWALL
Fie, sir, fie!
KING LEAR
You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
To fall and blast her pride!
REGAN
O the blest gods! so will you wish on me,
When the rash mood is on.
KING LEAR
No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness: her eyes are fierce; but thine
Do comfort and not burn. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And in conclusion to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in: thou better know'st
The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;
Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd.
REGAN
Good sir, to the purpose.
KING LEAR
Who put my man i' the stocks?
Tucket within
CORNWALL
What trumpet's that?
REGAN
I know't, my sister's: this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here.
Enter OSWALD
Is your lady come?
KING LEAR
This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.
Out, varlet, from my sight!
CORNWALL
What means your grace?
KING LEAR
Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope
Thou didst not know on't. Who comes here? O heavens,
Enter GONERIL
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!
To GONERIL
Art not ashamed to look upon this beard?
O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?
GONERIL
Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?
All's not offence that indiscretion finds
And dotage terms so.
KING LEAR
O sides, you are too tough;
Will you yet hold? How came my man i' the stocks?
CORNWALL
I set him there, sir: but his own disorders
Deserved much less advancement.
KING LEAR
You! did you?
REGAN
I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
If, till the expiration of your month,
You will return and sojourn with my sister,
Dismissing half your train, come then to me:
I am now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment.
KING LEAR
Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the enmity o' the air;
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,--
Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her?
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took
Our youngest born, I could as well be brought
To knee his throne, and, squire-like; pension beg
To keep base life afoot. Return with her?
Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter
To this detested groom.
Pointing at OSWALD
GONERIL
At your choice, sir.
KING LEAR
I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad:
I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell:
We'll no more meet, no more see one another:
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee;
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:
I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove:
Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure:
I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,
I and my hundred knights.
REGAN
Not altogether so:
I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided
For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;
For those that mingle reason with your passion
Must be content to think you old, and so--
But she knows what she does.
KING LEAR
Is this well spoken?
REGAN
I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger
Speak 'gainst so great a number? How, in one house,
Should many people, under two commands,
Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible.
GONERIL
Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance
From those that she calls servants or from mine?
REGAN
Why not, my lord? If then they chanced to slack you,
We could control them. If you will come to me,--
For now I spy a danger,--I entreat you
To bring but five and twenty: to no more
Will I give place or notice.
KING LEAR
I gave you all--
REGAN
And in good time you gave it.
KING LEAR
Made you my guardians, my depositaries;
But kept a reservation to be follow'd
With such a number. What, must I come to you
With five and twenty, Regan? said you so?
REGAN
And speak't again, my lord; no more with me.
KING LEAR
Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd,
When others are more wicked: not being the worst
Stands in some rank of praise.
To GONERIL
I'll go with thee:
Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty,
And thou art twice her love.
GONERIL
Hear me, my lord;
What need you five and twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?
REGAN
What need one?
KING LEAR
O, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life's as cheap as beast's: thou art a lady;
If only to go warm were gorgeous,
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,--
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both!
If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,
And let not women's weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall--I will do such things,--
What they are, yet I know not: but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep
No, I'll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!
Exeunt KING LEAR, GLOUCESTER, KENT, and Fool
Storm and tempest
CORNWALL
Let us withdraw; 'twill be a storm.
REGAN
This house is little: the old man and his people
Cannot be well bestow'd.
GONERIL
'Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest,
And must needs taste his folly.
REGAN
For his particular, I'll receive him gladly,
But not one follower.
GONERIL
So am I purposed.
Where is my lord of Gloucester?
CORNWALL
Follow'd the old man forth: he is return'd.
Re-enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER
The king is in high rage.
CORNWALL
Whither is he going?
GLOUCESTER
He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.
CORNWALL
'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
GONERIL
My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
GLOUCESTER
Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles a bout
There's scarce a bush.
REGAN
O, sir, to wilful men,
The injuries that they themselves procure
Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors:
He is attended with a desperate train;
And what they may incense him to, being apt
To have his ear abused, wisdom bids fear.
CORNWALL
Shut up your doors, my lord; 'tis a wild night:
My Regan counsels well; come out o' the storm.
Exeunt
ACT III
SCENE I. A heath.
Storm still. Enter KENT and a Gentleman, meeting
KENT
Who's there, besides foul weather?
Gentleman
One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
KENT
I know you. Where's the king?
Gentleman
Contending with the fretful element:
Bids the winds blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled water 'bove the main,
That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion and the belly-pinched wolf
Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,
And bids what will take all.
KENT
But who is with him?
Gentleman
None but the fool; who labours to out-jest
His heart-struck injuries.
KENT
Sir, I do know you;
And dare, upon the warrant of my note,
Commend a dear thing to you. There is division,
Although as yet the face of it be cover'd
With mutual cunning, 'twixt Albany and Cornwall;
Who have--as who have not, that their great stars
Throned and set high?--servants, who seem no less,
Which are to France the spies and speculations
Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen,
Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes,
Or the hard rein which both of them have borne
Against the old kind king; or something deeper,
Whereof perchance these are but furnishings;
But, true it is, from France there comes a power
Into this scatter'd kingdom; who already,
Wise in our negligence, have secret feet
In some of our best ports, and are at point
To show their open banner. Now to you:
If on my credit you dare build so far
To make your speed to Dover, you shall find
Some that will thank you, making just report
Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow
The king hath cause to plain.
I am a gentleman of blood and breeding;
And, from some knowledge and assurance, offer
This office to you.
Gentleman
I will talk further with you.
KENT
No, do not.
For confirmation that I am much more
Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take
What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,--
As fear not but you shall,--show her this ring;
And she will tell you who your fellow is
That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!
I will go seek the king.
Gentleman
Give me your hand: have you no more to say?
KENT
Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet;
That, when we have found the king,--in which your pain
That way, I'll this,--he that first lights on him
Holla the other.
Exeunt severally
SCENE II. Another part of the heath. Storm still.
Enter KING LEAR and Fool
KING LEAR
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, an germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
Fool
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry
house is better than this rain-water out o' door.
Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters' blessing:
here's a night pities neither wise man nor fool.
KING LEAR
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!
Fool
He that has a house to put's head in has a good
head-piece.
The cod-piece that will house
Before the head has any,
The head and he shall louse;
So beggars marry many.
The man that makes his toe
What he his heart should make
Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake.
For there was never yet fair woman but she made
mouths in a glass.
KING LEAR
No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will say nothing.
Enter KENT
KENT
Who's there?
Fool
Marry, here's grace and a cod-piece; that's a wise
man and a fool.
KENT
Alas, sir, are you here? things that love night
Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves: since I was man,
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard: man's nature cannot carry
The affliction nor the fear.
KING LEAR
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp'd of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue
That art incestuous: caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practised on man's life: close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn'd against than sinning.
KENT
Alack, bare-headed!
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest:
Repose you there; while I to this hard house--
More harder than the stones whereof 'tis raised;
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denied me to come in--return, and force
Their scanted courtesy.
KING LEAR
My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy: how dost, my boy? art cold?
I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious. Come,
your hovel.
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee.
Fool
[Singing]
He that has and a little tiny wit--
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,--
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
For the rain it raineth every day.
KING LEAR
True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
Exeunt KING LEAR and KENT
Fool
This is a brave night to cool a courtezan.
I'll speak a prophecy ere I go:
When priests are more in word than matter;
When brewers mar their malt with water;
When nobles are their tailors' tutors;
No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors;
When every case in law is right;
No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;
When slanders do not live in tongues;
Nor cutpurses come not to throngs;
When usurers tell their gold i' the field;
And bawds and whores do churches build;
Then shall the realm of Albion
Come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who lives to see't,
That going shall be used with feet.
This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.
Exit
SCENE III. Gloucester's castle.
Enter GLOUCESTER and EDMUND
GLOUCESTER
Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural
dealing. When I desire their leave that I might
pity him, they took from me the use of mine own
house; charged me, on pain of their perpetual
displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for
him, nor any way sustain him.
EDMUND
Most savage and unnatural!
GLOUCESTER
Go to; say you nothing. There's a division betwixt
the dukes; and a worse matter than that: I have
received a letter this night; 'tis dangerous to be
spoken; I have locked the letter in my closet:
these injuries the king now bears will be revenged
home; there's part of a power already footed: we
must incline to the king. I will seek him, and
privily relieve him: go you and maintain talk with
the duke, that my charity be not of him perceived:
if he ask for me. I am ill, and gone to bed.
Though I die for it, as no less is threatened me,
the king my old master must be relieved. There is
some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you, be careful.
Exit
EDMUND
This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke
Instantly know; and of that letter too:
This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
That which my father loses; no less than all:
The younger rises when the old doth fall.
Exit
SCENE IV. The heath. Before a hovel.
Enter KING LEAR, KENT, and Fool
KENT
Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter:
The tyranny of the open night's too rough
For nature to endure.
Storm still
KING LEAR
Let me alone.
KENT
Good my lord, enter here.
KING LEAR
Wilt break my heart?
KENT
I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.
KING LEAR
Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin: so 'tis to thee;
But where the greater malady is fix'd,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'ldst shun a bear;
But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,
Thou'ldst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the
mind's free,
The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to't? But I will punish home:
No, I will weep no more. In such a night
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.
In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,--
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.
KENT
Good my lord, enter here.
KING LEAR
Prithee, go in thyself: seek thine own ease:
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in.
To the Fool
In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty,--
Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep.
Fool goes in
Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.
EDGAR
[Within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!
The Fool runs out from the hovel
Fool
Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit
Help me, help me!
KENT
Give me thy hand. Who's there?
Fool
A spirit, a spirit: he says his name's poor Tom.
KENT
What art thou that dost grumble there i' the straw?
Come forth.
Enter EDGAR disguised as a mad man
EDGAR
Away! the foul fiend follows me!
Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind.
Hum! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
KING LEAR
Hast thou given all to thy two daughters?
And art thou come to this?
EDGAR
Who gives any thing to poor Tom? whom the foul
fiend hath led through fire and through flame, and
through ford and whirlipool e'er bog and quagmire;
that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters
in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made film
proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over
four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a
traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom's a-cold,--O, do
de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds,
star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some
charity, whom the foul fiend vexes: there could I
have him now,--and there,--and there again, and there.
Storm still
KING LEAR
What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them all?
Fool
Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had been all shamed.
KING LEAR
Now, all the plagues that in the pendulous air
Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters!
KENT
He hath no daughters, sir.
KING LEAR
Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued nature
To such a lowness but his unkind daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?
Judicious punishment! 'twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters.
EDGAR
Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill:
Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!
Fool
This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
EDGAR
Take heed o' the foul fiend: obey thy parents;
keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with
man's sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud
array. Tom's a-cold.
KING LEAR
What hast thou been?
EDGAR
A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled
my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of
my mistress' heart, and did the act of darkness with
her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and
broke them in the sweet face of heaven: one that
slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it:
wine loved I deeply, dice dearly: and in woman
out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart, light of
ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth,
wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey.
Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of
silks betray thy poor heart to woman: keep thy foot
out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen
from lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend.
Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind:
Says suum, mun, ha, no, nonny.
Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let him trot by.
Storm still
KING LEAR
Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer
with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies.
Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou
owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep
no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three on
's are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself:
unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare,
forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings!
come unbutton here.
Tearing off his clothes
Fool
Prithee, nuncle, be contented; 'tis a naughty night
to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were
like an old lecher's heart; a small spark, all the
rest on's body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire.
Enter GLOUCESTER, with a torch
EDGAR
This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins
at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives
the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the
hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the
poor creature of earth.
S. Withold footed thrice the old;
He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold;
Bid her alight,
And her troth plight,
And, aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!
KENT
How fares your grace?
KING LEAR
What's he?
KENT
Who's there? What is't you seek?
GLOUCESTER
What are you there? Your names?
EDGAR
Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad,
the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in
the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages,
eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and
the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the
standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to
tithing, and stock- punished, and imprisoned; who
hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his
body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear;
But mice and rats, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food for seven long year.
Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend!
GLOUCESTER
What, hath your grace no better company?
EDGAR
The prince of darkness is a gentleman:
Modo he's call'd, and Mahu.
GLOUCESTER
Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord,
That it doth hate what gets it.
EDGAR
Poor Tom's a-cold.
GLOUCESTER
Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer
To obey in all your daughters' hard commands:
Though their injunction be to bar my doors,
And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you,
Yet have I ventured to come seek you out,
And bring you where both fire and food is ready.
KING LEAR
First let me talk with this philosopher.
What is the cause of thunder?
KENT
Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house.
KING LEAR
I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban.
What is your study?
EDGAR
How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.
KING LEAR
Let me ask you one word in private.
KENT
Importune him once more to go, my lord;
His wits begin to unsettle.
GLOUCESTER
Canst thou blame him?
Storm still
His daughters seek his death: ah, that good Kent!
He said it would be thus, poor banish'd man!
Thou say'st the king grows mad; I'll tell thee, friend,
I am almost mad myself: I had a son,
Now outlaw'd from my blood; he sought my life,
But lately, very late: I loved him, friend;
No father his son dearer: truth to tell thee,
The grief hath crazed my wits. What a night's this!
I do beseech your grace,--
KING LEAR
O, cry your mercy, sir.
Noble philosopher, your company.
EDGAR
Tom's a-cold.
GLOUCESTER
In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee warm.
KING LEAR
Come let's in all.
KENT
This way, my lord.
KING LEAR
With him;
I will keep still with my philosopher.
KENT
Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.
GLOUCESTER
Take him you on.
KENT
Sirrah, come on; go along with us.
KING LEAR
Come, good Athenian.
GLOUCESTER
No words, no words: hush.
EDGAR
Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
His word was still,--Fie, foh, and fum,
I smell the blood of a British man.
Exeunt
SCENE V. Gloucester's castle.
Enter CORNWALL and EDMUND
CORNWALL
I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.
EDMUND
How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus
gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think
of.
CORNWALL
I now perceive, it was not altogether your
brother's evil disposition made him seek his death;
but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reprovable
badness in himself.
EDMUND
How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to
be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which
approves him an intelligent party to the advantages
of France: O heavens! that this treason were not,
or not I the detector!
CORNWALL
o with me to the duchess.
EDMUND
If the matter of this paper be certain, you have
mighty business in hand.
CORNWALL
True or false, it hath made thee earl of
Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he
may be ready for our apprehension.
EDMUND
[Aside] If I find him comforting the king, it will
stuff his suspicion more fully.--I will persevere in
my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore
between that and my blood.
CORNWALL
I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a
dearer father in my love.
Exeunt
SCENE VI. A chamber in a farmhouse adjoining the castle.
Enter GLOUCESTER, KING LEAR, KENT, Fool, and EDGAR
GLOUCESTER
Here is better than the open air; take it
thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what
addition I can: I will not be long from you.
KENT
All the power of his wits have given way to his
impatience: the gods reward your kindness!
Exit GLOUCESTER
EDGAR
Frateretto calls me; and tells me
Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness.
Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.
Fool
Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a
gentleman or a yeoman?
KING LEAR
A king, a king!
Fool
No, he's a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son;
for he's a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman
before him.
KING LEAR
To have a thousand with red burning spits
Come hissing in upon 'em,--
EDGAR
The foul fiend bites my back.
Fool
He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a
horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath.
KING LEAR
It shall be done; I will arraign them straight.
To EDGAR
Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer;
To the Fool
Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she foxes!
EDGAR
Look, where he stands and glares!
Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam?
Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me,--
Fool
Her boat hath a leak,
And she must not speak
Why she dares not come over to thee.
EDGAR
The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a
nightingale. Hopdance cries in Tom's belly for two
white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no
food for thee.
KENT
How do you, sir? Stand you not so amazed:
Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?
KING LEAR
I'll see their trial first. Bring in the evidence.
To EDGAR
Thou robed man of justice, take thy place;
To the Fool
And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity,
Bench by his side:
To KENT
you are o' the commission,
Sit you too.
EDGAR
Let us deal justly.
Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?
Thy sheep be in the corn;
And for one blast of thy minikin mouth,
Thy sheep shall take no harm.
Pur! the cat is gray.
KING LEAR
Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril. I here take my
oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the
poor king her father.
Fool
Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?
KING LEAR
She cannot deny it.
Fool
Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.
KING LEAR
And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim
What store her heart is made on. Stop her there!
Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place!
False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape?
EDGAR
Bless thy five wits!
KENT
O pity! Sir, where is the patience now,
That thou so oft have boasted to retain?
EDGAR
[Aside] My tears begin to take his part so much,
They'll mar my counterfeiting.
KING LEAR
The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and
Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.
EDGAR
Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs!
Be thy mouth or black or white,
Tooth that poisons if it bite;
Mastiff, grey-hound, mongrel grim,
Hound or spaniel, brach or lym,
Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail,
Tom will make them weep and wail:
For, with throwing thus my head,
Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.
Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and
fairs and market-towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.
KING LEAR
Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds
about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that
makes these hard hearts?
To EDGAR
You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred; only I
do not like the fashion of your garments: you will
say they are Persian attire: but let them be changed.
KENT
Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.
KING LEAR
Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains:
so, so, so. We'll go to supper i' he morning. So, so, so.
Fool
And I'll go to bed at noon.
Re-enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER
Come hither, friend: where is the king my master?
KENT
Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.
GLOUCESTER
Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms;
I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him:
There is a litter ready; lay him in 't,
And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet
Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master:
If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured loss: take up, take up;
And follow me, that will to some provision
Give thee quick conduct.
KENT
Oppressed nature sleeps:
This rest might yet have balm'd thy broken senses,
Which, if convenience will not allow,
Stand in hard cure.
To the Fool
Come, help to bear thy master;
Thou must not stay behind.
GLOUCESTER
Come, come, away.
Exeunt all but EDGAR
EDGAR
When we our betters see bearing our woes,
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
Who alone suffers suffers most i' the mind,
Leaving free things and happy shows behind:
But then the mind much sufferance doth o'er skip,
When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
How light and portable my pain seems now,
When that which makes me bend makes the king bow,
He childed as I father'd! Tom, away!
Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray,
When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee,
In thy just proof, repeals and reconciles thee.
What will hap more to-night, safe 'scape the king!
Lurk, lurk.
Exit
SCENE VII. Gloucester's castle.
Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, GONERIL, EDMUND, and Servants
CORNWALL
Post speedily to my lord your husband; show him
this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek
out the villain Gloucester.
Exeunt some of the Servants
REGAN
Hang him instantly.
GONERIL
Pluck out his eyes.
CORNWALL
Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our
sister company: the revenges we are bound to take
upon your traitorous father are not fit for your
beholding. Advise the duke, where you are going, to
a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the
like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent
betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister: farewell, my
lord of Gloucester.
Enter OSWALD
How now! where's the king?
OSWALD
My lord of Gloucester hath convey'd him hence:
Some five or six and thirty of his knights,
Hot questrists after him, met him at gate;
Who, with some other of the lords dependants,
Are gone with him towards Dover; where they boast
To have well-armed friends.
CORNWALL
Get horses for your mistress.
GONERIL
Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.
CORNWALL
Edmund, farewell.
Exeunt GONERIL, EDMUND, and OSWALD
Go seek the traitor Gloucester,
Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.
Exeunt other Servants
Though well we may not pass upon his life
Without the form of justice, yet our power
Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not control. Who's there? the traitor?
Enter GLOUCESTER, brought in by two or three
REGAN
Ingrateful fox! 'tis he.
CORNWALL
Bind fast his corky arms.
GLOUCESTER
What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider
You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends.
CORNWALL
Bind him, I say.
Servants bind him
REGAN
Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!
GLOUCESTER
Unmerciful lady as you are, I'm none.
CORNWALL
To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find--
REGAN plucks his beard
GLOUCESTER
By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done
To pluck me by the beard.
REGAN
So white, and such a traitor!
GLOUCESTER
Naughty lady,
These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my chin,
Will quicken, and accuse thee: I am your host:
With robbers' hands my hospitable favours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
CORNWALL
Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?
REGAN
Be simple answerer, for we know the truth.
CORNWALL
And what confederacy have you with the traitors
Late footed in the kingdom?
REGAN
To whose hands have you sent the lunatic king? Speak.
GLOUCESTER
I have a letter guessingly set down,
Which came from one that's of a neutral heart,
And not from one opposed.
CORNWALL
Cunning.
REGAN
And false.
CORNWALL
Where hast thou sent the king?
GLOUCESTER
To Dover.
REGAN
Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charged at peril--
CORNWALL
Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that.
GLOUCESTER
I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.
REGAN
Wherefore to Dover, sir?
GLOUCESTER
Because I would not see thy cruel nails
Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister
In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.
The sea, with such a storm as his bare head
In hell-black night endured, would have buoy'd up,
And quench'd the stelled fires:
Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain.
If wolves had at thy gate howl'd that stern time,
Thou shouldst have said 'Good porter, turn the key,'
All cruels else subscribed: but I shall see
The winged vengeance overtake such children.
CORNWALL
See't shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair.
Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot.
GLOUCESTER
He that will think to live till he be old,
Give me some help! O cruel! O you gods!
REGAN
One side will mock another; the other too.
CORNWALL
If you see vengeance,--
First Servant
Hold your hand, my lord:
I have served you ever since I was a child;
But better service have I never done you
Than now to bid you hold.
REGAN
How now, you dog!
First Servant
If you did wear a beard upon your chin,
I'd shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?
CORNWALL
My villain!
They draw and fight
First Servant
Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.
REGAN
Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus!
Takes a sword, and runs at him behind
First Servant
O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left
To see some mischief on him. O!
Dies
CORNWALL
Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly!
Where is thy lustre now?
GLOUCESTER
All dark and comfortless. Where's my son Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature,
To quit this horrid act.
REGAN
Out, treacherous villain!
Thou call'st on him that hates thee: it was he
That made the overture of thy treasons to us;
Who is too good to pity thee.
GLOUCESTER
O my follies! then Edgar was abused.
Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!
REGAN
Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell
His way to Dover.
Exit one with GLOUCESTER
How is't, my lord? how look you?
CORNWALL
I have received a hurt: follow me, lady.
Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this slave
Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace:
Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm.
Exit CORNWALL, led by REGAN
Second Servant
I'll never care what wickedness I do,
If this man come to good.
Third Servant
If she live long,
And in the end meet the old course of death,
Women will all turn monsters.
Second Servant
Let's follow the old earl, and get the Bedlam
To lead him where he would: his roguish madness
Allows itself to any thing.
Third Servant
Go thou: I'll fetch some flax and whites of eggs
To apply to his bleeding face. Now, heaven help him!
Exeunt severally
ACT IV
SCENE I. The heath.
Enter EDGAR
EDGAR
Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd,
Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst,
The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,
Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear:
The lamentable change is from the best;
The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then,
Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace!
The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst
Owes nothing to thy blasts. But who comes here?
Enter GLOUCESTER, led by an Old Man
My father, poorly led? World, world, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,
Lie would not yield to age.
Old Man
O, my good lord, I have been your tenant, and
your father's tenant, these fourscore years.
GLOUCESTER
Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone:
Thy comforts can do me no good at all;
Thee they may hurt.
Old Man
Alack, sir, you cannot see your way.
GLOUCESTER
I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;
I stumbled when I saw: full oft 'tis seen,
Our means secure us, and our mere defects
Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar,
The food of thy abused father's wrath!
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
I'ld say I had eyes again!
Old Man
How now! Who's there?
EDGAR
[Aside] O gods! Who is't can say 'I am at
the worst'?
I am worse than e'er I was.
Old Man
'Tis poor mad Tom.
EDGAR
[Aside] And worse I may be yet: the worst is not
So long as we can say 'This is the worst.'
Old Man
Fellow, where goest?
GLOUCESTER
Is it a beggar-man?
Old Man
Madman and beggar too.
GLOUCESTER
He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I' the last night's storm I such a fellow saw;
Which made me think a man a worm: my son
Came then into my mind; and yet my mind
Was then scarce friends with him: I have heard
more since.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods.
They kill us for their sport.
EDGAR
[Aside] How should this be?
Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,
Angering itself and others.--Bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER
Is that the naked fellow?
Old Man
Ay, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
Then, prithee, get thee gone: if, for my sake,
Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or twain,
I' the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;
And bring some covering for this naked soul,
Who I'll entreat to lead me.
Old Man
Alack, sir, he is mad.
GLOUCESTER
'Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
Old Man
I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have,
Come on't what will.
Exit
GLOUCESTER
Sirrah, naked fellow,--
EDGAR
Poor Tom's a-cold.
Aside
I cannot daub it further.
GLOUCESTER
Come hither, fellow.
EDGAR
[Aside] And yet I must.--Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
GLOUCESTER
Know'st thou the way to Dover?
EDGAR
Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot-path. Poor
Tom hath been scared out of his good wits: bless
thee, good man's son, from the foul fiend! five
fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as
Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of
stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of
mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids
and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues
Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;
So distribution should undo excess,
And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?
EDGAR
Ay, master.
GLOUCESTER
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confined deep:
Bring me but to the very brim of it,
And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear
With something rich about me: from that place
I shall no leading need.
EDGAR
Give me thy arm:
Poor Tom shall lead thee.
Exeunt
SCENE II. Before ALBANY's palace.
Enter GONERIL and EDMUND
GONERIL
Welcome, my lord: I marvel our mild husband
Not met us on the way.
Enter OSWALD
Now, where's your master'?
OSWALD
Madam, within; but never man so changed.
I told him of the army that was landed;
He smiled at it: I told him you were coming:
His answer was 'The worse:' of Gloucester's treachery,
And of the loyal service of his son,
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot,
And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out:
What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;
What like, offensive.
GONERIL
[To EDMUND] Then shall you go no further.
It is the cowish terror of his spirit,
That dares not undertake: he'll not feel wrongs
Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way
May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother;
Hasten his musters and conduct his powers:
I must change arms at home, and give the distaff
Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant
Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear,
If you dare venture in your own behalf,
A mistress's command. Wear this; spare speech;
Giving a favour
Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,
Would stretch thy spirits up into the air:
Conceive, and fare thee well.
EDMUND
Yours in the ranks of death.
GONERIL
My most dear Gloucester!
Exit EDMUND
O, the difference of man and man!
To thee a woman's services are due:
My fool usurps my body.
OSWALD
Madam, here comes my lord.
Exit
Enter ALBANY
GONERIL
I have been worth the whistle.
ALBANY
O Goneril!
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:
That nature, which contemns its origin,
Cannot be border'd certain in itself;
She that herself will sliver and disbranch
From her material sap, perforce must wither
And come to deadly use.
GONERIL
No more; the text is foolish.
ALBANY
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile:
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
Whose reverence even the head-lugg'd bear would lick,
Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.
Could my good brother suffer you to do it?
A man, a prince, by him so benefited!
If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come,
Humanity must perforce prey on itself,
Like monsters of the deep.
GONERIL
Milk-liver'd man!
That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st
Fools do those villains pity who are punish'd
Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats;
Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest
'Alack, why does he so?'
ALBANY
See thyself, devil!
Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman.
GONERIL
O vain fool!
ALBANY
Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,
Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness
To let these hands obey my blood,
They are apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend,
A woman's shape doth shield thee.
GONERIL
Marry, your manhood now--
Enter a Messenger
ALBANY
What news?
Messenger
O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead:
Slain by his servant, going to put out
The other eye of Gloucester.
ALBANY
Gloucester's eye!
Messenger
A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Opposed against the act, bending his sword
To his great master; who, thereat enraged,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead;
But not without that harmful stroke, which since
Hath pluck'd him after.
ALBANY
This shows you are above,
You justicers, that these our nether crimes
So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester!
Lost he his other eye?
Messenger
Both, both, my lord.
This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;
'Tis from your sister.
GONERIL
[Aside] One way I like this well;
But being widow, and my Gloucester with her,
May all the building in my fancy pluck
Upon my hateful life: another way,
The news is not so tart.--I'll read, and answer.
Exit
ALBANY
Where was his son when they did take his eyes?
Messenger
Come with my lady hither.
ALBANY
He is not here.
Messenger
No, my good lord; I met him back again.
ALBANY
Knows he the wickedness?
Messenger
Ay, my good lord; 'twas he inform'd against him;
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might have the freer course.
ALBANY
Gloucester, I live
To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the king,
And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend:
Tell me what more thou know'st.
Exeunt
SCENE III. The French camp near Dover.
Enter KENT and a Gentleman
KENT
Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back
know you the reason?
Gentleman
Something he left imperfect in the
state, which since his coming forth is thought
of; which imports to the kingdom so much
fear and danger, that his personal return was
most required and necessary.
KENT
Who hath he left behind him general?
Gentleman
The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.
KENT
Did your letters pierce the queen to any
demonstration of grief?
Gentleman
Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek: it seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.
KENT
O, then it moved her.
Gentleman
Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears
Were like a better way: those happy smilets,
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief,
Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved,
If all could so become it.
KENT
Made she no verbal question?
Gentleman
'Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of 'father'
Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart:
Cried 'Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!
Kent! father! sisters! What, i' the storm? i' the night?
Let pity not be believed!' There she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
And clamour moisten'd: then away she started
To deal with grief alone.
KENT
It is the stars,
The stars above us, govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and mate could not beget
Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?
Gentleman
No.
KENT
Was this before the king return'd?
Gentleman
No, since.
KENT
Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' the town;
Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers
What we are come about, and by no means
Will yield to see his daughter.
Gentleman
Why, good sir?
KENT
A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own unkindness,
That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her
To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights
To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting
His mind so venomously, that burning shame
Detains him from Cordelia.
Gentleman
Alack, poor gentleman!
KENT
Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not?
Gentleman
'Tis so, they are afoot.
KENT
Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear,
And leave you to attend him: some dear cause
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile;
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go
Along with me.
Exeunt
SCENE IV. The same. A tent.
Enter, with drum and colours, CORDELIA, Doctor, and Soldiers
CORDELIA
Alack, 'tis he: why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud;
Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds,
With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In our sustaining corn. A century send forth;
Search every acre in the high-grown field,
And bring him to our eye.
Exit an Officer
What can man's wisdom
In the restoring his bereaved sense?
He that helps him take all my outward worth.
Doctor
There is means, madam:
Our foster-nurse of nature is repose,
The which he lacks; that to provoke in him,
Are many simples operative, whose power
Will close the eye of anguish.
CORDELIA
All blest secrets,
All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth,
Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate
In the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him;
Lest his ungovern'd rage dissolve the life
That wants the means to lead it.
Enter a Messenger
Messenger
News, madam;
The British powers are marching hitherward.
CORDELIA
'Tis known before; our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O dear father,
It is thy business that I go about;
Therefore great France
My mourning and important tears hath pitied.
No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
But love, dear love, and our aged father's right:
Soon may I hear and see him!
Exeunt
SCENE V. Gloucester's castle.
Enter REGAN and OSWALD
REGAN
But are my brother's powers set forth?
OSWALD
Ay, madam.
REGAN
Himself in person there?
OSWALD
Madam, with much ado:
Your sister is the better soldier.
REGAN
Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?
OSWALD
No, madam.
REGAN
What might import my sister's letter to him?
OSWALD
I know not, lady.
REGAN
'Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter.
It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out,
To let him live: where he arrives he moves
All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone,
In pity of his misery, to dispatch
His nighted life: moreover, to descry
The strength o' the enemy.
OSWALD
I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.
REGAN
Our troops set forth to-morrow: stay with us;
The ways are dangerous.
OSWALD
I may not, madam:
My lady charged my duty in this business.
REGAN
Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you
Transport her purposes by word? Belike,
Something--I know not what: I'll love thee much,
Let me unseal the letter.
OSWALD
Madam, I had rather--
REGAN
I know your lady does not love her husband;
I am sure of that: and at her late being here
She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks
To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.
OSWALD
I, madam?
REGAN
I speak in understanding; you are; I know't:
Therefore I do advise you, take this note:
My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk'd;
And more convenient is he for my hand
Than for your lady's: you may gather more.
If you do find him, pray you, give him this;
And when your mistress hears thus much from you,
I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her.
So, fare you well.
If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,
Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.
OSWALD
Would I could meet him, madam! I should show
What party I do follow.
REGAN
Fare thee well.
Exeunt
SCENE VI. Fields near Dover.
Enter GLOUCESTER, and EDGAR dressed like a peasant
GLOUCESTER
When shall we come to the top of that same hill?
EDGAR
You do climb up it now: look, how we labour.
GLOUCESTER
Methinks the ground is even.
EDGAR
Horrible steep.
Hark, do you hear the sea?
GLOUCESTER
No, truly.
EDGAR
Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect
By your eyes' anguish.
GLOUCESTER
So may it be, indeed:
Methinks thy voice is alter'd; and thou speak'st
In better phrase and matter than thou didst.
EDGAR
You're much deceived: in nothing am I changed
But in my garments.
GLOUCESTER
Methinks you're better spoken.
EDGAR
Come on, sir; here's the place: stand still. How fearful
And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows and choughs that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,
Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more;
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
GLOUCESTER
Set me where you stand.
EDGAR
Give me your hand: you are now within a foot
Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon
Would I not leap upright.
GLOUCESTER
Let go my hand.
Here, friend, 's another purse; in it a jewel
Well worth a poor man's taking: fairies and gods
Prosper it with thee! Go thou farther off;
Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
EDGAR
Now fare you well, good sir.
GLOUCESTER
With all my heart.
EDGAR
Why I do trifle thus with his despair
Is done to cure it.
GLOUCESTER
[Kneeling] O you mighty gods!
This world I do renounce, and, in your sights,
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could bear it longer, and not fall
To quarrel with your great opposeless wills,
My snuff and loathed part of nature should
Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!
Now, fellow, fare thee well.
He falls forward
EDGAR
Gone, sir: farewell.
And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The treasury of life, when life itself
Yields to the theft: had he been where he thought,
By this, had thought been past. Alive or dead?
Ho, you sir! friend! Hear you, sir! speak!
Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives.
What are you, sir?
GLOUCESTER
Away, and let me die.
EDGAR
Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,
So many fathom down precipitating,
Thou'dst shiver'd like an egg: but thou dost breathe;
Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound.
Ten masts at each make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell:
Thy life's a miracle. Speak yet again.
GLOUCESTER
But have I fall'n, or no?
EDGAR
From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.
Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.
GLOUCESTER
Alack, I have no eyes.
Is wretchedness deprived that benefit,
To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage,
And frustrate his proud will.
EDGAR
Give me your arm:
Up: so. How is 't? Feel you your legs? You stand.
GLOUCESTER
Too well, too well.
EDGAR
This is above all strangeness.
Upon the crown o' the cliff, what thing was that
Which parted from you?
GLOUCESTER
A poor unfortunate beggar.
EDGAR
As I stood here below, methought his eyes
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,
Horns whelk'd and waved like the enridged sea:
It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,
Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours
Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee.
GLOUCESTER
I do remember now: henceforth I'll bear
Affliction till it do cry out itself
'Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak of,
I took it for a man; often 'twould say
'The fiend, the fiend:' he led me to that place.
EDGAR
Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here?
Enter KING LEAR, fantastically dressed with wild flowers
The safer sense will ne'er accommodate
His master thus.
KING LEAR
No, they cannot touch me for coining; I am the
king himself.
EDGAR
O thou side-piercing sight!
KING LEAR
Nature's above art in that respect. There's your
press-money. That fellow handles his bow like a
crow-keeper: draw me a clothier's yard. Look,
look, a mouse! Peace, peace; this piece of toasted
cheese will do 't. There's my gauntlet; I'll prove
it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well
flown, bird! i' the clout, i' the clout: hewgh!
Give the word.
EDGAR
Sweet marjoram.
KING LEAR
Pass.
GLOUCESTER
I know that voice.
KING LEAR
Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! They flattered
me like a dog; and told me I had white hairs in my
beard ere the black ones were there. To say 'ay'
and 'no' to every thing that I said!--'Ay' and 'no'
too was no good divinity. When the rain came to
wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when
the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I
found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are
not men o' their words: they told me I was every
thing; 'tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.
GLOUCESTER
The trick of that voice I do well remember:
Is 't not the king?
KING LEAR
Ay, every inch a king:
When I do stare, see how the subject quakes.
I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause? Adultery?
Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:
The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly
Does lecher in my sight.
Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son
Was kinder to his father than my daughters
Got 'tween the lawful sheets.
To 't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.
Behold yond simpering dame,
Whose face between her forks presages snow;
That minces virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure's name;
The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to 't
With a more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends';
There's hell, there's darkness, there's the
sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie,
fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet,
good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination:
there's money for thee.
GLOUCESTER
O, let me kiss that hand!
KING LEAR
Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
GLOUCESTER
O ruin'd piece of nature! This great world
Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me?
KING LEAR
I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny
at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid! I'll not
love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the
penning of it.
GLOUCESTER
Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.
EDGAR
I would not take this from report; it is,
And my heart breaks at it.
KING LEAR
Read.
GLOUCESTER
What, with the case of eyes?
KING LEAR
O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your
head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in
a heavy case, your purse in a light; yet you see how
this world goes.
GLOUCESTER
I see it feelingly.
KING LEAR
What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes
with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond
justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark, in
thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which
is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen
a farmer's dog bark at a beggar?
GLOUCESTER
Ay, sir.
KING LEAR
And the creature run from the cur? There thou
mightst behold the great image of authority: a
dog's obeyed in office.
Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;
Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.
Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;
Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks:
Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
None does offend, none, I say, none; I'll able 'em:
Take that of me, my friend, who have the power
To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes;
And like a scurvy politician, seem
To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now:
Pull off my boots: harder, harder: so.
EDGAR
O, matter and impertinency mix'd! Reason in madness!
KING LEAR
If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.
I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air,
We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.
GLOUCESTER
Alack, alack the day!
KING LEAR
When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools: this a good block;
It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe
A troop of horse with felt: I'll put 't in proof;
And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law,
Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!
Enter a Gentleman, with Attendants
Gentleman
O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir,
Your most dear daughter--
KING LEAR
No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even
The natural fool of fortune. Use me well;
You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons;
I am cut to the brains.
Gentleman
You shall have any thing.
KING LEAR
No seconds? all myself?
Why, this would make a man a man of salt,
To use his eyes for garden water-pots,
Ay, and laying autumn's dust.
Gentleman
Good sir,--
KING LEAR
I will die bravely, like a bridegroom. What!
I will be jovial: come, come; I am a king,
My masters, know you that.
Gentleman
You are a royal one, and we obey you.
KING LEAR
Then there's life in't. Nay, if you get it, you
shall get it with running. Sa, sa, sa, sa.
Exit running; Attendants follow
Gentleman
A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter,
Who redeems nature from the general curse
Which twain have brought her to.
EDGAR
Hail, gentle sir.
Gentleman
Sir, speed you: what's your will?
EDGAR
Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?
Gentleman
Most sure and vulgar: every one hears that,
Which can distinguish sound.
EDGAR
But, by your favour,
How near's the other army?
Gentleman
Near and on speedy foot; the main descry
Stands on the hourly thought.
EDGAR
I thank you, sir: that's all.
Gentleman
Though that the queen on special cause is here,
Her army is moved on.
EDGAR
I thank you, sir.
Exit Gentleman
GLOUCESTER
You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:
Let not my worser spirit tempt me again
To die before you please!
EDGAR
Well pray you, father.
GLOUCESTER
Now, good sir, what are you?
EDGAR
A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows;
Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,
Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand,
I'll lead you to some biding.
GLOUCESTER
Hearty thanks:
The bounty and the benison of heaven
To boot, and boot!
Enter OSWALD
OSWALD
A proclaim'd prize! Most happy!
That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,
Briefly thyself remember: the sword is out
That must destroy thee.
GLOUCESTER
Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to't.
EDGAR interposes
OSWALD
Wherefore, bold peasant,
Darest thou support a publish'd traitor? Hence;
Lest that the infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.
EDGAR
Ch'ill not let go, zir, without vurther 'casion.
OSWALD
Let go, slave, or thou diest!
EDGAR
Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk
pass. An chud ha' bin zwaggered out of my life,
'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis by a vortnight.
Nay, come not near th' old man; keep out, che vor
ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be
the harder: ch'ill be plain with you.
OSWALD
Out, dunghill!
EDGAR
Ch'ill pick your teeth, zir: come; no matter vor
your foins.
They fight, and EDGAR knocks him down
OSWALD
Slave, thou hast slain me: villain, take my purse:
If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body;
And give the letters which thou find'st about me
To Edmund earl of Gloucester; seek him out
Upon the British party: O, untimely death!
Dies
EDGAR
I know thee well: a serviceable villain;
As duteous to the vices of thy mistress
As badness would desire.
GLOUCESTER
What, is he dead?
EDGAR
Sit you down, father; rest you
Let's see these pockets: the letters that he speaks of
May be my friends. He's dead; I am only sorry
He had no other death's-man. Let us see:
Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:
To know our enemies' minds, we'ld rip their hearts;
Their papers, is more lawful.
Reads
'Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have
many opportunities to cut him off: if your will
want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered.
There is nothing done, if he return the conqueror:
then am I the prisoner, and his bed my goal; from
the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply
the place for your labour.
'Your--wife, so I would say--
'Affectionate servant,
'GONERIL.'
O undistinguish'd space of woman's will!
A plot upon her virtuous husband's life;
And the exchange my brother! Here, in the sands,
Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified
Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time
With this ungracious paper strike the sight
Of the death practised duke: for him 'tis well
That of thy death and business I can tell.
GLOUCESTER
The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling
Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs,
And woes by wrong imaginations lose
The knowledge of themselves.
EDGAR
Give me your hand:
Drum afar off
Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum:
Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend.
Exeunt
SCENE VII. A tent in the French camp. LEAR on a bed asleep,
soft music playing; Gentleman, and others attending.
Enter CORDELIA, KENT, and Doctor
CORDELIA
O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work,
To match thy goodness? My life will be too short,
And every measure fail me.
KENT
To be acknowledged, madam, is o'erpaid.
All my reports go with the modest truth;
Nor more nor clipp'd, but so.
CORDELIA
Be better suited:
These weeds are memories of those worser hours:
I prithee, put them off.
KENT
Pardon me, dear madam;
Yet to be known shortens my made intent:
My boon I make it, that you know me not
Till time and I think meet.
CORDELIA
Then be't so, my good lord.
To the Doctor
How does the king?
Doctor
Madam, sleeps still.
CORDELIA
O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father!
Doctor
So please your majesty
That we may wake the king: he hath slept long.
CORDELIA
Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed
I' the sway of your own will. Is he array'd?
Gentleman
Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep
We put fresh garments on him.
Doctor
Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;
I doubt not of his temperance.
CORDELIA
Very well.
Doctor
Please you, draw near. Louder the music there!
CORDELIA
O my dear father! Restoration hang
Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!
KENT
Kind and dear princess!
CORDELIA
Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face
To be opposed against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick, cross lightning? to watch--poor perdu!--
With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.
Doctor
Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.
CORDELIA
How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?
KING LEAR
You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave:
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like moulten lead.
CORDELIA
Sir, do you know me?
KING LEAR
You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?
CORDELIA
Still, still, far wide!
Doctor
He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile.
KING LEAR
Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity,
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: let's see;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition!
CORDELIA
O, look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me:
No, sir, you must not kneel.
KING LEAR
Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
CORDELIA
And so I am, I am.
KING LEAR
Be your tears wet? yes, 'faith. I pray, weep not:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.
CORDELIA
No cause, no cause.
KING LEAR
Am I in France?
KENT
In your own kingdom, sir.
KING LEAR
Do not abuse me.
Doctor
Be comforted, good madam: the great rage,
You see, is kill'd in him: and yet it is danger
To make him even o'er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more
Till further settling.
CORDELIA
Will't please your highness walk?
KING LEAR
You must bear with me:
Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.
Exeunt all but KENT and Gentleman
Gentleman
Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?
KENT
Most certain, sir.
Gentleman
Who is conductor of his people?
KENT
As 'tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.
Gentleman
They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl
of Kent in Germany.
KENT
Report is changeable. 'Tis time to look about; the
powers of the kingdom approach apace.
Gentleman
The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you
well, sir.
Exit
KENT
My point and period will be throughly wrought,
Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought.
Exit
ACT V
SCENE I. The British camp, near Dover.
Enter, with drum and colours, EDMUND, REGAN, Gentlemen, and Soldiers.
EDMUND
Know of the duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is advised by aught
To change the course: he's full of alteration
And self-reproving: bring his constant pleasure.
To a Gentleman, who goes out
REGAN
Our sister's man is certainly miscarried.
EDMUND
'Tis to be doubted, madam.
REGAN
Now, sweet lord,
You know the goodness I intend upon you:
Tell me--but truly--but then speak the truth,
Do you not love my sister?
EDMUND
In honour'd love.
REGAN
But have you never found my brother's way
To the forfended place?
EDMUND
That thought abuses you.
REGAN
I am doubtful that you have been conjunct
And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers.
EDMUND
No, by mine honour, madam.
REGAN
I never shall endure her: dear my lord,
Be not familiar with her.
EDMUND
Fear me not:
She and the duke her husband!
Enter, with drum and colours, ALBANY, GONERIL, and Soldiers
GONERIL
[Aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister
Should loosen him and me.
ALBANY
Our very loving sister, well be-met.
Sir, this I hear; the king is come to his daughter,
With others whom the rigor of our state
Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant: for this business,
It toucheth us, as France invades our land,
Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,
Most just and heavy causes make oppose.
EDMUND
Sir, you speak nobly.
REGAN
Why is this reason'd?
GONERIL
Combine together 'gainst the enemy;
For these domestic and particular broils
Are not the question here.
ALBANY
Let's then determine
With the ancient of war on our proceedings.
EDMUND
I shall attend you presently at your tent.
REGAN
Sister, you'll go with us?
GONERIL
No.
REGAN
'Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.
GONERIL
[Aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.--I will go.
As they are going out, enter EDGAR disguised
EDGAR
If e'er your grace had speech with man so poor,
Hear me one word.
ALBANY
I'll overtake you. Speak.
Exeunt all but ALBANY and EDGAR
EDGAR
Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.
If you have victory, let the trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seem,
I can produce a champion that will prove
What is avouched there. If you miscarry,
Your business of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune love you.
ALBANY
Stay till I have read the letter.
EDGAR
I was forbid it.
When time shall serve, let but the herald cry,
And I'll appear again.
ALBANY
Why, fare thee well: I will o'erlook thy paper.
Exit EDGAR
Re-enter EDMUND
EDMUND
The enemy's in view; draw up your powers.
Here is the guess of their true strength and forces
By diligent discovery; but your haste
Is now urged on you.
ALBANY
We will greet the time.
Exit
EDMUND
To both these sisters have I sworn my love;
Each jealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd,
If both remain alive: to take the widow
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril;
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being alive. Now then we'll use
His countenance for the battle; which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him devise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercy
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The battle done, and they within our power,
Shall never see his pardon; for my state
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Exit
SCENE II. A field between the two camps.
Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, KING LEAR, CORDELIA, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt
Enter EDGAR and GLOUCESTER
EDGAR
Here, father, take the shadow of this tree
For your good host; pray that the right may thrive:
If ever I return to you again,
I'll bring you comfort.
GLOUCESTER
Grace go with you, sir!
Exit EDGAR
Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter EDGAR
EDGAR
Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!
King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en:
Give me thy hand; come on.
GLOUCESTER
No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.
EDGAR
What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither;
Ripeness is all: come on.
GLOUCESTER
And that's true too.
Exeunt
SCENE III. The British camp near Dover.
Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, EDMUND, KING LEAR and CORDELIA, prisoners; Captain, Soldiers, & c
EDMUND
Some officers take them away: good guard,
Until their greater pleasures first be known
That are to censure them.
CORDELIA
We are not the first
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown.
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?
KING LEAR
No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by the moon.
EDMUND
Take them away.
KING LEAR
Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;
The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve
first. Come.
Exeunt KING LEAR and CORDELIA, guarded
EDMUND
Come hither, captain; hark.
Take thou this note;
Giving a paper
go follow them to prison:
One step I have advanced thee; if thou dost
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is: to be tender-minded
Does not become a sword: thy great employment
Will not bear question; either say thou'lt do 't,
Or thrive by other means.
Captain
I'll do 't, my lord.
EDMUND
About it; and write happy when thou hast done.
Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so
As I have set it down.
Captain
I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats;
If it be man's work, I'll do 't.
Exit
Flourish. Enter ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, another Captain, and Soldiers
ALBANY
Sir, you have shown to-day your valiant strain,
And fortune led you well: you have the captives
That were the opposites of this day's strife:
We do require them of you, so to use them
As we shall find their merits and our safety
May equally determine.
EDMUND
Sir, I thought it fit
To send the old and miserable king
To some retention and appointed guard;
Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,
To pluck the common bosom on his side,
An turn our impress'd lances in our eyes
Which do command them. With him I sent the queen;
My reason all the same; and they are ready
To-morrow, or at further space, to appear
Where you shall hold your session. At this time
We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend;
And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed
By those that feel their sharpness:
The question of Cordelia and her father
Requires a fitter place.
ALBANY
Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subject of this war,
Not as a brother.
REGAN
That's as we list to grace him.
Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded,
Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers;
Bore the commission of my place and person;
The which immediacy may well stand up,
And call itself your brother.
GONERIL
Not so hot:
In his own grace he doth exalt himself,
More than in your addition.
REGAN
In my rights,
By me invested, he compeers the best.
GONERIL
That were the most, if he should husband you.
REGAN
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
GONERIL
Holla, holla!
That eye that told you so look'd but a-squint.
REGAN
Lady, I am not well; else I should answer
From a full-flowing stomach. General,
Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;
Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine:
Witness the world, that I create thee here
My lord and master.
GONERIL
Mean you to enjoy him?
ALBANY
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
EDMUND
Nor in thine, lord.
ALBANY
Half-blooded fellow, yes.
REGAN
[To EDMUND] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.
ALBANY
Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee
On capital treason; and, in thine attaint,
This gilded serpent
Pointing to Goneril
For your claim, fair sister,
I bar it in the interest of my wife:
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord,
And I, her husband, contradict your bans.
If you will marry, make your loves to me,
My lady is bespoke.
GONERIL
An interlude!
ALBANY
Thou art arm'd, Gloucester: let the trumpet sound:
If none appear to prove upon thy head
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,
There is my pledge;
Throwing down a glove
I'll prove it on thy heart,
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less
Than I have here proclaim'd thee.
REGAN
Sick, O, sick!
GONERIL
[Aside] If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine.
EDMUND
There's my exchange:
Throwing down a glove
what in the world he is
That names me traitor, villain-like he lies:
Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,
On him, on you, who not? I will maintain
My truth and honour firmly.
ALBANY
A herald, ho!
EDMUND
A herald, ho, a herald!
ALBANY
Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,
All levied in my name, have in my name
Took their discharge.
REGAN
My sickness grows upon me.
ALBANY
She is not well; convey her to my tent.
Exit Regan, led
Enter a Herald
Come hither, herald,--Let the trumpet sound,
And read out this.
Captain
Sound, trumpet!
A trumpet sounds
Herald
[Reads] 'If any man of quality or degree within
the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund,
supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold
traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the
trumpet: he is bold in his defence.'
EDMUND
Sound!
First trumpet
Herald
Again!
Second trumpet
Herald
Again!
Third trumpet
Trumpet answers within
Enter EDGAR, at the third sound, armed, with a trumpet before him
ALBANY
Ask him his purposes, why he appears
Upon this call o' the trumpet.
Herald
What are you?
Your name, your quality? and why you answer
This present summons?
EDGAR
Know, my name is lost;
By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit:
Yet am I noble as the adversary
I come to cope.
ALBANY
Which is that adversary?
EDGAR
What's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?
EDMUND
Himself: what say'st thou to him?
EDGAR
Draw thy sword,
That, if my speech offend a noble heart,
Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine.
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,
My oath, and my profession: I protest,
Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,
Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,
Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor;
False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;
Conspirant 'gainst this high-illustrious prince;
And, from the extremest upward of thy head
To the descent and dust below thy foot,
A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'No,'
This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent
To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,
Thou liest.
EDMUND
In wisdom I should ask thy name;
But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,
What safe and nicely I might well delay
By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn:
Back do I toss these treasons to thy head;
With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart;
Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise,
This sword of mine shall give them instant way,
Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!
Alarums. They fight. EDMUND falls
ALBANY
Save him, save him!
GONERIL
This is practise, Gloucester:
By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer
An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozen'd and beguiled.
ALBANY
Shut your mouth, dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir:
Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil:
No tearing, lady: I perceive you know it.
Gives the letter to EDMUND
GONERIL
Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:
Who can arraign me for't.
ALBANY
Most monstrous! oh!
Know'st thou this paper?
GONERIL
Ask me not what I know.
Exit
ALBANY
Go after her: she's desperate; govern her.
EDMUND
What you have charged me with, that have I done;
And more, much more; the time will bring it out:
'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou
That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble,
I do forgive thee.
EDGAR
Let's exchange charity.
I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;
If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar, and thy father's son.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us:
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes.
EDMUND
Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true;
The wheel is come full circle: I am here.
ALBANY
Methought thy very gait did prophesy
A royal nobleness: I must embrace thee:
Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I
Did hate thee or thy father!
EDGAR
Worthy prince, I know't.
ALBANY
Where have you hid yourself?
How have you known the miseries of your father?
EDGAR
By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;
And when 'tis told, O, that my heart would burst!
The bloody proclamation to escape,
That follow'd me so near,--O, our lives' sweetness!
That we the pain of death would hourly die
Rather than die at once!--taught me to shift
Into a madman's rags; to assume a semblance
That very dogs disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my father with his bleeding rings,
Their precious stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, saved him from despair;
Never,--O fault!--reveal'd myself unto him,
Until some half-hour past, when I was arm'd:
Not sure, though hoping, of this good success,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw'd heart,
Alack, too weak the conflict to support!
'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,
Burst smilingly.
EDMUND
This speech of yours hath moved me,
And shall perchance do good: but speak you on;
You look as you had something more to say.
ALBANY
If there be more, more woeful, hold it in;
For I am almost ready to dissolve,
Hearing of this.
EDGAR
This would have seem'd a period
To such as love not sorrow; but another,
To amplify too much, would make much more,
And top extremity.
Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a man,
Who, having seen me in my worst estate,
Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding
Who 'twas that so endured, with his strong arms
He fastened on my neck, and bellow'd out
As he'ld burst heaven; threw him on my father;
Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him
That ever ear received: which in recounting
His grief grew puissant and the strings of life
Began to crack: twice then the trumpets sounded,
And there I left him tranced.
ALBANY
But who was this?
EDGAR
Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent; who in disguise
Follow'd his enemy king, and did him service
Improper for a slave.
Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife
Gentleman
Help, help, O, help!
EDGAR
What kind of help?
ALBANY
Speak, man.
EDGAR
What means that bloody knife?
Gentleman
'Tis hot, it smokes;
It came even from the heart of--O, she's dead!
ALBANY
Who dead? speak, man.
Gentleman
Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister
By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it.
EDMUND
I was contracted to them both: all three
Now marry in an instant.
EDGAR
Here comes Kent.
ALBANY
Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead:
This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,
Touches us not with pity.
Exit Gentleman
Enter KENT
O, is this he?
The time will not allow the compliment
Which very manners urges.
KENT
I am come
To bid my king and master aye good night:
Is he not here?
ALBANY
Great thing of us forgot!
Speak, Edmund, where's the king? and where's Cordelia?
See'st thou this object, Kent?
The bodies of GONERIL and REGAN are brought in
KENT
Alack, why thus?
EDMUND
Yet Edmund was beloved:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herself.
ALBANY
Even so. Cover their faces.
EDMUND
I pant for life: some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send,
Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ
Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time.
ALBANY
Run, run, O, run!
EDGAR
To who, my lord? Who hath the office? send
Thy token of reprieve.
EDMUND
Well thought on: take my sword,
Give it the captain.
ALBANY
Haste thee, for thy life.
Exit EDGAR
EDMUND
He hath commission from thy wife and me
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame upon her own despair,
That she fordid herself.
ALBANY
The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.
EDMUND is borne off
Re-enter KING LEAR, with CORDELIA dead in his arms; EDGAR, Captain, and others following
KING LEAR
Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives.
KENT
Is this the promised end
EDGAR
Or image of that horror?
ALBANY
Fall, and cease!
KING LEAR
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
KENT
[Kneeling] O my good master!
KING LEAR
Prithee, away.
EDGAR
'Tis noble Kent, your friend.
KING LEAR
A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have saved her; now she's gone for ever!
Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!
What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee.
Captain
'Tis true, my lords, he did.
KING LEAR
Did I not, fellow?
I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight.
KENT
If fortune brag of two she loved and hated,
One of them we behold.
KING LEAR
This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?
KENT
The same,
Your servant Kent: Where is your servant Caius?
KING LEAR
He's a good fellow, I can tell you that;
He'll strike, and quickly too: he's dead and rotten.
KENT
No, my good lord; I am the very man,--
KING LEAR
I'll see that straight.
KENT
That, from your first of difference and decay,
Have follow'd your sad steps.
KING LEAR
You are welcome hither.
KENT
Nor no man else: all's cheerless, dark, and deadly.
Your eldest daughters have fordone them selves,
And desperately are dead.
KING LEAR
Ay, so I think.
ALBANY
He knows not what he says: and vain it is
That we present us to him.
EDGAR
Very bootless.
Enter a Captain
Captain
Edmund is dead, my lord.
ALBANY
That's but a trifle here.
You lords and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied: for us we will resign,
During the life of this old majesty,
To him our absolute power:
To EDGAR and KENT
you, to your rights:
With boot, and such addition as your honours
Have more than merited. All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!
KING LEAR
And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.
Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,
Look there, look there!
Dies
EDGAR
He faints! My lord, my lord!
KENT
Break, heart; I prithee, break!
EDGAR
Look up, my lord.
KENT
Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him much
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.
EDGAR
He is gone, indeed.
KENT
The wonder is, he hath endured so long:
He but usurp'd his life.
ALBANY
Bear them from hence. Our present business
Is general woe.
To KENT and EDGAR
Friends of my soul, you twain
Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.
KENT
I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;
My master calls me, I must not say no.
ALBANY
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Exeunt, with a dead march
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/27/2023
Public Domain Use#19,790,191textOthello,the Moore of Venice
By William Shakespeare
ACT I
SCENE I. Venice. A street.
Enter RODERIGO and IAGO
RODERIGO
Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.
IAGO
'Sblood, but you will not hear me:
If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.
RODERIGO
Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.
IAGO
Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-capp'd to him: and, by the faith of man,
I know my price, I am worth no worse a place:
But he; as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them, with a bombast circumstance
Horribly stuff'd with epithets of war;
And, in conclusion,
Nonsuits my mediators; for, 'Certes,' says he,
'I have already chose my officer.'
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife;
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the toged consuls can propose
As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practise,
Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election:
And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof
At Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds
Christian and heathen, must be be-lee'd and calm'd
By debitor and creditor: this counter-caster,
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I--God bless the mark!--his Moorship's ancient.
RODERIGO
By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.
IAGO
Why, there's no remedy; 'tis the curse of service,
Preferment goes by letter and affection,
And not by old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,
Whether I in any just term am affined
To love the Moor.
RODERIGO
I would not follow him then.
IAGO
O, sir, content you;
I follow him to serve my turn upon him:
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd:
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are
Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them and when they have lined
their coats
Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;
And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
RODERIGO
What a full fortune does the thicklips owe
If he can carry't thus!
IAGO
Call up her father,
Rouse him: make after him, poison his delight,
Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,
And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,
Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,
Yet throw such changes of vexation on't,
As it may lose some colour.
RODERIGO
Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud.
IAGO
Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell
As when, by night and negligence, the fire
Is spied in populous cities.
RODERIGO
What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!
IAGO
Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!
Look to your house, your daughter and your bags!
Thieves! thieves!
BRABANTIO appears above, at a window
BRABANTIO
What is the reason of this terrible summons?
What is the matter there?
RODERIGO
Signior, is all your family within?
IAGO
Are your doors lock'd?
BRABANTIO
Why, wherefore ask you this?
IAGO
'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd; for shame, put on
your gown;
Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;
Even now, now, very now, an old black ram
Is topping your white ewe. Arise, arise;
Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,
Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:
Arise, I say.
BRABANTIO
What, have you lost your wits?
RODERIGO
Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?
BRABANTIO
Not I what are you?
RODERIGO
My name is Roderigo.
BRABANTIO
The worser welcome:
I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors:
In honest plainness thou hast heard me say
My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,
Being full of supper and distempering draughts,
Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come
To start my quiet.
RODERIGO
Sir, sir, sir,--
BRABANTIO
But thou must needs be sure
My spirit and my place have in them power
To make this bitter to thee.
RODERIGO
Patience, good sir.
BRABANTIO
What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;
My house is not a grange.
RODERIGO
Most grave Brabantio,
In simple and pure soul I come to you.
IAGO
'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not
serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to
do you service and you think we are ruffians, you'll
have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse;
you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have
coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.
BRABANTIO
What profane wretch art thou?
IAGO
I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter
and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.
BRABANTIO
Thou art a villain.
IAGO
You are--a senator.
BRABANTIO
This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo.
RODERIGO
Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech you,
If't be your pleasure and most wise consent,
As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter,
At this odd-even and dull watch o' the night,
Transported, with no worse nor better guard
But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor--
If this be known to you and your allowance,
We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;
But if you know not this, my manners tell me
We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe
That, from the sense of all civility,
I thus would play and trifle with your reverence:
Your daughter, if you have not given her leave,
I say again, hath made a gross revolt;
Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger
Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself:
If she be in her chamber or your house,
Let loose on me the justice of the state
For thus deluding you.
BRABANTIO
Strike on the tinder, ho!
Give me a taper! call up all my people!
This accident is not unlike my dream:
Belief of it oppresses me already.
Light, I say! light!
Exit above
IAGO
Farewell; for I must leave you:
It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,
To be produced--as, if I stay, I shall--
Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state,
However this may gall him with some cheque,
Cannot with safety cast him, for he's embark'd
With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,
Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls,
Another of his fathom they have none,
To lead their business: in which regard,
Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains.
Yet, for necessity of present life,
I must show out a flag and sign of love,
Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,
Lead to the Sagittary the raised search;
And there will I be with him. So, farewell.
Exit
Enter, below, BRABANTIO, and Servants with torches
BRABANTIO
It is too true an evil: gone she is;
And what's to come of my despised time
Is nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo,
Where didst thou see her? O unhappy girl!
With the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father!
How didst thou know 'twas she? O she deceives me
Past thought! What said she to you? Get more tapers:
Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?
RODERIGO
Truly, I think they are.
BRABANTIO
O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood!
Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds
By what you see them act. Is there not charms
By which the property of youth and maidhood
May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,
Of some such thing?
RODERIGO
Yes, sir, I have indeed.
BRABANTIO
Call up my brother. O, would you had had her!
Some one way, some another. Do you know
Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?
RODERIGO
I think I can discover him, if you please,
To get good guard and go along with me.
BRABANTIO
Pray you, lead on. At every house I'll call;
I may command at most. Get weapons, ho!
And raise some special officers of night.
On, good Roderigo: I'll deserve your pains.
Exeunt
SCENE II. Another street.
Enter OTHELLO, IAGO, and Attendants with torches
IAGO
Though in the trade of war I have slain men,
Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience
To do no contrived murder: I lack iniquity
Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times
I had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs.
OTHELLO
'Tis better as it is.
IAGO
Nay, but he prated,
And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms
Against your honour
That, with the little godliness I have,
I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, sir,
Are you fast married? Be assured of this,
That the magnifico is much beloved,
And hath in his effect a voice potential
As double as the duke's: he will divorce you;
Or put upon you what restraint and grievance
The law, with all his might to enforce it on,
Will give him cable.
OTHELLO
Let him do his spite:
My services which I have done the signiory
Shall out-tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know,--
Which, when I know that boasting is an honour,
I shall promulgate--I fetch my life and being
From men of royal siege, and my demerits
May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune
As this that I have reach'd: for know, Iago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
For the sea's worth. But, look! what lights come yond?
IAGO
Those are the raised father and his friends:
You were best go in.
OTHELLO
Not I I must be found:
My parts, my title and my perfect soul
Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?
IAGO
By Janus, I think no.
Enter CASSIO, and certain Officers with torches
OTHELLO
The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant.
The goodness of the night upon you, friends!
What is the news?
CASSIO
The duke does greet you, general,
And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,
Even on the instant.
OTHELLO
What is the matter, think you?
CASSIO
Something from Cyprus as I may divine:
It is a business of some heat: the galleys
Have sent a dozen sequent messengers
This very night at one another's heels,
And many of the consuls, raised and met,
Are at the duke's already: you have been
hotly call'd for;
When, being not at your lodging to be found,
The senate hath sent about three several guests
To search you out.
OTHELLO
'Tis well I am found by you.
I will but spend a word here in the house,
And go with you.
Exit
CASSIO
Ancient, what makes he here?
IAGO
'Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack:
If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever.
CASSIO
I do not understand.
IAGO
He's married.
CASSIO
To who?
Re-enter OTHELLO
IAGO
Marry, to--Come, captain, will you go?
OTHELLO
Have with you.
CASSIO
Here comes another troop to seek for you.
IAGO
It is Brabantio. General, be advised;
He comes to bad intent.
Enter BRABANTIO, RODERIGO, and Officers with torches and weapons
OTHELLO
Holla! stand there!
RODERIGO
Signior, it is the Moor.
BRABANTIO
Down with him, thief!
They draw on both sides
IAGO
You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.
OTHELLO
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
Good signior, you shall more command with years
Than with your weapons.
BRABANTIO
O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter?
Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her;
For I'll refer me to all things of sense,
If she in chains of magic were not bound,
Whether a maid so tender, fair and happy,
So opposite to marriage that she shunned
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,
Would ever have, to incur a general mock,
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as thou, to fear, not to delight.
Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense
That thou hast practised on her with foul charms,
Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals
That weaken motion: I'll have't disputed on;
'Tis probable and palpable to thinking.
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee
For an abuser of the world, a practiser
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.
Lay hold upon him: if he do resist,
Subdue him at his peril.
OTHELLO
Hold your hands,
Both you of my inclining, and the rest:
Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it
Without a prompter. Where will you that I go
To answer this your charge?
BRABANTIO
To prison, till fit time
Of law and course of direct session
Call thee to answer.
OTHELLO
What if I do obey?
How may the duke be therewith satisfied,
Whose messengers are here about my side,
Upon some present business of the state
To bring me to him?
First Officer
'Tis true, most worthy signior;
The duke's in council and your noble self,
I am sure, is sent for.
BRABANTIO
How! the duke in council!
In this time of the night! Bring him away:
Mine's not an idle cause: the duke himself,
Or any of my brothers of the state,
Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own;
For if such actions may have passage free,
Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.
Exeunt
SCENE III. A council-chamber.
The DUKE and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending
DUKE OF VENICE
There is no composition in these news
That gives them credit.
First Senator
Indeed, they are disproportion'd;
My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.
DUKE OF VENICE
And mine, a hundred and forty.
Second Senator
And mine, two hundred:
But though they jump not on a just account,--
As in these cases, where the aim reports,
'Tis oft with difference--yet do they all confirm
A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.
DUKE OF VENICE
Nay, it is possible enough to judgment:
I do not so secure me in the error,
But the main article I do approve
In fearful sense.
Sailor
[Within] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!
First Officer
A messenger from the galleys.
Enter a Sailor
DUKE OF VENICE
Now, what's the business?
Sailor
The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;
So was I bid report here to the state
By Signior Angelo.
DUKE OF VENICE
How say you by this change?
First Senator
This cannot be,
By no assay of reason: 'tis a pageant,
To keep us in false gaze. When we consider
The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk,
And let ourselves again but understand,
That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,
So may he with more facile question bear it,
For that it stands not in such warlike brace,
But altogether lacks the abilities
That Rhodes is dress'd in: if we make thought of this,
We must not think the Turk is so unskilful
To leave that latest which concerns him first,
Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,
To wake and wage a danger profitless.
DUKE OF VENICE
Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes.
First Officer
Here is more news.
Enter a Messenger
Messenger
The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,
Steering with due course towards the isle of Rhodes,
Have there injointed them with an after fleet.
First Senator
Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess?
Messenger
Of thirty sail: and now they do restem
Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance
Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,
Your trusty and most valiant servitor,
With his free duty recommends you thus,
And prays you to believe him.
DUKE OF VENICE
'Tis certain, then, for Cyprus.
Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?
First Senator
He's now in Florence.
DUKE OF VENICE
Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch.
First Senator
Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.
Enter BRABANTIO, OTHELLO, IAGO, RODERIGO, and Officers
DUKE OF VENICE
Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you
Against the general enemy Ottoman.
To BRABANTIO
I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;
We lack'd your counsel and your help tonight.
BRABANTIO
So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;
Neither my place nor aught I heard of business
Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care
Take hold on me, for my particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows
And it is still itself.
DUKE OF VENICE
Why, what's the matter?
BRABANTIO
My daughter! O, my daughter!
DUKE OF VENICE Senator
Dead?
BRABANTIO
Ay, to me;
She is abused, stol'n from me, and corrupted
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;
For nature so preposterously to err,
Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,
Sans witchcraft could not.
DUKE OF VENICE
Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding
Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself
And you of her, the bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter
After your own sense, yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action.
BRABANTIO
Humbly I thank your grace.
Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems,
Your special mandate for the state-affairs
Hath hither brought.
DUKE OF VENICE Senator
We are very sorry for't.
DUKE OF VENICE
[To OTHELLO] What, in your own part, can you say to this?
BRABANTIO
Nothing, but this is so.
OTHELLO
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field,
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charged withal,
I won his daughter.
BRABANTIO
A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at herself; and she, in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, every thing,
To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!
It is a judgment maim'd and most imperfect
That will confess perfection so could err
Against all rules of nature, and must be driven
To find out practises of cunning hell,
Why this should be. I therefore vouch again
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,
Or with some dram conjured to this effect,
He wrought upon her.
DUKE OF VENICE
To vouch this, is no proof,
Without more wider and more overt test
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods
Of modern seeming do prefer against him.
First Senator
But, Othello, speak:
Did you by indirect and forced courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections?
Or came it by request and such fair question
As soul to soul affordeth?
OTHELLO
I do beseech you,
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her speak of me before her father:
If you do find me foul in her report,
The trust, the office I do hold of you,
Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life.
DUKE OF VENICE
Fetch Desdemona hither.
OTHELLO
Ancient, conduct them: you best know the place.
Exeunt IAGO and Attendants
And, till she come, as truly as to heaven
I do confess the vices of my blood,
So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.
DUKE OF VENICE
Say it, Othello.
OTHELLO
Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it;
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field
Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence
And portance in my travels' history:
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven
It was my hint to speak,--such was the process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence:
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'ld come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore, in faith, twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:
She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story.
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used:
Here comes the lady; let her witness it.
Enter DESDEMONA, IAGO, and Attendants
DUKE OF VENICE
I think this tale would win my daughter too.
Good Brabantio,
Take up this mangled matter at the best:
Men do their broken weapons rather use
Than their bare hands.
BRABANTIO
I pray you, hear her speak:
If she confess that she was half the wooer,
Destruction on my head, if my bad blame
Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress:
Do you perceive in all this noble company
Where most you owe obedience?
DESDEMONA
My noble father,
I do perceive here a divided duty:
To you I am bound for life and education;
My life and education both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of duty;
I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband,
And so much duty as my mother show'd
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge that I may profess
Due to the Moor my lord.
BRABANTIO
God be wi' you! I have done.
Please it your grace, on to the state-affairs:
I had rather to adopt a child than get it.
Come hither, Moor:
I here do give thee that with all my heart
Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart
I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel,
I am glad at soul I have no other child:
For thy escape would teach me tyranny,
To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord.
DUKE OF VENICE
Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence,
Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers
Into your favour.
When remedies are past, the griefs are ended
By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone
Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
What cannot be preserved when fortune takes
Patience her injury a mockery makes.
The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief;
He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.
BRABANTIO
So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile;
We lose it not, so long as we can smile.
He bears the sentence well that nothing bears
But the free comfort which from thence he hears,
But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow
That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.
These sentences, to sugar, or to gall,
Being strong on both sides, are equivocal:
But words are words; I never yet did hear
That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.
I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.
DUKE OF VENICE
The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for
Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best
known to you; and though we have there a substitute
of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a
sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer
voice on you: you must therefore be content to
slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this
more stubborn and boisterous expedition.
OTHELLO
The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnise
A natural and prompt alacrity
I find in hardness, and do undertake
These present wars against the Ottomites.
Most humbly therefore bending to your state,
I crave fit disposition for my wife.
Due reference of place and exhibition,
With such accommodation and besort
As levels with her breeding.
DUKE OF VENICE
If you please,
Be't at her father's.
BRABANTIO
I'll not have it so.
OTHELLO
Nor I.
DESDEMONA
Nor I; I would not there reside,
To put my father in impatient thoughts
By being in his eye. Most gracious duke,
To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear;
And let me find a charter in your voice,
To assist my simpleness.
DUKE OF VENICE
What would You, Desdemona?
DESDEMONA
That I did love the Moor to live with him,
My downright violence and storm of fortunes
May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued
Even to the very quality of my lord:
I saw Othello's visage in his mind,
And to his honour and his valiant parts
Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate.
So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,
A moth of peace, and he go to the war,
The rites for which I love him are bereft me,
And I a heavy interim shall support
By his dear absence. Let me go with him.
OTHELLO
Let her have your voices.
Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not,
To please the palate of my appetite,
Nor to comply with heat--the young affects
In me defunct--and proper satisfaction.
But to be free and bounteous to her mind:
And heaven defend your good souls, that you think
I will your serious and great business scant
For she is with me: no, when light-wing'd toys
Of feather'd Cupid seal with wanton dullness
My speculative and officed instruments,
That my disports corrupt and taint my business,
Let housewives make a skillet of my helm,
And all indign and base adversities
Make head against my estimation!
DUKE OF VENICE
Be it as you shall privately determine,
Either for her stay or going: the affair cries haste,
And speed must answer it.
First Senator
You must away to-night.
OTHELLO
With all my heart.
DUKE OF VENICE
At nine i' the morning here we'll meet again.
Othello, leave some officer behind,
And he shall our commission bring to you;
With such things else of quality and respect
As doth import you.
OTHELLO
So please your grace, my ancient;
A man he is of honest and trust:
To his conveyance I assign my wife,
With what else needful your good grace shall think
To be sent after me.
DUKE OF VENICE
Let it be so.
Good night to every one.
To BRABANTIO
And, noble signior,
If virtue no delighted beauty lack,
Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.
First Senator
Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well.
BRABANTIO
Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see:
She has deceived her father, and may thee.
Exeunt DUKE OF VENICE, Senators, Officers, & c
OTHELLO
My life upon her faith! Honest Iago,
My Desdemona must I leave to thee:
I prithee, let thy wife attend on her:
And bring them after in the best advantage.
Come, Desdemona: I have but an hour
Of love, of worldly matters and direction,
To spend with thee: we must obey the time.
Exeunt OTHELLO and DESDEMONA
RODERIGO
Iago,--
IAGO
What say'st thou, noble heart?
RODERIGO
What will I do, thinkest thou?
IAGO
Why, go to bed, and sleep.
RODERIGO
I will incontinently drown myself.
IAGO
If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why,
thou silly gentleman!
RODERIGO
It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and
then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
IAGO
O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four
times seven years; and since I could distinguish
betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man
that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say, I
would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I
would change my humanity with a baboon.
RODERIGO
What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so
fond; but it is not in my virtue to amend it.
IAGO
Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus
or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which
our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant
nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up
thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or
distract it with many, either to have it sterile
with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the
power and corrigible authority of this lies in our
wills. If the balance of our lives had not one
scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the
blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us
to most preposterous conclusions: but we have
reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal
stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that
you call love to be a sect or scion.
RODERIGO
It cannot be.
IAGO
It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of
the will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself! drown
cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy
friend and I confess me knit to thy deserving with
cables of perdurable toughness; I could never
better stead thee than now. Put money in thy
purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour with
an usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It
cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her
love to the Moor,-- put money in thy purse,--nor he
his to her: it was a violent commencement, and thou
shalt see an answerable sequestration:--put but
money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in
their wills: fill thy purse with money:--the food
that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be
to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must
change for youth: when she is sated with his body,
she will find the error of her choice: she must
have change, she must: therefore put money in thy
purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a
more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money
thou canst: if sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt
an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian not
too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou
shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of
drowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek
thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than
to be drowned and go without her.
RODERIGO
Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on
the issue?
IAGO
Thou art sure of me:--go, make money:--I have told
thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I
hate the Moor: my cause is hearted; thine hath no
less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge
against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost
thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many
events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
Traverse! go, provide thy money. We will have more
of this to-morrow. Adieu.
RODERIGO
Where shall we meet i' the morning?
IAGO
At my lodging.
RODERIGO
I'll be with thee betimes.
IAGO
Go to; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo?
RODERIGO
What say you?
IAGO
No more of drowning, do you hear?
RODERIGO
I am changed: I'll go sell all my land.
Exit
IAGO
Thus do I ever make my fool my purse:
For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane,
If I would time expend with such a snipe.
But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor:
And it is thought abroad, that 'twixt my sheets
He has done my office: I know not if't be true;
But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,
Will do as if for surety. He holds me well;
The better shall my purpose work on him.
Cassio's a proper man: let me see now:
To get his place and to plume up my will
In double knavery--How, how? Let's see:--
After some time, to abuse Othello's ear
That he is too familiar with his wife.
He hath a person and a smooth dispose
To be suspected, framed to make women false.
The Moor is of a free and open nature,
That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,
And will as tenderly be led by the nose
As asses are.
I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.
Exit
ACT II
SCENE I. A Sea-port in Cyprus. An open place near the quay.
Enter MONTANO and two Gentlemen
MONTANO
What from the cape can you discern at sea?
First Gentleman
Nothing at all: it is a highwrought flood;
I cannot, 'twixt the heaven and the main,
Descry a sail.
MONTANO
Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land;
A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements:
If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea,
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,
Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?
Second Gentleman
A segregation of the Turkish fleet:
For do but stand upon the foaming shore,
The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds;
The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane,
seems to cast water on the burning bear,
And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole:
I never did like molestation view
On the enchafed flood.
MONTANO
If that the Turkish fleet
Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd:
It is impossible they bear it out.
Enter a third Gentleman
Third Gentleman
News, lads! our wars are done.
The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks,
That their designment halts: a noble ship of Venice
Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance
On most part of their fleet.
MONTANO
How! is this true?
Third Gentleman
The ship is here put in,
A Veronesa; Michael Cassio,
Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello,
Is come on shore: the Moor himself at sea,
And is in full commission here for Cyprus.
MONTANO
I am glad on't; 'tis a worthy governor.
Third Gentleman
But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort
Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly,
And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted
With foul and violent tempest.
MONTANO
Pray heavens he be;
For I have served him, and the man commands
Like a full soldier. Let's to the seaside, ho!
As well to see the vessel that's come in
As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,
Even till we make the main and the aerial blue
An indistinct regard.
Third Gentleman
Come, let's do so:
For every minute is expectancy
Of more arrivance.
Enter CASSIO
CASSIO
Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle,
That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens
Give him defence against the elements,
For I have lost us him on a dangerous sea.
MONTANO
Is he well shipp'd?
CASSIO
His bark is stoutly timber'd, his pilot
Of very expert and approved allowance;
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,
Stand in bold cure.
A cry within 'A sail, a sail, a sail!'
Enter a fourth Gentleman
CASSIO
What noise?
Fourth Gentleman
The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea
Stand ranks of people, and they cry 'A sail!'
CASSIO
My hopes do shape him for the governor.
Guns heard
Second Gentlemen
They do discharge their shot of courtesy:
Our friends at least.
CASSIO
I pray you, sir, go forth,
And give us truth who 'tis that is arrived.
Second Gentleman
I shall.
Exit
MONTANO
But, good lieutenant, is your general wived?
CASSIO
Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid
That paragons description and wild fame;
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,
And in the essential vesture of creation
Does tire the ingener.
Re-enter second Gentleman
How now! who has put in?
Second Gentleman
'Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.
CASSIO
Has had most favourable and happy speed:
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,
The gutter'd rocks and congregated sands--
Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel,--
As having sense of beauty, do omit
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by
The divine Desdemona.
MONTANO
What is she?
CASSIO
She that I spake of, our great captain's captain,
Left in the conduct of the bold Iago,
Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts
A se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello guard,
And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,
That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,
Make love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms,
Give renew'd fire to our extincted spirits
And bring all Cyprus comfort!
Enter DESDEMONA, EMILIA, IAGO, RODERIGO, and Attendants
O, behold,
The riches of the ship is come on shore!
Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees.
Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven,
Before, behind thee, and on every hand,
Enwheel thee round!
DESDEMONA
I thank you, valiant Cassio.
What tidings can you tell me of my lord?
CASSIO
He is not yet arrived: nor know I aught
But that he's well and will be shortly here.
DESDEMONA
O, but I fear--How lost you company?
CASSIO
The great contention of the sea and skies
Parted our fellowship--But, hark! a sail.
Within 'A sail, a sail!' Guns heard
Second Gentleman
They give their greeting to the citadel;
This likewise is a friend.
CASSIO
See for the news.
Exit Gentleman
Good ancient, you are welcome.
To EMILIA
Welcome, mistress.
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,
That I extend my manners; 'tis my breeding
That gives me this bold show of courtesy.
Kissing her
IAGO
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
You'll have enough.
DESDEMONA
Alas, she has no speech.
IAGO
In faith, too much;
I find it still, when I have list to sleep:
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
And chides with thinking.
EMILIA
You have little cause to say so.
IAGO
Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens,
Saints m your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives' in your beds.
DESDEMONA
O, fie upon thee, slanderer!
IAGO
Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:
You rise to play and go to bed to work.
EMILIA
You shall not write my praise.
IAGO
No, let me not.
DESDEMONA
What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst
praise me?
IAGO
O gentle lady, do not put me to't;
For I am nothing, if not critical.
DESDEMONA
Come on assay. There's one gone to the harbour?
IAGO
Ay, madam.
DESDEMONA
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
IAGO
I am about it; but indeed my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize;
It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,
And thus she is deliver'd.
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,
The one's for use, the other useth it.
DESDEMONA
Well praised! How if she be black and witty?
IAGO
If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
DESDEMONA
Worse and worse.
EMILIA
How if fair and foolish?
IAGO
She never yet was foolish that was fair;
For even her folly help'd her to an heir.
DESDEMONA
These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i'
the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for
her that's foul and foolish?
IAGO
There's none so foul and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.
DESDEMONA
O heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst best.
But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving
woman indeed, one that, in the authority of her
merit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?
IAGO
She that was ever fair and never proud,
Had tongue at will and yet was never loud,
Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay,
Fled from her wish and yet said 'Now I may,'
She that being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly,
She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;
She that could think and ne'er disclose her mind,
See suitors following and not look behind,
She was a wight, if ever such wight were,--
DESDEMONA
To do what?
IAGO
To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.
DESDEMONA
O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn
of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say
you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal
counsellor?
CASSIO
He speaks home, madam: You may relish him more in
the soldier than in the scholar.
IAGO
[Aside] He takes her by the palm: ay, well said,
whisper: with as little a web as this will I
ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon
her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship.
You say true; 'tis so, indeed: if such tricks as
these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had
been better you had not kissed your three fingers so
oft, which now again you are most apt to play the
sir in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent
courtesy! 'tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers
to your lips? would they were clyster-pipes for your sake!
Trumpet within
The Moor! I know his trumpet.
CASSIO
'Tis truly so.
DESDEMONA
Let's meet him and receive him.
CASSIO
Lo, where he comes!
Enter OTHELLO and Attendants
OTHELLO
O my fair warrior!
DESDEMONA
My dear Othello!
OTHELLO
It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me. O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high and duck again as low
As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.
DESDEMONA
The heavens forbid
But that our loves and comforts should increase,
Even as our days do grow!
OTHELLO
Amen to that, sweet powers!
I cannot speak enough of this content;
It stops me here; it is too much of joy:
And this, and this, the greatest discords be
Kissing her
That e'er our hearts shall make!
IAGO
[Aside] O, you are well tuned now!
But I'll set down the pegs that make this music,
As honest as I am.
OTHELLO
Come, let us to the castle.
News, friends; our wars are done, the Turks
are drown'd.
How does my old acquaintance of this isle?
Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus;
I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet,
I prattle out of fashion, and I dote
In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago,
Go to the bay and disembark my coffers:
Bring thou the master to the citadel;
He is a good one, and his worthiness
Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,
Once more, well met at Cyprus.
Exeunt OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, and Attendants
IAGO
Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come
hither. If thou be'st valiant,-- as, they say, base
men being in love have then a nobility in their
natures more than is native to them--list me. The
lieutenant tonight watches on the court of
guard:--first, I must tell thee this--Desdemona is
directly in love with him.
RODERIGO
With him! why, 'tis not possible.
IAGO
Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed.
Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor,
but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies:
and will she love him still for prating? let not
thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed;
and what delight shall she have to look on the
devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of
sport, there should be, again to inflame it and to
give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour,
sympathy in years, manners and beauties; all which
the Moor is defective in: now, for want of these
required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will
find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge,
disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will
instruct her in it and compel her to some second
choice. Now, sir, this granted,--as it is a most
pregnant and unforced position--who stands so
eminent in the degree of this fortune as Cassio
does? a knave very voluble; no further
conscionable than in putting on the mere form of
civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing
of his salt and most hidden loose affection? why,
none; why, none: a slipper and subtle knave, a
finder of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and
counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never
present itself; a devilish knave. Besides, the
knave is handsome, young, and hath all those
requisites in him that folly and green minds look
after: a pestilent complete knave; and the woman
hath found him already.
RODERIGO
I cannot believe that in her; she's full of
most blessed condition.
IAGO
Blessed fig's-end! the wine she drinks is made of
grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never
have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou
not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? didst
not mark that?
RODERIGO
Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy.
IAGO
Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue
to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met
so near with their lips that their breaths embraced
together. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo! when these
mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes
the master and main exercise, the incorporate
conclusion, Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me: I
have brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night;
for the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio knows
you not. I'll not be far from you: do you find
some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking
too loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what
other course you please, which the time shall more
favourably minister.
RODERIGO
Well.
IAGO
Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply
may strike at you: provoke him, that he may; for
even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to
mutiny; whose qualification shall come into no true
taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So
shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by
the means I shall then have to prefer them; and the
impediment most profitably removed, without the
which there were no expectation of our prosperity.
RODERIGO
I will do this, if I can bring it to any
opportunity.
IAGO
I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel:
I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell.
RODERIGO
Adieu.
Exit
IAGO
That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it;
That she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit:
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,
And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona
A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;
Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure
I stand accountant for as great a sin,
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect the lusty Moor
Hath leap'd into my seat; the thought whereof
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can or shall content my soul
Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife,
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong
That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb--
For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too--
Make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me.
For making him egregiously an ass
And practising upon his peace and quiet
Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confused:
Knavery's plain face is never seen tin used.
Exit
SCENE II. A street.
Enter a Herald with a proclamation; People following
Herald
It is Othello's pleasure, our noble and valiant
general, that, upon certain tidings now arrived,
importing the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet,
every man put himself into triumph; some to dance,
some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and
revels his addiction leads him: for, besides these
beneficial news, it is the celebration of his
nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be
proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full
liberty of feasting from this present hour of five
till the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the
isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello!
Exeunt
SCENE III. A hall in the castle.
Enter OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, CASSIO, and Attendants
OTHELLO
Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night:
Let's teach ourselves that honourable stop,
Not to outsport discretion.
CASSIO
Iago hath direction what to do;
But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye
Will I look to't.
OTHELLO
Iago is most honest.
Michael, good night: to-morrow with your earliest
Let me have speech with you.
To DESDEMONA
Come, my dear love,
The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue;
That profit's yet to come 'tween me and you.
Good night.
Exeunt OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, and Attendants
Enter IAGO
CASSIO
Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch.
IAGO
Not this hour, lieutenant; 'tis not yet ten o' the
clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love
of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame:
he hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and
she is sport for Jove.
CASSIO
She's a most exquisite lady.
IAGO
And, I'll warrant her, fun of game.
CASSIO
Indeed, she's a most fresh and delicate creature.
IAGO
What an eye she has! methinks it sounds a parley of
provocation.
CASSIO
An inviting eye; and yet methinks right modest.
IAGO
And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love?
CASSIO
She is indeed perfection.
IAGO
Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I
have a stoup of wine; and here without are a brace
of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to
the health of black Othello.
CASSIO
Not to-night, good Iago: I have very poor and
unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish
courtesy would invent some other custom of
entertainment.
IAGO
O, they are our friends; but one cup: I'll drink for
you.
CASSIO
I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that was
craftily qualified too, and, behold, what innovation
it makes here: I am unfortunate in the infirmity,
and dare not task my weakness with any more.
IAGO
What, man! 'tis a night of revels: the gallants
desire it.
CASSIO
Where are they?
IAGO
Here at the door; I pray you, call them in.
CASSIO
I'll do't; but it dislikes me.
Exit
IAGO
If I can fasten but one cup upon him,
With that which he hath drunk to-night already,
He'll be as full of quarrel and offence
As my young mistress' dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo,
Whom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side out,
To Desdemona hath to-night caroused
Potations pottle-deep; and he's to watch:
Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits,
That hold their honours in a wary distance,
The very elements of this warlike isle,
Have I to-night fluster'd with flowing cups,
And they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of drunkards,
Am I to put our Cassio in some action
That may offend the isle.--But here they come:
If consequence do but approve my dream,
My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream.
Re-enter CASSIO; with him MONTANO and Gentlemen; servants following with wine
CASSIO
'Fore God, they have given me a rouse already.
MONTANO
Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am
a soldier.
IAGO
Some wine, ho!
Sings
And let me the canakin clink, clink;
And let me the canakin clink
A soldier's a man;
A life's but a span;
Why, then, let a soldier drink.
Some wine, boys!
CASSIO
'Fore God, an excellent song.
IAGO
I learned it in England, where, indeed, they are
most potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and
your swag-bellied Hollander--Drink, ho!--are nothing
to your English.
CASSIO
Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking?
IAGO
Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead
drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he
gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle
can be filled.
CASSIO
To the health of our general!
MONTANO
I am for it, lieutenant; and I'll do you justice.
IAGO
O sweet England!
King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear,
With that he call'd the tailor lown.
He was a wight of high renown,
And thou art but of low degree:
'Tis pride that pulls the country down;
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.
Some wine, ho!
CASSIO
Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other.
IAGO
Will you hear't again?
CASSIO
No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that
does those things. Well, God's above all; and there
be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
IAGO
It's true, good lieutenant.
CASSIO
For mine own part,--no offence to the general, nor
any man of quality,--I hope to be saved.
IAGO
And so do I too, lieutenant.
CASSIO
Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the
lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's
have no more of this; let's to our affairs.--Forgive
us our sins!--Gentlemen, let's look to our business.
Do not think, gentlemen. I am drunk: this is my
ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left:
I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and
speak well enough.
All
Excellent well.
CASSIO
Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk.
Exit
MONTANO
To the platform, masters; come, let's set the watch.
IAGO
You see this fellow that is gone before;
He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar
And give direction: and do but see his vice;
'Tis to his virtue a just equinox,
The one as long as the other: 'tis pity of him.
I fear the trust Othello puts him in.
On some odd time of his infirmity,
Will shake this island.
MONTANO
But is he often thus?
IAGO
'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep:
He'll watch the horologe a double set,
If drink rock not his cradle.
MONTANO
It were well
The general were put in mind of it.
Perhaps he sees it not; or his good nature
Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio,
And looks not on his evils: is not this true?
Enter RODERIGO
IAGO
[Aside to him] How now, Roderigo!
I pray you, after the lieutenant; go.
Exit RODERIGO
MONTANO
And 'tis great pity that the noble Moor
Should hazard such a place as his own second
With one of an ingraft infirmity:
It were an honest action to say
So to the Moor.
IAGO
Not I, for this fair island:
I do love Cassio well; and would do much
To cure him of this evil--But, hark! what noise?
Cry within: 'Help! help!'
Re-enter CASSIO, driving in RODERIGO
CASSIO
You rogue! you rascal!
MONTANO
What's the matter, lieutenant?
CASSIO
A knave teach me my duty!
I'll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle.
RODERIGO
Beat me!
CASSIO
Dost thou prate, rogue?
Striking RODERIGO
MONTANO
Nay, good lieutenant;
Staying him
I pray you, sir, hold your hand.
CASSIO
Let me go, sir,
Or I'll knock you o'er the mazzard.
MONTANO
Come, come,
you're drunk.
CASSIO
Drunk!
They fight
IAGO
[Aside to RODERIGO] Away, I say; go out, and cry a mutiny.
Exit RODERIGO
Nay, good lieutenant,--alas, gentlemen;--
Help, ho!--Lieutenant,--sir,--Montano,--sir;
Help, masters!--Here's a goodly watch indeed!
Bell rings
Who's that which rings the bell?--Diablo, ho!
The town will rise: God's will, lieutenant, hold!
You will be shamed for ever.
Re-enter OTHELLO and Attendants
OTHELLO
What is the matter here?
MONTANO
'Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the death.
Faints
OTHELLO
Hold, for your lives!
IAGO
Hold, ho! Lieutenant,--sir--Montano,--gentlemen,--
Have you forgot all sense of place and duty?
Hold! the general speaks to you; hold, hold, for shame!
OTHELLO
Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this?
Are we turn'd Turks, and to ourselves do that
Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?
For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl:
He that stirs next to carve for his own rage
Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.
Silence that dreadful bell: it frights the isle
From her propriety. What is the matter, masters?
Honest Iago, that look'st dead with grieving,
Speak, who began this? on thy love, I charge thee.
IAGO
I do not know: friends all but now, even now,
In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom
Devesting them for bed; and then, but now--
As if some planet had unwitted men--
Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast,
In opposition bloody. I cannot speak
Any beginning to this peevish odds;
And would in action glorious I had lost
Those legs that brought me to a part of it!
OTHELLO
How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot?
CASSIO
I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak.
OTHELLO
Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil;
The gravity and stillness of your youth
The world hath noted, and your name is great
In mouths of wisest censure: what's the matter,
That you unlace your reputation thus
And spend your rich opinion for the name
Of a night-brawler? give me answer to it.
MONTANO
Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger:
Your officer, Iago, can inform you,--
While I spare speech, which something now
offends me,--
Of all that I do know: nor know I aught
By me that's said or done amiss this night;
Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice,
And to defend ourselves it be a sin
When violence assails us.
OTHELLO
Now, by heaven,
My blood begins my safer guides to rule;
And passion, having my best judgment collied,
Assays to lead the way: if I once stir,
Or do but lift this arm, the best of you
Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know
How this foul rout began, who set it on;
And he that is approved in this offence,
Though he had twinn'd with me, both at a birth,
Shall lose me. What! in a town of war,
Yet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear,
To manage private and domestic quarrel,
In night, and on the court and guard of safety!
'Tis monstrous. Iago, who began't?
MONTANO
If partially affined, or leagued in office,
Thou dost deliver more or less than truth,
Thou art no soldier.
IAGO
Touch me not so near:
I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth
Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio;
Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth
Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general.
Montano and myself being in speech,
There comes a fellow crying out for help:
And Cassio following him with determined sword,
To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman
Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause:
Myself the crying fellow did pursue,
Lest by his clamour--as it so fell out--
The town might fall in fright: he, swift of foot,
Outran my purpose; and I return'd the rather
For that I heard the clink and fall of swords,
And Cassio high in oath; which till to-night
I ne'er might say before. When I came back--
For this was brief--I found them close together,
At blow and thrust; even as again they were
When you yourself did part them.
More of this matter cannot I report:
But men are men; the best sometimes forget:
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him,
As men in rage strike those that wish them best,
Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received
From him that fled some strange indignity,
Which patience could not pass.
OTHELLO
I know, Iago,
Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,
Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee
But never more be officer of mine.
Re-enter DESDEMONA, attended
Look, if my gentle love be not raised up!
I'll make thee an example.
DESDEMONA
What's the matter?
OTHELLO
All's well now, sweeting; come away to bed.
Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon:
Lead him off.
To MONTANO, who is led off
Iago, look with care about the town,
And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.
Come, Desdemona: 'tis the soldiers' life
To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.
Exeunt all but IAGO and CASSIO
IAGO
What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
CASSIO
Ay, past all surgery.
IAGO
Marry, heaven forbid!
CASSIO
Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost
my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of
myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation,
Iago, my reputation!
IAGO
As I am an honest man, I thought you had received
some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than
in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false
imposition: oft got without merit, and lost without
deserving: you have lost no reputation at all,
unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man!
there are ways to recover the general again: you
are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in
policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his
offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue
to him again, and he's yours.
CASSIO
I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so
good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so
indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot?
and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse
fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible
spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by,
let us call thee devil!
IAGO
What was he that you followed with your sword? What
had he done to you?
CASSIO
I know not.
IAGO
Is't possible?
CASSIO
I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;
a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men
should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away
their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance
revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
IAGO
Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus
recovered?
CASSIO
It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place
to the devil wrath; one unperfectness shows me
another, to make me frankly despise myself.
IAGO
Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time,
the place, and the condition of this country
stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen;
but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.
CASSIO
I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me
I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra,
such an answer would stop them all. To be now a
sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a
beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is
unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.
IAGO
Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature,
if it be well used: exclaim no more against it.
And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.
CASSIO
I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!
IAGO
You or any man living may be drunk! at a time, man.
I'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife
is now the general: may say so in this respect, for
that he hath devoted and given up himself to the
contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and
graces: confess yourself freely to her; importune
her help to put you in your place again: she is of
so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition,
she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more
than she is requested: this broken joint between
you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and, my
fortunes against any lay worth naming, this
crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.
CASSIO
You advise me well.
IAGO
I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.
CASSIO
I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will
beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me:
I am desperate of my fortunes if they cheque me here.
IAGO
You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I
must to the watch.
CASSIO: Good night, honest Iago.
Exit
IAGO
And what's he then that says I play the villain?
When this advice is free I give and honest,
Probal to thinking and indeed the course
To win the Moor again? For 'tis most easy
The inclining Desdemona to subdue
In any honest suit: she's framed as fruitful
As the free elements. And then for her
To win the Moor--were't to renounce his baptism,
All seals and symbols of redeemed sin,
His soul is so enfetter'd to her love,
That she may make, unmake, do what she list,
Even as her appetite shall play the god
With his weak function. How am I then a villain
To counsel Cassio to this parallel course,
Directly to his good? Divinity of hell!
When devils will the blackest sins put on,
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,
As I do now: for whiles this honest fool
Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes
And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor,
I'll pour this pestilence into his ear,
That she repeals him for her body's lust;
And by how much she strives to do him good,
She shall undo her credit with the Moor.
So will I turn her virtue into pitch,
And out of her own goodness make the net
That shall enmesh them all.
Re-enter RODERIGO
How now, Roderigo!
RODERIGO
I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that
hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is
almost spent; I have been to-night exceedingly well
cudgelled; and I think the issue will be, I shall
have so much experience for my pains, and so, with
no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice.
IAGO
How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Thou know'st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft;
And wit depends on dilatory time.
Does't not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee.
And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier'd Cassio:
Though other things grow fair against the sun,
Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe:
Content thyself awhile. By the mass, 'tis morning;
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
Retire thee; go where thou art billeted:
Away, I say; thou shalt know more hereafter:
Nay, get thee gone.
Exit RODERIGO
Two things are to be done:
My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress;
I'll set her on;
Myself the while to draw the Moor apart,
And bring him jump when he may Cassio find
Soliciting his wife: ay, that's the way
Dull not device by coldness and delay.
Exit
ACT III
SCENE I. Before the castle.
Enter CASSIO and some Musicians
CASSIO
Masters, play here; I will content your pains;
Something that's brief; and bid 'Good morrow, general.'
Music
Enter Clown
Clown
Why masters, have your instruments been in Naples,
that they speak i' the nose thus?
First Musician
How, sir, how!
Clown
Are these, I pray you, wind-instruments?
First Musician
Ay, marry, are they, sir.
Clown
O, thereby hangs a tail.
First Musician
Whereby hangs a tale, sir?
Clown
Marry. sir, by many a wind-instrument that I know.
But, masters, here's money for you: and the general
so likes your music, that he desires you, for love's
sake, to make no more noise with it.
First Musician
Well, sir, we will not.
Clown
If you have any music that may not be heard, to't
again: but, as they say to hear music the general
does not greatly care.
First Musician
We have none such, sir.
Clown
Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I'll away:
go; vanish into air; away!
Exeunt Musicians
CASSIO
Dost thou hear, my honest friend?
Clown
No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear you.
CASSIO
Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There's a poor piece
of gold for thee: if the gentlewoman that attends
the general's wife be stirring, tell her there's
one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech:
wilt thou do this?
Clown
She is stirring, sir: if she will stir hither, I
shall seem to notify unto her.
CASSIO
Do, good my friend.
Exit Clown
Enter IAGO
In happy time, Iago.
IAGO
You have not been a-bed, then?
CASSIO
Why, no; the day had broke
Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago,
To send in to your wife: my suit to her
Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona
Procure me some access.
IAGO
I'll send her to you presently;
And I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor
Out of the way, that your converse and business
May be more free.
CASSIO
I humbly thank you for't.
Exit IAGO
I never knew
A Florentine more kind and honest.
Enter EMILIA
EMILIA
Good morrow, good Lieutenant: I am sorry
For your displeasure; but all will sure be well.
The general and his wife are talking of it;
And she speaks for you stoutly: the Moor replies,
That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus,
And great affinity, and that in wholesome wisdom
He might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves you
And needs no other suitor but his likings
To take the safest occasion by the front
To bring you in again.
CASSIO
Yet, I beseech you,
If you think fit, or that it may be done,
Give me advantage of some brief discourse
With Desdemona alone.
EMILIA
Pray you, come in;
I will bestow you where you shall have time
To speak your bosom freely.
CASSIO
I am much bound to you.
Exeunt
SCENE II. A room in the castle.
Enter OTHELLO, IAGO, and Gentlemen
OTHELLO
These letters give, Iago, to the pilot;
And by him do my duties to the senate:
That done, I will be walking on the works;
Repair there to me.
IAGO
Well, my good lord, I'll do't.
OTHELLO
This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see't?
Gentleman
We'll wait upon your lordship.
Exeunt
SCENE III. The garden of the castle.
Enter DESDEMONA, CASSIO, and EMILIA
DESDEMONA
Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do
All my abilities in thy behalf.
EMILIA
Good madam, do: I warrant it grieves my husband,
As if the case were his.
DESDEMONA
O, that's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio,
But I will have my lord and you again
As friendly as you were.
CASSIO
Bounteous madam,
Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio,
He's never any thing but your true servant.
DESDEMONA
I know't; I thank you. You do love my lord:
You have known him long; and be you well assured
He shall in strangeness stand no further off
Than in a polite distance.
CASSIO
Ay, but, lady,
That policy may either last so long,
Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet,
Or breed itself so out of circumstance,
That, I being absent and my place supplied,
My general will forget my love and service.
DESDEMONA
Do not doubt that; before Emilia here
I give thee warrant of thy place: assure thee,
If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it
To the last article: my lord shall never rest;
I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience;
His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift;
I'll intermingle every thing he does
With Cassio's suit: therefore be merry, Cassio;
For thy solicitor shall rather die
Than give thy cause away.
EMILIA
Madam, here comes my lord.
CASSIO
Madam, I'll take my leave.
DESDEMONA
Why, stay, and hear me speak.
CASSIO
Madam, not now: I am very ill at ease,
Unfit for mine own purposes.
DESDEMONA
Well, do your discretion.
Exit CASSIO
Enter OTHELLO and IAGO
IAGO
Ha! I like not that.
OTHELLO
What dost thou say?
IAGO
Nothing, my lord: or if--I know not what.
OTHELLO
Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?
IAGO
Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it,
That he would steal away so guilty-like,
Seeing you coming.
OTHELLO
I do believe 'twas he.
DESDEMONA
How now, my lord!
I have been talking with a suitor here,
A man that languishes in your displeasure.
OTHELLO
Who is't you mean?
DESDEMONA
Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord,
If I have any grace or power to move you,
His present reconciliation take;
For if he be not one that truly loves you,
That errs in ignorance and not in cunning,
I have no judgment in an honest face:
I prithee, call him back.
OTHELLO
Went he hence now?
DESDEMONA
Ay, sooth; so humbled
That he hath left part of his grief with me,
To suffer with him. Good love, call him back.
OTHELLO
Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.
DESDEMONA
But shall't be shortly?
OTHELLO
The sooner, sweet, for you.
DESDEMONA
Shall't be to-night at supper?
OTHELLO
No, not to-night.
DESDEMONA
To-morrow dinner, then?
OTHELLO
I shall not dine at home;
I meet the captains at the citadel.
DESDEMONA
Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn;
On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn:
I prithee, name the time, but let it not
Exceed three days: in faith, he's penitent;
And yet his trespass, in our common reason--
Save that, they say, the wars must make examples
Out of their best--is not almost a fault
To incur a private cheque. When shall he come?
Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul,
What you would ask me, that I should deny,
Or stand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio,
That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time,
When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,
Hath ta'en your part; to have so much to do
To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much,--
OTHELLO
Prithee, no more: let him come when he will;
I will deny thee nothing.
DESDEMONA
Why, this is not a boon;
'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves,
Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm,
Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit
To your own person: nay, when I have a suit
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,
It shall be full of poise and difficult weight
And fearful to be granted.
OTHELLO
I will deny thee nothing:
Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this,
To leave me but a little to myself.
DESDEMONA
Shall I deny you? no: farewell, my lord.
OTHELLO
Farewell, my Desdemona: I'll come to thee straight.
DESDEMONA
Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you;
Whate'er you be, I am obedient.
Exeunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA
OTHELLO
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.
IAGO
My noble lord--
OTHELLO
What dost thou say, Iago?
IAGO
Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady,
Know of your love?
OTHELLO
He did, from first to last: why dost thou ask?
IAGO
But for a satisfaction of my thought;
No further harm.
OTHELLO
Why of thy thought, Iago?
IAGO
I did not think he had been acquainted with her.
OTHELLO
O, yes; and went between us very oft.
IAGO
Indeed!
OTHELLO
Indeed! ay, indeed: discern'st thou aught in that?
Is he not honest?
IAGO
Honest, my lord!
OTHELLO
Honest! ay, honest.
IAGO
My lord, for aught I know.
OTHELLO
What dost thou think?
IAGO
Think, my lord!
OTHELLO
Think, my lord!
By heaven, he echoes me,
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something:
I heard thee say even now, thou likedst not that,
When Cassio left my wife: what didst not like?
And when I told thee he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst 'Indeed!'
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit: if thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.
IAGO
My lord, you know I love you.
OTHELLO
I think thou dost;
And, for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty,
And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath,
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:
For such things in a false disloyal knave
Are tricks of custom, but in a man that's just
They are close delations, working from the heart
That passion cannot rule.
IAGO
For Michael Cassio,
I dare be sworn I think that he is honest.
OTHELLO
I think so too.
IAGO
Men should be what they seem;
Or those that be not, would they might seem none!
OTHELLO
Certain, men should be what they seem.
IAGO
Why, then, I think Cassio's an honest man.
OTHELLO
Nay, yet there's more in this:
I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,
As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts
The worst of words.
IAGO
Good my lord, pardon me:
Though I am bound to every act of duty,
I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.
Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false;
As where's that palace whereinto foul things
Sometimes intrude not? who has a breast so pure,
But some uncleanly apprehensions
Keep leets and law-days and in session sit
With meditations lawful?
OTHELLO
Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,
If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.
IAGO
I do beseech you--
Though I perchance am vicious in my guess,
As, I confess, it is my nature's plague
To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy
Shapes faults that are not--that your wisdom yet,
From one that so imperfectly conceits,
Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble
Out of his scattering and unsure observance.
It were not for your quiet nor your good,
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom,
To let you know my thoughts.
OTHELLO
What dost thou mean?
IAGO
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.
OTHELLO
By heaven, I'll know thy thoughts.
IAGO
You cannot, if my heart were in your hand;
Nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody.
OTHELLO
Ha!
IAGO
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!
OTHELLO
O misery!
IAGO
Poor and content is rich and rich enough,
But riches fineless is as poor as winter
To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend
From jealousy!
OTHELLO
Why, why is this?
Think'st thou I'ld make a lie of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt
Is once to be resolved: exchange me for a goat,
When I shall turn the business of my soul
To such exsufflicate and blown surmises,
Matching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous
To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays and dances well;
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous:
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt;
For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago;
I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;
And on the proof, there is no more but this,--
Away at once with love or jealousy!
IAGO
I am glad of it; for now I shall have reason
To show the love and duty that I bear you
With franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound,
Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof.
Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio;
Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure:
I would not have your free and noble nature,
Out of self-bounty, be abused; look to't:
I know our country disposition well;
In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks
They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience
Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown.
OTHELLO
Dost thou say so?
IAGO
She did deceive her father, marrying you;
And when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks,
She loved them most.
OTHELLO
And so she did.
IAGO
Why, go to then;
She that, so young, could give out such a seeming,
To seal her father's eyes up close as oak-
He thought 'twas witchcraft--but I am much to blame;
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon
For too much loving you.
OTHELLO
I am bound to thee for ever.
IAGO
I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits.
OTHELLO
Not a jot, not a jot.
IAGO
I' faith, I fear it has.
I hope you will consider what is spoke
Comes from my love. But I do see you're moved:
I am to pray you not to strain my speech
To grosser issues nor to larger reach
Than to suspicion.
OTHELLO
I will not.
IAGO
Should you do so, my lord,
My speech should fall into such vile success
As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend--
My lord, I see you're moved.
OTHELLO
No, not much moved:
I do not think but Desdemona's honest.
IAGO
Long live she so! and long live you to think so!
OTHELLO
And yet, how nature erring from itself,--
IAGO
Ay, there's the point: as--to be bold with you--
Not to affect many proposed matches
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree,
Whereto we see in all things nature tends--
Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank,
Foul disproportion thoughts unnatural.
But pardon me; I do not in position
Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear
Her will, recoiling to her better judgment,
May fall to match you with her country forms
And happily repent.
OTHELLO
Farewell, farewell:
If more thou dost perceive, let me know more;
Set on thy wife to observe: leave me, Iago:
IAGO
[Going] My lord, I take my leave.
OTHELLO
Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.
IAGO
[Returning] My lord, I would I might entreat
your honour
To scan this thing no further; leave it to time:
Though it be fit that Cassio have his place,
For sure, he fills it up with great ability,
Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile,
You shall by that perceive him and his means:
Note, if your lady strain his entertainment
With any strong or vehement importunity;
Much will be seen in that. In the mean time,
Let me be thought too busy in my fears--
As worthy cause I have to fear I am--
And hold her free, I do beseech your honour.
OTHELLO
Fear not my government.
IAGO
I once more take my leave.
Exit
OTHELLO
This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,
Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard,
Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,
I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind,
To pray at fortune. Haply, for I am black
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have, or for I am declined
Into the vale of years,--yet that's not much--
She's gone. I am abused; and my relief
Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage,
That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love
For others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones;
Prerogatived are they less than the base;
'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death:
Even then this forked plague is fated to us
When we do quicken. Desdemona comes:
Re-enter DESDEMONA and EMILIA
If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself!
I'll not believe't.
DESDEMONA
How now, my dear Othello!
Your dinner, and the generous islanders
By you invited, do attend your presence.
OTHELLO
I am to blame.
DESDEMONA
Why do you speak so faintly?
Are you not well?
OTHELLO
I have a pain upon my forehead here.
DESDEMONA
'Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again:
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well.
OTHELLO
Your napkin is too little:
He puts the handkerchief from him; and it drops
Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with you.
DESDEMONA
I am very sorry that you are not well.
Exeunt OTHELLO and DESDEMONA
EMILIA
I am glad I have found this napkin:
This was her first remembrance from the Moor:
My wayward husband hath a hundred times
Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token,
For he conjured her she should ever keep it,
That she reserves it evermore about her
To kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out,
And give't Iago: what he will do with it
Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing but to please his fantasy.
Re-enter Iago
IAGO
How now! what do you here alone?
EMILIA
Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.
IAGO
A thing for me? it is a common thing--
EMILIA
Ha!
IAGO
To have a foolish wife.
EMILIA
O, is that all? What will you give me now
For the same handkerchief?
IAGO
What handkerchief?
EMILIA
What handkerchief?
Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;
That which so often you did bid me steal.
IAGO
Hast stol'n it from her?
EMILIA
No, 'faith; she let it drop by negligence.
And, to the advantage, I, being here, took't up.
Look, here it is.
IAGO
A good wench; give it me.
EMILIA
What will you do with 't, that you have been
so earnest
To have me filch it?
IAGO
[Snatching it] Why, what's that to you?
EMILIA
If it be not for some purpose of import,
Give't me again: poor lady, she'll run mad
When she shall lack it.
IAGO
Be not acknown on 't; I have use for it.
Go, leave me.
Exit EMILIA
I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin,
And let him find it. Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ: this may do something.
The Moor already changes with my poison:
Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons.
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,
But with a little act upon the blood.
Burn like the mines of Sulphur. I did say so:
Look, where he comes!
Re-enter OTHELLO
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owedst yesterday.
OTHELLO
Ha! ha! false to me?
IAGO
Why, how now, general! no more of that.
OTHELLO
Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack:
I swear 'tis better to be much abused
Than but to know't a little.
IAGO
How now, my lord!
OTHELLO
What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust?
I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me:
I slept the next night well, was free and merry;
I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips:
He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,
Let him not know't, and he's not robb'd at all.
IAGO
I am sorry to hear this.
OTHELLO
I had been happy, if the general camp,
Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body,
So I had nothing known. O, now, for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dead clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
IAGO
Is't possible, my lord?
OTHELLO
Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore,
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof:
Or by the worth of man's eternal soul,
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog
Than answer my waked wrath!
IAGO
Is't come to this?
OTHELLO
Make me to see't; or, at the least, so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life!
IAGO
My noble lord,--
OTHELLO
If thou dost slander her and torture me,
Never pray more; abandon all remorse;
On horror's head horrors accumulate;
Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed;
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
IAGO
O grace! O heaven forgive me!
Are you a man? have you a soul or sense?
God be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool.
That livest to make thine honesty a vice!
O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world,
To be direct and honest is not safe.
I thank you for this profit; and from hence
I'll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence.
OTHELLO
Nay, stay: thou shouldst be honest.
IAGO
I should be wise, for honesty's a fool
And loses that it works for.
OTHELLO
By the world,
I think my wife be honest and think she is not;
I think that thou art just and think thou art not.
I'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh
As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black
As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives,
Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams,
I'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied!
IAGO
I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion:
I do repent me that I put it to you.
You would be satisfied?
OTHELLO
Would! nay, I will.
IAGO
And may: but, how? how satisfied, my lord?
Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on--
Behold her topp'd?
OTHELLO
Death and damnation! O!
IAGO
It were a tedious difficulty, I think,
To bring them to that prospect: damn them then,
If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster
More than their own! What then? how then?
What shall I say? Where's satisfaction?
It is impossible you should see this,
Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,
As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross
As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,
If imputation and strong circumstances,
Which lead directly to the door of truth,
Will give you satisfaction, you may have't.
OTHELLO
Give me a living reason she's disloyal.
IAGO
I do not like the office:
But, sith I am enter'd in this cause so far,
Prick'd to't by foolish honesty and love,
I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately;
And, being troubled with a raging tooth,
I could not sleep.
There are a kind of men so loose of soul,
That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs:
One of this kind is Cassio:
In sleep I heard him say 'Sweet Desdemona,
Let us be wary, let us hide our loves;'
And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand,
Cry 'O sweet creature!' and then kiss me hard,
As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots
That grew upon my lips: then laid his leg
Over my thigh, and sigh'd, and kiss'd; and then
Cried 'Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!'
OTHELLO
O monstrous! monstrous!
IAGO
Nay, this was but his dream.
OTHELLO
But this denoted a foregone conclusion:
'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream.
IAGO
And this may help to thicken other proofs
That do demonstrate thinly.
OTHELLO
I'll tear her all to pieces.
IAGO
Nay, but be wise: yet we see nothing done;
She may be honest yet. Tell me but this,
Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief
Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand?
OTHELLO
I gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift.
IAGO
I know not that; but such a handkerchief--
I am sure it was your wife's--did I to-day
See Cassio wipe his beard with.
OTHELLO
If it be that--
IAGO
If it be that, or any that was hers,
It speaks against her with the other proofs.
OTHELLO
O, that the slave had forty thousand lives!
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.
Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago;
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.
'Tis gone.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For 'tis of aspics' tongues!
IAGO
Yet be content.
OTHELLO
O, blood, blood, blood!
IAGO
Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change.
OTHELLO
Never, Iago: Like to the Pontic sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont,
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven,
Kneels
In the due reverence of a sacred vow
I here engage my words.
IAGO
Do not rise yet.
Kneels
Witness, you ever-burning lights above,
You elements that clip us round about,
Witness that here Iago doth give up
The execution of his wit, hands, heart,
To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody business ever.
They rise
OTHELLO
I greet thy love,
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,
And will upon the instant put thee to't:
Within these three days let me hear thee say
That Cassio's not alive.
IAGO
My friend is dead; 'tis done at your request:
But let her live.
OTHELLO
Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!
Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw,
To furnish me with some swift means of death
For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.
IAGO
I am your own for ever.
Exeunt
SCENE IV. Before the castle.
Enter DESDEMONA, EMILIA, and Clown
DESDEMONA
Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies?
Clown
I dare not say he lies any where.
DESDEMONA
Why, man?
Clown
He's a soldier, and for one to say a soldier lies,
is stabbing.
DESDEMONA
Go to: where lodges he?
Clown
To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where I lie.
DESDEMONA
Can any thing be made of this?
Clown
I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a
lodging and say he lies here or he lies there, were
to lie in mine own throat.
DESDEMONA
Can you inquire him out, and be edified by report?
Clown
I will catechise the world for him; that is, make
questions, and by them answer.
DESDEMONA
Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him I have
moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well.
Clown
To do this is within the compass of man's wit: and
therefore I will attempt the doing it.
Exit
DESDEMONA
Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia?
EMILIA
I know not, madam.
DESDEMONA
Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse
Full of crusadoes: and, but my noble Moor
Is true of mind and made of no such baseness
As jealous creatures are, it were enough
To put him to ill thinking.
EMILIA
Is he not jealous?
DESDEMONA
Who, he? I think the sun where he was born
Drew all such humours from him.
EMILIA
Look, where he comes.
DESDEMONA
I will not leave him now till Cassio
Be call'd to him.
Enter OTHELLO
How is't with you, my lord
OTHELLO
Well, my good lady.
Aside
O, hardness to dissemble!--
How do you, Desdemona?
DESDEMONA
Well, my good lord.
OTHELLO
Give me your hand: this hand is moist, my lady.
DESDEMONA
It yet hath felt no age nor known no sorrow.
OTHELLO
This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart:
Hot, hot, and moist: this hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,
Much castigation, exercise devout;
For here's a young and sweating devil here,
That commonly rebels. 'Tis a good hand,
A frank one.
DESDEMONA
You may, indeed, say so;
For 'twas that hand that gave away my heart.
OTHELLO
A liberal hand: the hearts of old gave hands;
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.
DESDEMONA
I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise.
OTHELLO
What promise, chuck?
DESDEMONA
I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.
OTHELLO
I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me;
Lend me thy handkerchief.
DESDEMONA
Here, my lord.
OTHELLO
That which I gave you.
DESDEMONA
I have it not about me.
OTHELLO
Not?
DESDEMONA
No, indeed, my lord.
OTHELLO
That is a fault.
That handkerchief
Did an Egyptian to my mother give;
She was a charmer, and could almost read
The thoughts of people: she told her, while
she kept it,
'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father
Entirely to her love, but if she lost it
Or made gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt
After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me;
And bid me, when my fate would have me wive,
To give it her. I did so: and take heed on't;
Make it a darling like your precious eye;
To lose't or give't away were such perdition
As nothing else could match.
DESDEMONA
Is't possible?
OTHELLO
'Tis true: there's magic in the web of it:
A sibyl, that had number'd in the world
The sun to course two hundred compasses,
In her prophetic fury sew'd the work;
The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk;
And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful
Conserved of maidens' hearts.
DESDEMONA
Indeed! is't true?
OTHELLO
Most veritable; therefore look to't well.
DESDEMONA
Then would to God that I had never seen't!
OTHELLO
Ha! wherefore?
DESDEMONA
Why do you speak so startingly and rash?
OTHELLO
Is't lost? is't gone? speak, is it out
o' the way?
DESDEMONA
Heaven bless us!
OTHELLO
Say you?
DESDEMONA
It is not lost; but what an if it were?
OTHELLO
How!
DESDEMONA
I say, it is not lost.
OTHELLO
Fetch't, let me see't.
DESDEMONA
Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now.
This is a trick to put me from my suit:
Pray you, let Cassio be received again.
OTHELLO
Fetch me the handkerchief: my mind misgives.
DESDEMONA
Come, come;
You'll never meet a more sufficient man.
OTHELLO
The handkerchief!
DESDEMONA
I pray, talk me of Cassio.
OTHELLO
The handkerchief!
DESDEMONA
A man that all his time
Hath founded his good fortunes on your love,
Shared dangers with you,--
OTHELLO
The handkerchief!
DESDEMONA
In sooth, you are to blame.
OTHELLO
Away!
Exit
EMILIA
Is not this man jealous?
DESDEMONA
I ne'er saw this before.
Sure, there's some wonder in this handkerchief:
I am most unhappy in the loss of it.
EMILIA
'Tis not a year or two shows us a man:
They are all but stomachs, and we all but food;
To eat us hungerly, and when they are full,
They belch us. Look you, Cassio and my husband!
Enter CASSIO and IAGO
IAGO
There is no other way; 'tis she must do't:
And, lo, the happiness! go, and importune her.
DESDEMONA
How now, good Cassio! what's the news with you?
CASSIO
Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you
That by your virtuous means I may again
Exist, and be a member of his love
Whom I with all the office of my heart
Entirely honour: I would not be delay'd.
If my offence be of such mortal kind
That nor my service past, nor present sorrows,
Nor purposed merit in futurity,
Can ransom me into his love again,
But to know so must be my benefit;
So shall I clothe me in a forced content,
And shut myself up in some other course,
To fortune's alms.
DESDEMONA
Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio!
My advocation is not now in tune;
My lord is not my lord; nor should I know him,
Were he in favour as in humour alter'd.
So help me every spirit sanctified,
As I have spoken for you all my best
And stood within the blank of his displeasure
For my free speech! you must awhile be patient:
What I can do I will; and more I will
Than for myself I dare: let that suffice you.
IAGO
Is my lord angry?
EMILIA
He went hence but now,
And certainly in strange unquietness.
IAGO
Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon,
When it hath blown his ranks into the air,
And, like the devil, from his very arm
Puff'd his own brother:--and can he be angry?
Something of moment then: I will go meet him:
There's matter in't indeed, if he be angry.
DESDEMONA
I prithee, do so.
Exit IAGO
Something, sure, of state,
Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practise
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,
Hath puddled his clear spirit: and in such cases
Men's natures wrangle with inferior things,
Though great ones are their object. 'Tis even so;
For let our finger ache, and it indues
Our other healthful members even to that sense
Of pain: nay, we must think men are not gods,
Nor of them look for such observances
As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia,
I was, unhandsome warrior as I am,
Arraigning his unkindness with my soul;
But now I find I had suborn'd the witness,
And he's indicted falsely.
EMILIA
Pray heaven it be state-matters, as you think,
And no conception nor no jealous toy
Concerning you.
DESDEMONA
Alas the day! I never gave him cause.
EMILIA
But jealous souls will not be answer'd so;
They are not ever jealous for the cause,
But jealous for they are jealous: 'tis a monster
Begot upon itself, born on itself.
DESDEMONA
Heaven keep that monster from Othello's mind!
EMILIA
Lady, amen.
DESDEMONA
I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout:
If I do find him fit, I'll move your suit
And seek to effect it to my uttermost.
CASSIO
I humbly thank your ladyship.
Exeunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA
Enter BIANCA
BIANCA
Save you, friend Cassio!
CASSIO
What make you from home?
How is it with you, my most fair Bianca?
I' faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house.
BIANCA
And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.
What, keep a week away? seven days and nights?
Eight score eight hours? and lovers' absent hours,
More tedious than the dial eight score times?
O weary reckoning!
CASSIO
Pardon me, Bianca:
I have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd:
But I shall, in a more continuate time,
Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca,
Giving her DESDEMONA's handkerchief
Take me this work out.
BIANCA
O Cassio, whence came this?
This is some token from a newer friend:
To the felt absence now I feel a cause:
Is't come to this? Well, well.
CASSIO
Go to, woman!
Throw your vile guesses in the devil's teeth,
From whence you have them. You are jealous now
That this is from some mistress, some remembrance:
No, in good troth, Bianca.
BIANCA
Why, whose is it?
CASSIO
I know not, sweet: I found it in my chamber.
I like the work well: ere it be demanded--
As like enough it will--I'ld have it copied:
Take it, and do't; and leave me for this time.
BIANCA
Leave you! wherefore?
CASSIO
I do attend here on the general;
And think it no addition, nor my wish,
To have him see me woman'd.
BIANCA
Why, I pray you?
CASSIO
Not that I love you not.
BIANCA
But that you do not love me.
I pray you, bring me on the way a little,
And say if I shall see you soon at night.
CASSIO
'Tis but a little way that I can bring you;
For I attend here: but I'll see you soon.
BIANCA
'Tis very good; I must be circumstanced.
Exeunt
ACT IV
SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the castle.
Enter OTHELLO and IAGO
IAGO
Will you think so?
OTHELLO
Think so, Iago!
IAGO
What,
To kiss in private?
OTHELLO
An unauthorized kiss.
IAGO
Or to be naked with her friend in bed
An hour or more, not meaning any harm?
OTHELLO
Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!
It is hypocrisy against the devil:
They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,
The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.
IAGO
So they do nothing, 'tis a venial slip:
But if I give my wife a handkerchief,--
OTHELLO
What then?
IAGO
Why, then, 'tis hers, my lord; and, being hers,
She may, I think, bestow't on any man.
OTHELLO
She is protectress of her honour too:
May she give that?
IAGO
Her honour is an essence that's not seen;
They have it very oft that have it not:
But, for the handkerchief,--
OTHELLO
By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.
Thou said'st, it comes o'er my memory,
As doth the raven o'er the infected house,
Boding to all--he had my handkerchief.
IAGO
Ay, what of that?
OTHELLO
That's not so good now.
IAGO
What,
If I had said I had seen him do you wrong?
Or heard him say,--as knaves be such abroad,
Who having, by their own importunate suit,
Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,
Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose
But they must blab--
OTHELLO
Hath he said any thing?
IAGO
He hath, my lord; but be you well assured,
No more than he'll unswear.
OTHELLO
What hath he said?
IAGO
'Faith, that he did--I know not what he did.
OTHELLO
What? what?
IAGO
Lie--
OTHELLO
With her?
IAGO
With her, on her; what you will.
OTHELLO
Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when
they belie her. Lie with her! that's fulsome.
--Handkerchief--confessions--handkerchief!--To
confess, and be hanged for his labour;--first, to be
hanged, and then to confess.--I tremble at it.
Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing
passion without some instruction. It is not words
that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips.
--Is't possible?--Confess--handkerchief!--O devil!--
Falls in a trance
IAGO
Work on,
My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;
And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,
All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord!
My lord, I say! Othello!
Enter CASSIO
How now, Cassio!
CASSIO
What's the matter?
IAGO
My lord is fall'n into an epilepsy:
This is his second fit; he had one yesterday.
CASSIO
Rub him about the temples.
IAGO
No, forbear;
The lethargy must have his quiet course:
If not, he foams at mouth and by and by
Breaks out to savage madness. Look he stirs:
Do you withdraw yourself a little while,
He will recover straight: when he is gone,
I would on great occasion speak with you.
Exit CASSIO
How is it, general? have you not hurt your head?
OTHELLO
Dost thou mock me?
IAGO
I mock you! no, by heaven.
Would you would bear your fortune like a man!
OTHELLO
A horned man's a monster and a beast.
IAGO
There's many a beast then in a populous city,
And many a civil monster.
OTHELLO
Did he confess it?
IAGO
Good sir, be a man;
Think every bearded fellow that's but yoked
May draw with you: there's millions now alive
That nightly lie in those unproper beds
Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is better.
O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock,
To lip a wanton in a secure couch,
And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know;
And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.
OTHELLO
O, thou art wise; 'tis certain.
IAGO
Stand you awhile apart;
Confine yourself but in a patient list.
Whilst you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief--
A passion most unsuiting such a man--
Cassio came hither: I shifted him away,
And laid good 'scuse upon your ecstasy,
Bade him anon return and here speak with me;
The which he promised. Do but encave yourself,
And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,
That dwell in every region of his face;
For I will make him tell the tale anew,
Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when
He hath, and is again to cope your wife:
I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience;
Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen,
And nothing of a man.
OTHELLO
Dost thou hear, Iago?
I will be found most cunning in my patience;
But--dost thou hear?--most bloody.
IAGO
That's not amiss;
But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?
OTHELLO retires
Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,
A housewife that by selling her desires
Buys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature
That dotes on Cassio; as 'tis the strumpet's plague
To beguile many and be beguiled by one:
He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain
From the excess of laughter. Here he comes:
Re-enter CASSIO
As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad;
And his unbookish jealousy must construe
Poor Cassio's smiles, gestures and light behavior,
Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant?
CASSIO
The worser that you give me the addition
Whose want even kills me.
IAGO
Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on't.
Speaking lower
Now, if this suit lay in Bianco's power,
How quickly should you speed!
CASSIO
Alas, poor caitiff!
OTHELLO
Look, how he laughs already!
IAGO
I never knew woman love man so.
CASSIO
Alas, poor rogue! I think, i' faith, she loves me.
OTHELLO
Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it out.
IAGO
Do you hear, Cassio?
OTHELLO
Now he importunes him
To tell it o'er: go to; well said, well said.
IAGO
She gives it out that you shall marry hey:
Do you intend it?
CASSIO
Ha, ha, ha!
OTHELLO
Do you triumph, Roman? do you triumph?
CASSIO
I marry her! what? a customer! Prithee, bear some
charity to my wit: do not think it so unwholesome.
Ha, ha, ha!
OTHELLO
So, so, so, so: they laugh that win.
IAGO
'Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her.
CASSIO
Prithee, say true.
IAGO
I am a very villain else.
OTHELLO
Have you scored me? Well.
CASSIO
This is the monkey's own giving out: she is
persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and
flattery, not out of my promise.
OTHELLO
Iago beckons me; now he begins the story.
CASSIO
She was here even now; she haunts me in every place.
I was the other day talking on the sea-bank with
certain Venetians; and thither comes the bauble,
and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck--
OTHELLO
Crying 'O dear Cassio!' as it were: his gesture
imports it.
CASSIO
So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so hales,
and pulls me: ha, ha, ha!
OTHELLO
Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O,
I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall
throw it to.
CASSIO
Well, I must leave her company.
IAGO
Before me! look, where she comes.
CASSIO
'Tis such another fitchew! marry a perfumed one.
Enter BIANCA
What do you mean by this haunting of me?
BIANCA
Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you
mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now?
I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the
work?--A likely piece of work, that you should find
it in your chamber, and not know who left it there!
This is some minx's token, and I must take out the
work? There; give it your hobby-horse: wheresoever
you had it, I'll take out no work on't.
CASSIO
How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! how now!
OTHELLO
By heaven, that should be my handkerchief!
BIANCA
An you'll come to supper to-night, you may; an you
will not, come when you are next prepared for.
Exit
IAGO
After her, after her.
CASSIO
'Faith, I must; she'll rail in the street else.
IAGO
Will you sup there?
CASSIO
'Faith, I intend so.
IAGO
Well, I may chance to see you; for I would very fain
speak with you.
CASSIO
Prithee, come; will you?
IAGO
Go to; say no more.
Exit CASSIO
OTHELLO
[Advancing] How shall I murder him, Iago?
IAGO
Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice?
OTHELLO
O Iago!
IAGO
And did you see the handkerchief?
OTHELLO
Was that mine?
IAGO
Yours by this hand: and to see how he prizes the
foolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and he
hath given it his whore.
OTHELLO
I would have him nine years a-killing.
A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman!
IAGO
Nay, you must forget that.
OTHELLO
Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night;
for she shall not live: no, my heart is turned to
stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the
world hath not a sweeter creature: she might lie by
an emperor's side and command him tasks.
IAGO
Nay, that's not your way.
OTHELLO
Hang her! I do but say what she is: so delicate
with her needle: an admirable musician: O! she
will sing the savageness out of a bear: of so high
and plenteous wit and invention:--
IAGO
She's the worse for all this.
OTHELLO
O, a thousand thousand times: and then, of so
gentle a condition!
IAGO
Ay, too gentle.
OTHELLO
Nay, that's certain: but yet the pity of it, Iago!
O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!
IAGO
If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her
patent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes
near nobody.
OTHELLO
I will chop her into messes: cuckold me!
IAGO
O, 'tis foul in her.
OTHELLO
With mine officer!
IAGO
That's fouler.
OTHELLO
Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I'll not
expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty
unprovide my mind again: this night, Iago.
IAGO
Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even
the bed she hath contaminated.
OTHELLO
Good, good: the justice of it pleases: very good.
IAGO
And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker: you
shall hear more by midnight.
OTHELLO
Excellent good.
A trumpet within
What trumpet is that same?
IAGO
Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis Lodovico
Come from the duke: and, see, your wife is with him.
Enter LODOVICO, DESDEMONA, and Attendants
LODOVICO
Save you, worthy general!
OTHELLO
With all my heart, sir.
LODOVICO
The duke and senators of Venice greet you.
Gives him a letter
OTHELLO
I kiss the instrument of their pleasures.
Opens the letter, and reads
DESDEMONA
And what's the news, good cousin Lodovico?
IAGO
I am very glad to see you, signior
Welcome to Cyprus.
LODOVICO
I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio?
IAGO
Lives, sir.
DESDEMONA
Cousin, there's fall'n between him and my lord
An unkind breach: but you shall make all well.
OTHELLO
Are you sure of that?
DESDEMONA
My lord?
OTHELLO
[Reads] 'This fail you not to do, as you will--'
LODOVICO
He did not call; he's busy in the paper.
Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio?
DESDEMONA
A most unhappy one: I would do much
To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.
OTHELLO
Fire and brimstone!
DESDEMONA
My lord?
OTHELLO
Are you wise?
DESDEMONA
What, is he angry?
LODOVICO
May be the letter moved him;
For, as I think, they do command him home,
Deputing Cassio in his government.
DESDEMONA
Trust me, I am glad on't.
OTHELLO
Indeed!
DESDEMONA
My lord?
OTHELLO
I am glad to see you mad.
DESDEMONA
Why, sweet Othello,--
OTHELLO
[Striking her] Devil!
DESDEMONA
I have not deserved this.
LODOVICO
My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,
Though I should swear I saw't: 'tis very much:
Make her amends; she weeps.
OTHELLO
O devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman's tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Out of my sight!
DESDEMONA
I will not stay to offend you.
Going
LODOVICO
Truly, an obedient lady:
I do beseech your lordship, call her back.
OTHELLO
Mistress!
DESDEMONA
My lord?
OTHELLO
What would you with her, sir?
LODOVICO
Who, I, my lord?
OTHELLO
Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:
Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,
And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep;
And she's obedient, as you say, obedient,
Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears.
Concerning this, sir,--O well-painted passion!--
I am commanded home. Get you away;
I'll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate,
And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt!
Exit DESDEMONA
Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight,
I do entreat that we may sup together:
You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus.--Goats and monkeys!
Exit
LODOVICO
Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate
Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature
Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue
The shot of accident, nor dart of chance,
Could neither graze nor pierce?
IAGO
He is much changed.
LODOVICO
Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain?
IAGO
He's that he is: I may not breathe my censure
What he might be: if what he might he is not,
I would to heaven he were!
LODOVICO
What, strike his wife!
IAGO
'Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew
That stroke would prove the worst!
LODOVICO
Is it his use?
Or did the letters work upon his blood,
And new-create this fault?
IAGO
Alas, alas!
It is not honesty in me to speak
What I have seen and known. You shall observe him,
And his own courses will denote him so
That I may save my speech: do but go after,
And mark how he continues.
LODOVICO
I am sorry that I am deceived in him.
Exeunt
SCENE II. A room in the castle.
Enter OTHELLO and EMILIA
OTHELLO
You have seen nothing then?
EMILIA
Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.
OTHELLO
Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.
EMILIA
But then I saw no harm, and then I heard
Each syllable that breath made up between them.
OTHELLO
What, did they never whisper?
EMILIA
Never, my lord.
OTHELLO
Nor send you out o' the way?
EMILIA
Never.
OTHELLO
To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?
EMILIA
Never, my lord.
OTHELLO
That's strange.
EMILIA
I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,
Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other,
Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom.
If any wretch have put this in your head,
Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse!
For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true,
There's no man happy; the purest of their wives
Is foul as slander.
OTHELLO
Bid her come hither: go.
Exit EMILIA
She says enough; yet she's a simple bawd
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,
A closet lock and key of villanous secrets
And yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't.
Enter DESDEMONA with EMILIA
DESDEMONA
My lord, what is your will?
OTHELLO
Pray, chuck, come hither.
DESDEMONA
What is your pleasure?
OTHELLO
Let me see your eyes;
Look in my face.
DESDEMONA
What horrible fancy's this?
OTHELLO
[To EMILIA] Some of your function, mistress;
Leave procreants alone and shut the door;
Cough, or cry 'hem,' if any body come:
Your mystery, your mystery: nay, dispatch.
Exit EMILIA
DESDEMONA
Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?
I understand a fury in your words.
But not the words.
OTHELLO
Why, what art thou?
DESDEMONA
Your wife, my lord; your true
And loyal wife.
OTHELLO
Come, swear it, damn thyself
Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves
Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double damn'd:
Swear thou art honest.
DESDEMONA
Heaven doth truly know it.
OTHELLO
Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
DESDEMONA
To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false?
OTHELLO
O Desdemona! away! away! away!
DESDEMONA
Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?
Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?
If haply you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,
Lay not your blame on me: If you have lost him,
Why, I have lost him too.
OTHELLO
Had it pleased heaven
To try me with affliction; had they rain'd
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head.
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at!
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads
To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin,--
Ay, there, look grim as hell!
DESDEMONA
I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.
OTHELLO
O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet
That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst
ne'er been born!
DESDEMONA
Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?
OTHELLO
Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write 'whore' upon? What committed!
Committed! O thou public commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed!
Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks,
The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it. What committed!
Impudent strumpet!
DESDEMONA
By heaven, you do me wrong.
OTHELLO
Are you not a strumpet?
DESDEMONA
No, as I am a Christian:
If to preserve this vessel for my lord
From any other foul unlawful touch
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.
OTHELLO
What, not a whore?
DESDEMONA
No, as I shall be saved.
OTHELLO
Is't possible?
DESDEMONA
O, heaven forgive us!
OTHELLO
I cry you mercy, then:
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice
That married with Othello.
Raising his voice
You, mistress,
That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,
And keep the gate of hell!
Re-enter EMILIA
You, you, ay, you!
We have done our course; there's money for your pains:
I pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel.
Exit
EMILIA
Alas, what does this gentleman conceive?
How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?
DESDEMONA
'Faith, half asleep.
EMILIA
Good madam, what's the matter with my lord?
DESDEMONA
With who?
EMILIA
Why, with my lord, madam.
DESDEMONA
Who is thy lord?
EMILIA
He that is yours, sweet lady.
DESDEMONA
I have none: do not talk to me, Emilia;
I cannot weep; nor answer have I none,
But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight
Lay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember;
And call thy husband hither.
EMILIA
Here's a change indeed!
Exit
DESDEMONA
'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet.
How have I been behaved, that he might stick
The small'st opinion on my least misuse?
Re-enter EMILIA with IAGO
IAGO
What is your pleasure, madam?
How is't with you?
DESDEMONA
I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes
Do it with gentle means and easy tasks:
He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,
I am a child to chiding.
IAGO
What's the matter, lady?
EMILIA
Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her.
Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,
As true hearts cannot bear.
DESDEMONA
Am I that name, Iago?
IAGO
What name, fair lady?
DESDEMONA
Such as she says my lord did say I was.
EMILIA
He call'd her whore: a beggar in his drink
Could not have laid such terms upon his callat.
IAGO
Why did he so?
DESDEMONA
I do not know; I am sure I am none such.
IAGO
Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day!
EMILIA
Hath she forsook so many noble matches,
Her father and her country and her friends,
To be call'd whore? would it not make one weep?
DESDEMONA
It is my wretched fortune.
IAGO
Beshrew him for't!
How comes this trick upon him?
DESDEMONA
Nay, heaven doth know.
EMILIA
I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain,
Some busy and insinuating rogue,
Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office,
Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else.
IAGO
Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible.
DESDEMONA
If any such there be, heaven pardon him!
EMILIA
A halter pardon him! and hell gnaw his bones!
Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company?
What place? what time? what form? what likelihood?
The Moor's abused by some most villanous knave,
Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.
O heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold,
And put in every honest hand a whip
To lash the rascals naked through the world
Even from the east to the west!
IAGO
Speak within door.
EMILIA
O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was
That turn'd your wit the seamy side without,
And made you to suspect me with the Moor.
IAGO
You are a fool; go to.
DESDEMONA
O good Iago,
What shall I do to win my lord again?
Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed,
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did.
And ever will--though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement--love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love. I cannot say 'whore:'
It does abhor me now I speak the word;
To do the act that might the addition earn
Not the world's mass of vanity could make me.
IAGO
I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humour:
The business of the state does him offence,
And he does chide with you.
DESDEMONA
If 'twere no other--
IAGO
'Tis but so, I warrant.
Trumpets within
Hark, how these instruments summon to supper!
The messengers of Venice stay the meat;
Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well.
Exeunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA
Enter RODERIGO
How now, Roderigo!
RODERIGO
I do not find that thou dealest justly with me.
IAGO
What in the contrary?
RODERIGO
Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago;
and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me
all conveniency than suppliest me with the least
advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure
it, nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what
already I have foolishly suffered.
IAGO
Will you hear me, Roderigo?
RODERIGO
'Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and
performances are no kin together.
IAGO
You charge me most unjustly.
RODERIGO
With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of
my means. The jewels you have had from me to
deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a
votarist: you have told me she hath received them
and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden
respect and acquaintance, but I find none.
IAGO
Well; go to; very well.
RODERIGO
Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 'tis
not very well: nay, I think it is scurvy, and begin
to find myself fobbed in it.
IAGO
Very well.
RODERIGO
I tell you 'tis not very well. I will make myself
known to Desdemona: if she will return me my
jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my
unlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I
will seek satisfaction of you.
IAGO
You have said now.
RODERIGO
Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing.
IAGO
Why, now I see there's mettle in thee, and even from
this instant to build on thee a better opinion than
ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo: thou hast
taken against me a most just exception; but yet, I
protest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair.
RODERIGO
It hath not appeared.
IAGO
I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your
suspicion is not without wit and judgment. But,
Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I
have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean
purpose, courage and valour, this night show it: if
thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona,
take me from this world with treachery and devise
engines for my life.
RODERIGO
Well, what is it? is it within reason and compass?
IAGO
Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice
to depute Cassio in Othello's place.
RODERIGO
Is that true? why, then Othello and Desdemona
return again to Venice.
IAGO
O, no; he goes into Mauritania and takes away with
him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be
lingered here by some accident: wherein none can be
so determinate as the removing of Cassio.
RODERIGO
How do you mean, removing of him?
IAGO
Why, by making him uncapable of Othello's place;
knocking out his brains.
RODERIGO
And that you would have me to do?
IAGO
Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right.
He sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither will I
go to him: he knows not yet of his horrorable
fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which
I will fashion to fall out between twelve and one,
you may take him at your pleasure: I will be near
to second your attempt, and he shall fall between
us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with
me; I will show you such a necessity in his death
that you shall think yourself bound to put it on
him. It is now high suppertime, and the night grows
to waste: about it.
RODERIGO
I will hear further reason for this.
IAGO
And you shall be satisfied.
Exeunt
SCENE III. Another room In the castle.
Enter OTHELLO, LODOVICO, DESDEMONA, EMILIA and Attendants
LODOVICO
I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further.
OTHELLO
O, pardon me: 'twill do me good to walk.
LODOVICO
Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship.
DESDEMONA
Your honour is most welcome.
OTHELLO
Will you walk, sir?
O,--Desdemona,--
DESDEMONA
My lord?
OTHELLO
Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned
forthwith: dismiss your attendant there: look it be done.
DESDEMONA
I will, my lord.
Exeunt OTHELLO, LODOVICO, and Attendants
EMILIA
How goes it now? he looks gentler than he did.
DESDEMONA
He says he will return incontinent:
He hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bade me to dismiss you.
EMILIA
Dismiss me!
DESDEMONA
It was his bidding: therefore, good Emilia,.
Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu:
We must not now displease him.
EMILIA
I would you had never seen him!
DESDEMONA
So would not I my love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his cheques, his frowns--
Prithee, unpin me,--have grace and favour in them.
EMILIA
I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.
DESDEMONA
All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!
If I do die before thee prithee, shroud me
In one of those same sheets.
EMILIA
Come, come you talk.
DESDEMONA
My mother had a maid call'd Barbara:
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad
And did forsake her: she had a song of 'willow;'
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it: that song to-night
Will not go from my mind; I have much to do,
But to go hang my head all at one side,
And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.
EMILIA
Shall I go fetch your night-gown?
DESDEMONA
No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.
EMILIA
A very handsome man.
DESDEMONA
He speaks well.
EMILIA
I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot
to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.
DESDEMONA
[Singing] The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow:
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;
Lay by these:--
Singing
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon:--
Singing
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve,-
Nay, that's not next.--Hark! who is't that knocks?
EMILIA
It's the wind.
DESDEMONA
[Singing] I call'd my love false love; but what
said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men!
So, get thee gone; good night Ate eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping?
EMILIA
'Tis neither here nor there.
DESDEMONA
I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!
Dost thou in conscience think,--tell me, Emilia,--
That there be women do abuse their husbands
In such gross kind?
EMILIA
There be some such, no question.
DESDEMONA
Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?
EMILIA
Why, would not you?
DESDEMONA
No, by this heavenly light!
EMILIA
Nor I neither by this heavenly light;
I might do't as well i' the dark.
DESDEMONA
Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?
EMILIA
The world's a huge thing: it is a great price.
For a small vice.
DESDEMONA
In troth, I think thou wouldst not.
EMILIA
In troth, I think I should; and undo't when I had
done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a
joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for
gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty
exhibition; but for the whole world,--why, who would
not make her husband a cuckold to make him a
monarch? I should venture purgatory for't.
DESDEMONA
Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong
For the whole world.
EMILIA
Why the wrong is but a wrong i' the world: and
having the world for your labour, tis a wrong in your
own world, and you might quickly make it right.
DESDEMONA
I do not think there is any such woman.
EMILIA
Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as would
store the world they played for.
But I do think it is their husbands' faults
If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties,
And pour our treasures into foreign laps,
Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,
Or scant our former having in despite;
Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,
Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell
And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think it is: and doth affection breed it?
I think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs?
It is so too: and have not we affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well: else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.
DESDEMONA
Good night, good night: heaven me such uses send,
Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!
Exeunt
ACT V
SCENE I. Cyprus. A street.
Enter IAGO and RODERIGO
IAGO
Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will he come:
Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home:
Quick, quick; fear nothing; I'll be at thy elbow:
It makes us, or it mars us; think on that,
And fix most firm thy resolution.
RODERIGO
Be near at hand; I may miscarry in't.
IAGO
Here, at thy hand: be bold, and take thy stand.
Retires
RODERIGO
I have no great devotion to the deed;
And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons:
'Tis but a man gone. Forth, my sword: he dies.
IAGO
I have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense,
And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio,
Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other,
Every way makes my gain: live Roderigo,
He calls me to a restitution large
Of gold and jewels that I bobb'd from him,
As gifts to Desdemona;
It must not be: if Cassio do remain,
He hath a daily beauty in his life
That makes me ugly; and, besides, the Moor
May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril:
No, he must die. But so: I hear him coming.
Enter CASSIO
RODERIGO
I know his gait, 'tis he.--Villain, thou diest!
Makes a pass at CASSIO
CASSIO
That thrust had been mine enemy indeed,
But that my coat is better than thou know'st
I will make proof of thine.
Draws, and wounds RODERIGO
RODERIGO
O, I am slain!
IAGO from behind wounds CASSIO in the leg, and exit
CASSIO
I am maim'd for ever. Help, ho! murder! murder!
Falls
Enter OTHELLO
OTHELLO
The voice of Cassio: Iago keeps his word.
RODERIGO
O, villain that I am!
OTHELLO
It is even so.
CASSIO
O, help, ho! light! a surgeon!
OTHELLO
'Tis he:--O brave Iago, honest and just,
That hast such noble sense of thy friend's wrong!
Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead,
And your unblest fate hies: strumpet, I come.
Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted;
Thy bed, lust-stain'd, shall with lust's blood be spotted.
Exit
Enter LODOVICO and GRATIANO
CASSIO
What, ho! no watch? no passage? murder! murder!
GRATIANO
'Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful.
CASSIO
O, help!
LODOVICO
Hark!
RODERIGO
O wretched villain!
LODOVICO
Two or three groan: it is a heavy night:
These may be counterfeits: let's think't unsafe
To come in to the cry without more help.
RODERIGO
Nobody come? then shall I bleed to death.
LODOVICO
Hark!
Re-enter IAGO, with a light
GRATIANO
Here's one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons.
IAGO
Who's there? whose noise is this that ones on murder?
LODOVICO
We do not know.
IAGO
Did not you hear a cry?
CASSIO
Here, here! for heaven's sake, help me!
IAGO
What's the matter?
GRATIANO
This is Othello's ancient, as I take it.
LODOVICO
The same indeed; a very valiant fellow.
IAGO
What are you here that cry so grievously?
CASSIO
Iago? O, I am spoil'd, undone by villains!
Give me some help.
IAGO
O me, lieutenant! what villains have done this?
CASSIO
I think that one of them is hereabout,
And cannot make away.
IAGO
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/27/2023
Public Domain Use#19,789,060textJulius Caesar
By William Shakespeare
ACT I
SCENE I. Rome. A street.
Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and certain Commoners
FLAVIUS
Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:
Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day without the sign
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?
First Commoner
Why, sir, a carpenter.
MARULLUS
Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
You, sir, what trade are you?
Second Commoner
Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but,
as you would say, a cobbler.
MARULLUS
But what trade art thou? answer me directly.
Second Commoner
A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe
conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
MARULLUS
What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
Second Commoner
Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet,
if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
MARULLUS
What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow!
Second Commoner
Why, sir, cobble you.
FLAVIUS
Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
Second Commoner
Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I
meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's
matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon
to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I
recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon
neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.
FLAVIUS
But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
Second Commoner
Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself
into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday,
to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.
MARULLUS
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.
FLAVIUS
Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
Exeunt all the Commoners
See whether their basest metal be not moved;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol;
This way will I
disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.
MARULLUS
May we do so?
You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
FLAVIUS
It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
Exeunt
SCENE II. A public place.
Flourish. Enter CAESAR; ANTONY, for the course; CALPURNIA, PORTIA, DECIUS BRUTUS, CICERO, BRUTUS, CASSIUS, and CASCA; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer
CAESAR
Calpurnia!
CASCA
Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.
CAESAR
Calpurnia!
CALPURNIA
Here, my lord.
CAESAR
Stand you directly in Antonius' way,
When he doth run his course. Antonius!
ANTONY
Caesar, my lord?
CAESAR
Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,
To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say,
The barren, touched in this holy chase,
Shake off their sterile curse.
ANTONY
I shall remember:
When Caesar says 'do this,' it is perform'd.
CAESAR
Set on; and leave no ceremony out.
Flourish
Soothsayer
Caesar!
CAESAR
Ha! who calls?
CASCA
Bid every noise be still: peace yet again!
CAESAR
Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Cry 'Caesar!' Speak; Caesar is turn'd to hear.
Soothsayer
Beware the ides of March.
CAESAR
What man is that?
BRUTUS
A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
CAESAR
Set him before me; let me see his face.
CASSIUS
Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.
CAESAR
What say'st thou to me now? speak once again.
Soothsayer
Beware the ides of March.
CAESAR
He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.
Sennet. Exeunt all except BRUTUS and CASSIUS
CASSIUS
Will you go see the order of the course?
BRUTUS
Not I.
CASSIUS
I pray you, do.
BRUTUS
I am not gamesome: I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;
I'll leave you.
CASSIUS
Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And show of love as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.
BRUTUS
Cassius,
Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved--
Among which number, Cassius, be you one--
Nor construe any further my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.
CASSIUS
Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
BRUTUS
No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection, by some other things.
CASSIUS
'Tis just:
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome,
Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes.
BRUTUS
Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me?
CASSIUS
Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear:
And since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of.
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus:
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester; if you know
That I do fawn on men and hug them hard
And after scandal them, or if you know
That I profess myself in banqueting
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.
Flourish, and shout
BRUTUS
What means this shouting? I do fear, the people
Choose Caesar for their king.
CASSIUS
Ay, do you fear it?
Then must I think you would not have it so.
BRUTUS
I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.
But wherefore do you hold me here so long?
What is it that you would impart to me?
If it be aught toward the general good,
Set honour in one eye and death i' the other,
And I will look on both indifferently,
For let the gods so speed me as I love
The name of honour more than I fear death.
CASSIUS
I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favour.
Well, honour is the subject of my story.
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Caesar; so were you:
We both have fed as well, and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he:
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
Caesar said to me 'Darest thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?' Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in
And bade him follow; so indeed he did.
The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside
And stemming it with hearts of controversy;
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Caesar cried 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink!'
I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Caesar. And this man
Is now become a god, and Cassius is
A wretched creature and must bend his body,
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake;
His coward lips did from their colour fly,
And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world
Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:
Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans
Mark him and write his speeches in their books,
Alas, it cried 'Give me some drink, Titinius,'
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world
And bear the palm alone.
Shout. Flourish
BRUTUS
Another general shout!
I do believe that these applauses are
For some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar.
CASSIUS
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that 'Caesar'?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was famed with more than with one man?
When could they say till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man?
Now is it Rome indeed and room enough,
When there is in it but one only man.
O, you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome
As easily as a king.
BRUTUS
That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;
What you would work me to, I have some aim:
How I have thought of this and of these times,
I shall recount hereafter; for this present,
I would not, so with love I might entreat you,
Be any further moved. What you have said
I will consider; what you have to say
I will with patience hear, and find a time
Both meet to hear and answer such high things.
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:
Brutus had rather be a villager
Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under these hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.
CASSIUS
I am glad that my weak words
Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
BRUTUS
The games are done and Caesar is returning.
CASSIUS
As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve;
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day.
Re-enter CAESAR and his Train
BRUTUS
I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,
The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow,
And all the rest look like a chidden train:
Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes
As we have seen him in the Capitol,
Being cross'd in conference by some senators.
CASSIUS
Casca will tell us what the matter is.
CAESAR
Antonius!
ANTONY
Caesar?
CAESAR
Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights:
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
ANTONY
Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous;
He is a noble Roman and well given.
CAESAR
Would he were fatter! But I fear him not:
Yet if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;
He is a great observer and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit
That could be moved to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd
Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
And tell me truly what thou think'st of him.
Sennet. Exeunt CAESAR and all his Train, but CASCA
CASCA
You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me?
BRUTUS
Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanced to-day,
That Caesar looks so sad.
CASCA
Why, you were with him, were you not?
BRUTUS
I should not then ask Casca what had chanced.
CASCA
Why, there was a crown offered him: and being
offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand,
thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.
BRUTUS
What was the second noise for?
CASCA
Why, for that too.
CASSIUS
They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?
CASCA
Why, for that too.
BRUTUS
Was the crown offered him thrice?
CASCA
Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every
time gentler than other, and at every putting-by
mine honest neighbours shouted.
CASSIUS
Who offered him the crown?
CASCA
Why, Antony.
BRUTUS
Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.
CASCA
I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it:
it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark
Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown
neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told
you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my
thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he
offered it to him again; then he put it by again:
but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his
fingers off it. And then he offered it the third
time; he put it the third time by: and still as he
refused it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their
chapped hands and threw up their sweaty night-caps
and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because
Caesar refused the crown that it had almost choked
Caesar; for he swounded and fell down at it: and
for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of
opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
CASSIUS
But, soft, I pray you: what, did Caesar swound?
CASCA
He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at
mouth, and was speechless.
BRUTUS
'Tis very like: he hath the failing sickness.
CASSIUS
No, Caesar hath it not; but you and I,
And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness.
CASCA
I know not what you mean by that; but, I am sure,
Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not
clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and
displeased them, as they use to do the players in
the theatre, I am no true man.
BRUTUS
What said he when he came unto himself?
CASCA
Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the
common herd was glad he refused the crown, he
plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his
throat to cut. An I had been a man of any
occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word,
I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so
he fell. When he came to himself again, he said,
If he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired
their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three
or four wenches, where I stood, cried 'Alas, good
soul!' and forgave him with all their hearts: but
there's no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had
stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.
BRUTUS
And after that, he came, thus sad, away?
CASCA
Ay.
CASSIUS
Did Cicero say any thing?
CASCA
Ay, he spoke Greek.
CASSIUS
To what effect?
CASCA
Nay, an I tell you that, Ill ne'er look you i' the
face again: but those that understood him smiled at
one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own
part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more
news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs
off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you
well. There was more foolery yet, if I could
remember it.
CASSIUS
Will you sup with me to-night, Casca?
CASCA
No, I am promised forth.
CASSIUS
Will you dine with me to-morrow?
CASCA
Ay, if I be alive and your mind hold and your dinner
worth the eating.
CASSIUS
Good: I will expect you.
CASCA
Do so. Farewell, both.
Exit
BRUTUS
What a blunt fellow is this grown to be!
He was quick mettle when he went to school.
CASSIUS
So is he now in execution
Of any bold or noble enterprise,
However he puts on this tardy form.
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,
Which gives men stomach to digest his words
With better appetite.
BRUTUS
And so it is. For this time I will leave you:
To-morrow, if you please to speak with me,
I will come home to you; or, if you will,
Come home to me, and I will wait for you.
CASSIUS
I will do so: till then, think of the world.
Exit BRUTUS
Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see,
Thy honourable metal may be wrought
From that it is disposed: therefore it is meet
That noble minds keep ever with their likes;
For who so firm that cannot be seduced?
Caesar doth bear me hard; but he loves Brutus:
If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius,
He should not humour me. I will this night,
In several hands, in at his windows throw,
As if they came from several citizens,
Writings all tending to the great opinion
That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely
Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at:
And after this let Caesar seat him sure;
For we will shake him, or worse days endure.
Exit
SCENE III. The same. A street.
Thunder and lightning. Enter from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO
CICERO
Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home?
Why are you breathless? and why stare you so?
CASCA
Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth
Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,
I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds
Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen
The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,
To be exalted with the threatening clouds:
But never till to-night, never till now,
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.
Either there is a civil strife in heaven,
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,
Incenses them to send destruction.
CICERO
Why, saw you any thing more wonderful?
CASCA
A common slave--you know him well by sight--
Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn
Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand,
Not sensible of fire, remain'd unscorch'd.
Besides--I ha' not since put up my sword--
Against the Capitol I met a lion,
Who glared upon me, and went surly by,
Without annoying me: and there were drawn
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women,
Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw
Men all in fire walk up and down the streets.
And yesterday the bird of night did sit
Even at noon-day upon the market-place,
Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say
'These are their reasons; they are natural;'
For, I believe, they are portentous things
Unto the climate that they point upon.
CICERO
Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time:
But men may construe things after their fashion,
Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
Come Caesar to the Capitol to-morrow?
CASCA
He doth; for he did bid Antonius
Send word to you he would be there to-morrow.
CICERO
Good night then, Casca: this disturbed sky
Is not to walk in.
CASCA
Farewell, Cicero.
Exit CICERO
Enter CASSIUS
CASSIUS
Who's there?
CASCA
A Roman.
CASSIUS
Casca, by your voice.
CASCA
Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this!
CASSIUS
A very pleasing night to honest men.
CASCA
Who ever knew the heavens menace so?
CASSIUS
Those that have known the earth so full of faults.
For my part, I have walk'd about the streets,
Submitting me unto the perilous night,
And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see,
Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone;
And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open
The breast of heaven, I did present myself
Even in the aim and very flash of it.
CASCA
But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens?
It is the part of men to fear and tremble,
When the most mighty gods by tokens send
Such dreadful heralds to astonish us.
CASSIUS
You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of life
That should be in a Roman you do want,
Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze
And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,
To see the strange impatience of the heavens:
But if you would consider the true cause
Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,
Why birds and beasts from quality and kind,
Why old men fool and children calculate,
Why all these things change from their ordinance
Their natures and preformed faculties
To monstrous quality,--why, you shall find
That heaven hath infused them with these spirits,
To make them instruments of fear and warning
Unto some monstrous state.
Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man
Most like this dreadful night,
That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars
As doth the lion in the Capitol,
A man no mightier than thyself or me
In personal action, yet prodigious grown
And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.
CASCA
'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?
CASSIUS
Let it be who it is: for Romans now
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;
But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead,
And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits;
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.
CASCA
Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow
Mean to establish Caesar as a king;
And he shall wear his crown by sea and land,
In every place, save here in Italy.
CASSIUS
I know where I will wear this dagger then;
Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
If I know this, know all the world besides,
That part of tyranny that I do bear
I can shake off at pleasure.
Thunder still
CASCA
So can I:
So every bondman in his own hand bears
The power to cancel his captivity.
CASSIUS
And why should Caesar be a tyrant then?
Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf,
But that he sees the Romans are but sheep:
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds.
Those that with haste will make a mighty fire
Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome,
What rubbish and what offal, when it serves
For the base matter to illuminate
So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief,
Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this
Before a willing bondman; then I know
My answer must be made. But I am arm'd,
And dangers are to me indifferent.
CASCA
You speak to Casca, and to such a man
That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand:
Be factious for redress of all these griefs,
And I will set this foot of mine as far
As who goes farthest.
CASSIUS
There's a bargain made.
Now know you, Casca, I have moved already
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans
To undergo with me an enterprise
Of honourable-dangerous consequence;
And I do know, by this, they stay for me
In Pompey's porch: for now, this fearful night,
There is no stir or walking in the streets;
And the complexion of the element
In favour's like the work we have in hand,
Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible.
CASCA
Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste.
CASSIUS
'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait;
He is a friend.
Enter CINNA
Cinna, where haste you so?
CINNA
To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber?
CASSIUS
No, it is Casca; one incorporate
To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna?
CINNA
I am glad on 't. What a fearful night is this!
There's two or three of us have seen strange sights.
CASSIUS
Am I not stay'd for? tell me.
CINNA
Yes, you are.
O Cassius, if you could
But win the noble Brutus to our party--
CASSIUS
Be you content: good Cinna, take this paper,
And look you lay it in the praetor's chair,
Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this
In at his window; set this up with wax
Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done,
Repair to Pompey's porch, where you shall find us.
Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there?
CINNA
All but Metellus Cimber; and he's gone
To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie,
And so bestow these papers as you bade me.
CASSIUS
That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.
Exit CINNA
Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day
See Brutus at his house: three parts of him
Is ours already, and the man entire
Upon the next encounter yields him ours.
CASCA
O, he sits high in all the people's hearts:
And that which would appear offence in us,
His countenance, like richest alchemy,
Will change to virtue and to worthiness.
CASSIUS
Him and his worth and our great need of him
You have right well conceited. Let us go,
For it is after midnight; and ere day
We will awake him and be sure of him.
Exeunt
ACT II
SCENE I. Rome. BRUTUS's orchard.
Enter BRUTUS
BRUTUS
What, Lucius, ho!
I cannot, by the progress of the stars,
Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say!
I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.
When, Lucius, when? awake, I say! what, Lucius!
Enter LUCIUS
LUCIUS
Call'd you, my lord?
BRUTUS
Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:
When it is lighted, come and call me here.
LUCIUS
I will, my lord.
Exit
BRUTUS
It must be by his death: and for my part,
I know no personal cause to spurn at him,
But for the general. He would be crown'd:
How that might change his nature, there's the question.
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder;
And that craves wary walking. Crown him?--that;--
And then, I grant, we put a sting in him,
That at his will he may do danger with.
The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins
Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Caesar,
I have not known when his affections sway'd
More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;
But when he once attains the upmost round.
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend. So Caesar may.
Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel
Will bear no colour for the thing he is,
Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,
Would run to these and these extremities:
And therefore think him as a serpent's egg
Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous,
And kill him in the shell.
Re-enter LUCIUS
LUCIUS
The taper burneth in your closet, sir.
Searching the window for a flint, I found
This paper, thus seal'd up; and, I am sure,
It did not lie there when I went to bed.
Gives him the letter
BRUTUS
Get you to bed again; it is not day.
Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March?
LUCIUS
I know not, sir.
BRUTUS
Look in the calendar, and bring me word.
LUCIUS
I will, sir.
Exit
BRUTUS
The exhalations whizzing in the air
Give so much light that I may read by them.
Opens the letter and reads
'Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake, and see thyself.
Shall Rome, & c. Speak, strike, redress!
Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!'
Such instigations have been often dropp'd
Where I have took them up.
'Shall Rome, & c.' Thus must I piece it out:
Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome?
My ancestors did from the streets of Rome
The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.
'Speak, strike, redress!' Am I entreated
To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise:
If the redress will follow, thou receivest
Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!
Re-enter LUCIUS
LUCIUS
Sir, March is wasted fourteen days.
Knocking within
BRUTUS
'Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody knocks.
Exit LUCIUS
Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar,
I have not slept.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:
The Genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.
Re-enter LUCIUS
LUCIUS
Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door,
Who doth desire to see you.
BRUTUS
Is he alone?
LUCIUS
No, sir, there are moe with him.
BRUTUS
Do you know them?
LUCIUS
No, sir; their hats are pluck'd about their ears,
And half their faces buried in their cloaks,
That by no means I may discover them
By any mark of favour.
BRUTUS
Let 'em enter.
Exit LUCIUS
They are the faction. O conspiracy,
Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,
When evils are most free? O, then by day
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough
To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy;
Hide it in smiles and affability:
For if thou path, thy native semblance on,
Not Erebus itself were dim enough
To hide thee from prevention.
Enter the conspirators, CASSIUS, CASCA, DECIUS BRUTUS, CINNA, METELLUS CIMBER, and TREBONIUS
CASSIUS
I think we are too bold upon your rest:
Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?
BRUTUS
I have been up this hour, awake all night.
Know I these men that come along with you?
CASSIUS
Yes, every man of them, and no man here
But honours you; and every one doth wish
You had but that opinion of yourself
Which every noble Roman bears of you.
This is Trebonius.
BRUTUS
He is welcome hither.
CASSIUS
This, Decius Brutus.
BRUTUS
He is welcome too.
CASSIUS
This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.
BRUTUS
They are all welcome.
What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night?
CASSIUS
Shall I entreat a word?
BRUTUS and CASSIUS whisper
DECIUS BRUTUS
Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
CASCA
No.
CINNA
O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon gray lines
That fret the clouds are messengers of day.
CASCA
You shall confess that you are both deceived.
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful season of the year.
Some two months hence up higher toward the north
He first presents his fire; and the high east
Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.
BRUTUS
Give me your hands all over, one by one.
CASSIUS
And let us swear our resolution.
BRUTUS
No, not an oath: if not the face of men,
The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse,--
If these be motives weak, break off betimes,
And every man hence to his idle bed;
So let high-sighted tyranny range on,
Till each man drop by lottery. But if these,
As I am sure they do, bear fire enough
To kindle cowards and to steel with valour
The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen,
What need we any spur but our own cause,
To prick us to redress? what other bond
Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word,
And will not palter? and what other oath
Than honesty to honesty engaged,
That this shall be, or we will fall for it?
Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous,
Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls
That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear
Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain
The even virtue of our enterprise,
Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits,
To think that or our cause or our performance
Did need an oath; when every drop of blood
That every Roman bears, and nobly bears,
Is guilty of a several bastardy,
If he do break the smallest particle
Of any promise that hath pass'd from him.
CASSIUS
But what of Cicero? shall we sound him?
I think he will stand very strong with us.
CASCA
Let us not leave him out.
CINNA
No, by no means.
METELLUS CIMBER
O, let us have him, for his silver hairs
Will purchase us a good opinion
And buy men's voices to commend our deeds:
It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands;
Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,
But all be buried in his gravity.
BRUTUS
O, name him not: let us not break with him;
For he will never follow any thing
That other men begin.
CASSIUS
Then leave him out.
CASCA
Indeed he is not fit.
DECIUS BRUTUS
Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar?
CASSIUS
Decius, well urged: I think it is not meet,
Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar,
Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him
A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means,
If he improve them, may well stretch so far
As to annoy us all: which to prevent,
Let Antony and Caesar fall together.
BRUTUS
Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,
To cut the head off and then hack the limbs,
Like wrath in death and envy afterwards;
For Antony is but a limb of Caesar:
Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.
We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar;
And in the spirit of men there is no blood:
O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit,
And not dismember Caesar! But, alas,
Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends,
Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;
Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds:
And let our hearts, as subtle masters do,
Stir up their servants to an act of rage,
And after seem to chide 'em. This shall make
Our purpose necessary and not envious:
Which so appearing to the common eyes,
We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers.
And for Mark Antony, think not of him;
For he can do no more than Caesar's arm
When Caesar's head is off.
CASSIUS
Yet I fear him;
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar--
BRUTUS
Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:
If he love Caesar, all that he can do
Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar:
And that were much he should; for he is given
To sports, to wildness and much company.
TREBONIUS
There is no fear in him; let him not die;
For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.
Clock strikes
BRUTUS
Peace! count the clock.
CASSIUS
The clock hath stricken three.
TREBONIUS
'Tis time to part.
CASSIUS
But it is doubtful yet,
Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no;
For he is superstitious grown of late,
Quite from the main opinion he held once
Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies:
It may be, these apparent prodigies,
The unaccustom'd terror of this night,
And the persuasion of his augurers,
May hold him from the Capitol to-day.
DECIUS BRUTUS
Never fear that: if he be so resolved,
I can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear
That unicorns may be betray'd with trees,
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,
Lions with toils and men with flatterers;
But when I tell him he hates flatterers,
He says he does, being then most flattered.
Let me work;
For I can give his humour the true bent,
And I will bring him to the Capitol.
CASSIUS
Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
BRUTUS
By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?
CINNA
Be that the uttermost, and fail not then.
METELLUS CIMBER
Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard,
Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey:
I wonder none of you have thought of him.
BRUTUS
Now, good Metellus, go along by him:
He loves me well, and I have given him reasons;
Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him.
CASSIUS
The morning comes upon 's: we'll leave you, Brutus.
And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember
What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.
BRUTUS
Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;
Let not our looks put on our purposes,
But bear it as our Roman actors do,
With untired spirits and formal constancy:
And so good morrow to you every one.
Exeunt all but BRUTUS
Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter;
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
Enter PORTIA
PORTIA
Brutus, my lord!
BRUTUS
Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now?
It is not for your health thus to commit
Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.
PORTIA
Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus,
Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose, and walk'd about,
Musing and sighing, with your arms across,
And when I ask'd you what the matter was,
You stared upon me with ungentle looks;
I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot;
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not,
But, with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience
Which seem'd too much enkindled, and withal
Hoping it was but an effect of humour,
Which sometime hath his hour with every man.
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,
And could it work so much upon your shape
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
BRUTUS
I am not well in health, and that is all.
PORTIA
Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,
He would embrace the means to come by it.
BRUTUS
Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.
PORTIA
Is Brutus sick? and is it physical
To walk unbraced and suck up the humours
Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,
To dare the vile contagion of the night
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air
To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;
You have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the right and virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: and, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once-commended beauty,
By all your vows of love and that great vow
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,
Why you are heavy, and what men to-night
Have had to resort to you: for here have been
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.
BRUTUS
Kneel not, gentle Portia.
PORTIA
I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort or limitation,
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs
Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.
BRUTUS
You are my true and honourable wife,
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart
PORTIA
If this were true, then should I know this secret.
I grant I am a woman; but withal
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant I am a woman; but withal
A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter.
Think you I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so father'd and so husbanded?
Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em:
I have made strong proof of my constancy,
Giving myself a voluntary wound
Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience.
And not my husband's secrets?
BRUTUS
O ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Knocking within
Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in awhile;
And by and by thy bosom shall partake
The secrets of my heart.
All my engagements I will construe to thee,
All the charactery of my sad brows:
Leave me with haste.
Exit PORTIA
Lucius, who's that knocks?
Re-enter LUCIUS with LIGARIUS
LUCIUS
He is a sick man that would speak with you.
BRUTUS
Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.
Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how?
LIGARIUS
Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.
BRUTUS
O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,
To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!
LIGARIUS
I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand
Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
BRUTUS
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
LIGARIUS
By all the gods that Romans bow before,
I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome!
Brave son, derived from honourable loins!
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible;
Yea, get the better of them. What's to do?
BRUTUS
A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
LIGARIUS
But are not some whole that we must make sick?
BRUTUS
That must we also. What it is, my Caius,
I shall unfold to thee, as we are going
To whom it must be done.
LIGARIUS
Set on your foot,
And with a heart new-fired I follow you,
To do I know not what: but it sufficeth
That Brutus leads me on.
BRUTUS
Follow me, then.
Exeunt
SCENE II. CAESAR's house.
Thunder and lightning. Enter CAESAR, in his night-gown
CAESAR
Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace to-night:
Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out,
'Help, ho! they murder Caesar!' Who's within?
Enter a Servant
Servant
My lord?
CAESAR
Go bid the priests do present sacrifice
And bring me their opinions of success.
Servant
I will, my lord.
Exit
Enter CALPURNIA
CALPURNIA
What mean you, Caesar? think you to walk forth?
You shall not stir out of your house to-day.
CAESAR
Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten'd me
Ne'er look'd but on my back; when they shall see
The face of Caesar, they are vanished.
CALPURNIA
Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies,
Yet now they fright me. There is one within,
Besides the things that we have heard and seen,
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.
A lioness hath whelped in the streets;
And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead;
Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol;
The noise of battle hurtled in the air,
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan,
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.
O Caesar! these things are beyond all use,
And I do fear them.
CAESAR
What can be avoided
Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?
Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions
Are to the world in general as to Caesar.
CALPURNIA
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
CAESAR
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard.
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
Re-enter Servant
What say the augurers?
Servant
They would not have you to stir forth to-day.
Plucking the entrails of an offering forth,
They could not find a heart within the beast.
CAESAR
The gods do this in shame of cowardice:
Caesar should be a beast without a heart,
If he should stay at home to-day for fear.
No, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well
That Caesar is more dangerous than he:
We are two lions litter'd in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible:
And Caesar shall go forth.
CALPURNIA
Alas, my lord,
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear
That keeps you in the house, and not your own.
We'll send Mark Antony to the senate-house:
And he shall say you are not well to-day:
Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this.
CAESAR
Mark Antony shall say I am not well,
And, for thy humour, I will stay at home.
Enter DECIUS BRUTUS
Here's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.
DECIUS BRUTUS
Caesar, all hail! good morrow, worthy Caesar:
I come to fetch you to the senate-house.
CAESAR
And you are come in very happy time,
To bear my greeting to the senators
And tell them that I will not come to-day:
Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser:
I will not come to-day: tell them so, Decius.
CALPURNIA
Say he is sick.
CAESAR
Shall Caesar send a lie?
Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far,
To be afraid to tell graybeards the truth?
Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come.
DECIUS BRUTUS
Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause,
Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so.
CAESAR
The cause is in my will: I will not come;
That is enough to satisfy the senate.
But for your private satisfaction,
Because I love you, I will let you know:
Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:
She dreamt to-night she saw my statua,
Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts,
Did run pure blood: and many lusty Romans
Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it:
And these does she apply for warnings, and portents,
And evils imminent; and on her knee
Hath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day.
DECIUS BRUTUS
This dream is all amiss interpreted;
It was a vision fair and fortunate:
Your statue spouting blood in many pipes,
In which so many smiling Romans bathed,
Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck
Reviving blood, and that great men shall press
For tinctures, stains, relics and cognizance.
This by Calpurnia's dream is signified.
CAESAR
And this way have you well expounded it.
DECIUS BRUTUS
I have, when you have heard what I can say:
And know it now: the senate have concluded
To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar.
If you shall send them word you will not come,
Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock
Apt to be render'd, for some one to say
'Break up the senate till another time,
When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams.'
If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper
'Lo, Caesar is afraid'?
Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love
To our proceeding bids me tell you this;
And reason to my love is liable.
CAESAR
How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia!
I am ashamed I did yield to them.
Give me my robe, for I will go.
Enter PUBLIUS, BRUTUS, LIGARIUS, METELLUS, CASCA, TREBONIUS, and CINNA
And look where Publius is come to fetch me.
PUBLIUS
Good morrow, Caesar.
CAESAR
Welcome, Publius.
What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too?
Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius,
Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy
As that same ague which hath made you lean.
What is 't o'clock?
BRUTUS
Caesar, 'tis strucken eight.
CAESAR
I thank you for your pains and courtesy.
Enter ANTONY
See! Antony, that revels long o' nights,
Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony.
ANTONY
So to most noble Caesar.
CAESAR
Bid them prepare within:
I am to blame to be thus waited for.
Now, Cinna: now, Metellus: what, Trebonius!
I have an hour's talk in store for you;
Remember that you call on me to-day:
Be near me, that I may remember you.
TREBONIUS
Caesar, I will:
Aside
and so near will I be,
That your best friends shall wish I had been further.
CAESAR
Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me;
And we, like friends, will straightway go together.
BRUTUS
[Aside] That every like is not the same, O Caesar,
The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon!
Exeunt
SCENE III. A street near the Capitol.
Enter ARTEMIDORUS, reading a paper
ARTEMIDORUS
'Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius;
come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna, trust not
Trebonius: mark well Metellus Cimber: Decius Brutus
loves thee not: thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius.
There is but one mind in all these men, and it is
bent against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal,
look about you: security gives way to conspiracy.
The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover,
'ARTEMIDORUS.'
Here will I stand till Caesar pass along,
And as a suitor will I give him this.
My heart laments that virtue cannot live
Out of the teeth of emulation.
If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayst live;
If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.
Exit
SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of BRUTUS.
Enter PORTIA and LUCIUS
PORTIA
I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house;
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone:
Why dost thou stay?
LUCIUS
To know my errand, madam.
PORTIA
I would have had thee there, and here again,
Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.
O constancy, be strong upon my side,
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue!
I have a man's mind, but a woman's might.
How hard it is for women to keep counsel!
Art thou here yet?
LUCIUS
Madam, what should I do?
Run to the Capitol, and nothing else?
And so return to you, and nothing else?
PORTIA
Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,
For he went sickly forth: and take good note
What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him.
Hark, boy! what noise is that?
LUCIUS
I hear none, madam.
PORTIA
Prithee, listen well;
I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,
And the wind brings it from the Capitol.
LUCIUS
Sooth, madam, I hear nothing.
Enter the Soothsayer
PORTIA
Come hither, fellow: which way hast thou been?
Soothsayer
At mine own house, good lady.
PORTIA
What is't o'clock?
Soothsayer
About the ninth hour, lady.
PORTIA
Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?
Soothsayer
Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand,
To see him pass on to the Capitol.
PORTIA
Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?
Soothsayer
That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar
To be so good to Caesar as to hear me,
I shall beseech him to befriend himself.
PORTIA
Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him?
Soothsayer
None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance.
Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow:
The throng that follows Caesar at the heels,
Of senators, of praetors, common suitors,
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death:
I'll get me to a place more void, and there
Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.
Exit
PORTIA
I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing
The heart of woman is! O Brutus,
The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!
Sure, the boy heard me: Brutus hath a suit
That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint.
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;
Say I am merry: come to me again,
And bring me word what he doth say to thee.
Exeunt severally
ACT III
SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting above.
A crowd of people; among them ARTEMIDORUS and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter CAESAR, BRUTUS, CASSIUS, CASCA, DECIUS BRUTUS, METELLUS CIMBER, TREBONIUS, CINNA, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, POPILIUS, PUBLIUS, and others
CAESAR
[To the Soothsayer] The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer
Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
ARTEMIDORUS
Hail, Caesar! read this schedule.
DECIUS BRUTUS
Trebonius doth desire you to o'erread,
At your best leisure, this his humble suit.
ARTEMIDORUS
O Caesar, read mine first; for mine's a suit
That touches Caesar nearer: read it, great Caesar.
CAESAR
What touches us ourself shall be last served.
ARTEMIDORUS
Delay not, Caesar; read it instantly.
CAESAR
What, is the fellow mad?
PUBLIUS
Sirrah, give place.
CASSIUS
What, urge you your petitions in the street?
Come to the Capitol.
CAESAR goes up to the Senate-House, the rest following
POPILIUS
I wish your enterprise to-day may thrive.
CASSIUS
What enterprise, Popilius?
POPILIUS
Fare you well.
Advances to CAESAR
BRUTUS
What said Popilius Lena?
CASSIUS
He wish'd to-day our enterprise might thrive.
I fear our purpose is discovered.
BRUTUS
Look, how he makes to Caesar; mark him.
CASSIUS
Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.
Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known,
Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back,
For I will slay myself.
BRUTUS
Cassius, be constant:
Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes;
For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.
CASSIUS
Trebonius knows his time; for, look you, Brutus.
He draws Mark Antony out of the way.
Exeunt ANTONY and TREBONIUS
DECIUS BRUTUS
Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go,
And presently prefer his suit to Caesar.
BRUTUS
He is address'd: press near and second him.
CINNA
Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.
CAESAR
Are we all ready? What is now amiss
That Caesar and his senate must redress?
METELLUS CIMBER
Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar,
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat
An humble heart,--
Kneeling
CAESAR
I must prevent thee, Cimber.
These couchings and these lowly courtesies
Might fire the blood of ordinary men,
And turn pre-ordinance and first decree
Into the law of children. Be not fond,
To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood
That will be thaw'd from the true quality
With that which melteth fools; I mean, sweet words,
Low-crooked court'sies and base spaniel-fawning.
Thy brother by decree is banished:
If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him,
I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.
Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause
Will he be satisfied.
METELLUS CIMBER
Is there no voice more worthy than my own
To sound more sweetly in great Caesar's ear
For the repealing of my banish'd brother?
BRUTUS
I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar;
Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may
Have an immediate freedom of repeal.
CAESAR
What, Brutus!
CASSIUS
Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon:
As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall,
To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.
CASSIUS
I could be well moved, if I were as you:
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fix'd and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks,
They are all fire and every one doth shine,
But there's but one in all doth hold his place:
So in the world; 'tis furnish'd well with men,
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;
Yet in the number I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshaked of motion: and that I am he,
Let me a little show it, even in this;
That I was constant Cimber should be banish'd,
And constant do remain to keep him so.
CINNA
O Caesar,--
CAESAR
Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?
DECIUS BRUTUS
Great Caesar,--
CAESAR
Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?
CASCA
Speak, hands for me!
CASCA first, then the other Conspirators and BRUTUS stab CAESAR
CAESAR
Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.
Dies
CINNA
Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.
CASSIUS
Some to the common pulpits, and cry out
'Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!'
BRUTUS
People and senators, be not affrighted;
Fly not; stand stiff: ambition's debt is paid.
CASCA
Go to the pulpit, Brutus.
DECIUS BRUTUS
And Cassius too.
BRUTUS
Where's Publius?
CINNA
Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.
METELLUS CIMBER
Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar's
Should chance--
BRUTUS
Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer;
There is no harm intended to your person,
Nor to no Roman else: so tell them, Publius.
CASSIUS
And leave us, Publius; lest that the people,
Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.
BRUTUS
Do so: and let no man abide this deed,
But we the doers.
Re-enter TREBONIUS
CASSIUS
Where is Antony?
TREBONIUS
Fled to his house amazed:
Men, wives and children stare, cry out and run
As it were doomsday.
BRUTUS
Fates, we will know your pleasures:
That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time
And drawing days out, that men stand upon.
CASSIUS
Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life
Cuts off so many years of fearing death.
BRUTUS
Grant that, and then is death a benefit:
So are we Caesar's friends, that have abridged
His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop,
And let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood
Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords:
Then walk we forth, even to the market-place,
And, waving our red weapons o'er our heads,
Let's all cry 'Peace, freedom and liberty!'
CASSIUS
Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
BRUTUS
How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,
That now on Pompey's basis lies along
No worthier than the dust!
CASSIUS
So oft as that shall be,
So often shall the knot of us be call'd
The men that gave their country liberty.
DECIUS BRUTUS
What, shall we forth?
CASSIUS
Ay, every man away:
Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels
With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.
Enter a Servant
BRUTUS
Soft! who comes here? A friend of Antony's.
Servant
Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel:
Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down;
And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say:
Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest;
Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving:
Say I love Brutus, and I honour him;
Say I fear'd Caesar, honour'd him and loved him.
If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony
May safely come to him, and be resolved
How Caesar hath deserved to lie in death,
Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead
So well as Brutus living; but will follow
The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus
Thorough the hazards of this untrod state
With all true faith. So says my master Antony.
BRUTUS
Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman;
I never thought him worse.
Tell him, so please him come unto this place,
He shall be satisfied; and, by my honour,
Depart untouch'd.
Servant
I'll fetch him presently.
Exit
BRUTUS
I know that we shall have him well to friend.
CASSIUS
I wish we may: but yet have I a mind
That fears him much; and my misgiving still
Falls shrewdly to the purpose.
BRUTUS
But here comes Antony.
Re-enter ANTONY
Welcome, Mark Antony.
ANTONY
O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well.
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:
If I myself, there is no hour so fit
As Caesar's death hour, nor no instrument
Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich
With the most noble blood of all this world.
I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,
Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,
Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years,
I shall not find myself so apt to die:
No place will please me so, no mean of death,
As here by Caesar, and by you cut off,
The choice and master spirits of this age.
BRUTUS
O Antony, beg not your death of us.
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,
As, by our hands and this our present act,
You see we do, yet see you but our hands
And this the bleeding business they have done:
Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful;
And pity to the general wrong of Rome--
As fire drives out fire, so pity pity--
Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part,
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony:
Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts
Of brothers' temper, do receive you in
With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.
CASSIUS
Your voice shall be as strong as any man's
In the disposing of new dignities.
BRUTUS
Only be patient till we have appeased
The multitude, beside themselves with fear,
And then we will deliver you the cause,
Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him,
Have thus proceeded.
ANTONY
I doubt not of your wisdom.
Let each man render me his bloody hand:
First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you;
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand;
Now, Decius Brutus, yours: now yours, Metellus;
Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours;
Though last, not last in love, yours, good Trebonius.
Gentlemen all,--alas, what shall I say?
My credit now stands on such slippery ground,
That one of two bad ways you must conceit me,
Either a coward or a flatterer.
That I did love thee, Caesar, O, 'tis true:
If then thy spirit look upon us now,
Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death,
To see thy thy Anthony making his peace,
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,
Most noble! in the presence of thy corse?
Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood,
It would become me better than to close
In terms of friendship with thine enemies.
Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay'd, brave hart;
Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,
Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy lethe.
O world, thou wast the forest to this hart;
And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee.
How like a deer, strucken by many princes,
Dost thou here lie!
CASSIUS
Mark Antony,--
ANTONY
Pardon me, Caius Cassius:
The enemies of Caesar shall say this;
Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.
CASSIUS
I blame you not for praising Caesar so;
But what compact mean you to have with us?
Will you be prick'd in number of our friends;
Or shall we on, and not depend on you?
ANTONY
Therefore I took your hands, but was, indeed,
Sway'd from the point, by looking down on Caesar.
Friends am I with you all and love you all,
Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons
Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous.
BRUTUS
Or else were this a savage spectacle:
Our reasons are so full of good regard
That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar,
You should be satisfied.
ANTONY
That's all I seek:
And am moreover suitor that I may
Produce his body to the market-place;
And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,
Speak in the order of his funeral.
BRUTUS
You shall, Mark Antony.
CASSIUS
Brutus, a word with you.
Aside to BRUTUS
You know not what you do: do not consent
That Antony speak in his funeral:
Know you how much the people may be moved
By that which he will utter?
BRUTUS
By your pardon;
I will myself into the pulpit first,
And show the reason of our Caesar's death:
What Antony shall speak, I will protest
He speaks by leave and by permission,
And that we are contented Caesar shall
Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies.
It shall advantage more than do us wrong.
CASSIUS
I know not what may fall; I like it not.
BRUTUS
Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar's body.
You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,
But speak all good you can devise of Caesar,
And say you do't by our permission;
Else shall you not have any hand at all
About his funeral: and you shall speak
In the same pulpit whereto I am going,
After my speech is ended.
ANTONY
Be it so.
I do desire no more.
BRUTUS
Prepare the body then, and follow us.
Exeunt all but ANTONY
ANTONY
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,--
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue--
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.
Enter a Servant
You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?
Servant
I do, Mark Antony.
ANTONY
Caesar did write for him to come to Rome.
Servant
He did receive his letters, and is coming;
And bid me say to you by word of mouth--
O Caesar!--
Seeing the body
ANTONY
Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep.
Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes,
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,
Began to water. Is thy master coming?
Servant
He lies to-night within seven leagues of Rome.
ANTONY
Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanced:
Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet;
Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile;
Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse
Into the market-place: there shall I try
In my oration, how the people take
The cruel issue of these bloody men;
According to the which, thou shalt discourse
To young Octavius of the state of things.
Lend me your hand.
Exeunt with CAESAR's body
SCENE II. The Forum.
Enter BRUTUS and CASSIUS, and a throng of Citizens
Citizens
We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied.
BRUTUS
Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.
Cassius, go you into the other street,
And part the numbers.
Those that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here;
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him;
And public reasons shall be rendered
Of Caesar's death.
First Citizen
I will hear Brutus speak.
Second Citizen
I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons,
When severally we hear them rendered.
Exit CASSIUS, with some of the Citizens. BRUTUS goes into the pulpit
Third Citizen
The noble Brutus is ascended: silence!
BRUTUS
Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my
cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that
you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and
awake your senses, that you may the better judge.
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of
Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar
was no less than his. If then that friend demand
why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:
--Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live
all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him;
as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was
valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I
slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his
fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his
ambition. Who is here so base that would be a
bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.
Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If
any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so
vile that will not love his country? If any, speak;
for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
All
None, Brutus, none.
BRUTUS
Then none have I offended. I have done no more to
Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of
his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not
extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences
enforced, for which he suffered death.
Enter ANTONY and others, with CAESAR's body
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who,
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive
the benefit of his dying, a place in the
commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this
I depart,--that, as I slew my best lover for the
good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself,
when it shall please my country to need my death.
All
Live, Brutus! live, live!
First Citizen
Bring him with triumph home unto his house.
Second Citizen
Give him a statue with his ancestors.
Third Citizen
Let him be Caesar.
Fourth Citizen
Caesar's better parts
Shall be crown'd in Brutus.
First Citizen
We'll bring him to his house
With shouts and clamours.
BRUTUS
My countrymen,--
Second Citizen
Peace, silence! Brutus speaks.
First Citizen
Peace, ho!
BRUTUS
Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony:
Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech
Tending to Caesar's glories; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow'd to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.
Exit
First Citizen
Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.
Third Citizen
Let him go up into the public chair;
We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.
ANTONY
For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you.
Goes into the pulpit
Fourth Citizen
What does he say of Brutus?
Third Citizen
He says, for Brutus' sake,
He finds himself beholding to us all.
Fourth Citizen
'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here.
First Citizen
This Caesar was a tyrant.
Third Citizen
Nay, that's certain:
We are blest that Rome is rid of him.
Second Citizen
Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.
ANTONY
You gentle Romans,--
Citizens
Peace, ho! let us hear him.
ANTONY
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
First Citizen
Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.
Second Citizen
If thou consider rightly of the matter,
Caesar has had great wrong.
Third Citizen
Has he, masters?
I fear there will a worse come in his place.
Fourth Citizen
Mark'd ye his words? He would not take the crown;
Therefore 'tis certain he was not ambitious.
First Citizen
If it be found so, some will dear abide it.
Second Citizen
Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.
Third Citizen
There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.
Fourth Citizen
Now mark him, he begins again to speak.
ANTONY
But yesterday the word of Caesar might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there.
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar;
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament--
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read--
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy
Unto their issue.
Fourth Citizen
We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.
All
The will, the will! we will hear Caesar's will.
ANTONY
Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, being men, bearing the will of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For, if you should, O, what would come of it!
Fourth Citizen
Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony;
You shall read us the will, Caesar's will.
ANTONY
Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:
I fear I wrong the honourable men
Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it.
Fourth Citizen
They were traitors: honourable men!
All
The will! the testament!
Second Citizen
They were villains, murderers: the will! read the will.
ANTONY
You will compel me, then, to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
Several Citizens
Come down.
Second Citizen
Descend.
Third Citizen
You shall have leave.
ANTONY comes down
Fourth Citizen
A ring; stand round.
First Citizen
Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.
Second Citizen
Room for Antony, most noble Antony.
ANTONY
Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
Several Citizens
Stand back; room; bear back.
ANTONY
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii:
Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.
First Citizen
O piteous spectacle!
Second Citizen
O noble Caesar!
Third Citizen
O woful day!
Fourth Citizen
O traitors, villains!
First Citizen
O most bloody sight!
Second Citizen
We will be revenged.
All
Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay!
Let not a traitor live!
ANTONY
Stay, countrymen.
First Citizen
Peace there! hear the noble Antony.
Second Citizen
We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him.
ANTONY
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable:
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it: they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him:
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
All
We'll mutiny.
First Citizen
We'll burn the house of Brutus.
Third Citizen
Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.
ANTONY
Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
All
Peace, ho! Hear Antony. Most noble Antony!
ANTONY
Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:
Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?
Alas, you know not: I must tell you then:
You have forgot the will I told you of.
All
Most true. The will! Let's stay and hear the will.
ANTONY
Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal.
To every Roman citizen he gives,
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
Second Citizen
Most noble Caesar! We'll revenge his death.
Third Citizen
O royal Caesar!
ANTONY
Hear me with patience.
All
Peace, ho!
ANTONY
Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbours and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever, common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?
First Citizen
Never, never. Come, away, away!
We'll burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.
Take up the body.
Second Citizen
Go fetch fire.
Third Citizen
Pluck down benches.
Fourth Citizen
Pluck down forms, windows, any thing.
Exeunt Citizens with the body
ANTONY
Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,
Take thou what course thou wilt!
Enter a Servant
How now, fellow!
Servant
Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.
ANTONY
Where is he?
Servant
He and Lepidus are at Caesar's house.
ANTONY
And thither will I straight to visit him:
He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will give us any thing.
Servant
I heard him say, Brutus and Cassius
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.
ANTONY
Belike they had some notice of the people,
How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius.
Exeunt
SCENE III. A street.
Enter CINNA the poet
CINNA THE POET
I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Caesar,
And things unlucky charge my fantasy:
I have no will to wander forth of doors,
Yet something leads me forth.
Enter Citizens
First Citizen
What is your name?
Second Citizen
Whither are you going?
Third Citizen
Where do you dwell?
Fourth Citizen
Are you a married man or a bachelor?
Second Citizen
Answer every man directly.
First Citizen
Ay, and briefly.
Fourth Citizen
Ay, and wisely.
Third Citizen
Ay, and truly, you were best.
CINNA THE POET
What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I
dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to
answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and
truly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor.
Second Citizen
That's as much as to say, they are fools that marry:
you'll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly.
CINNA THE POET
Directly, I am going to Caesar's funeral.
First Citizen
As a friend or an enemy?
CINNA THE POET
As a friend.
Second Citizen
That matter is answered directly.
Fourth Citizen
For your dwelling,--briefly.
CINNA THE POET
Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.
Third Citizen
Your name, sir, truly.
CINNA THE POET
Truly, my name is Cinna.
First Citizen
Tear him to pieces; he's a conspirator.
CINNA THE POET
I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet.
Fourth Citizen
Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses.
CINNA THE POET
I am not Cinna the conspirator.
Fourth Citizen
It is no matter, his name's Cinna; pluck but his
name out of his heart, and turn him going.
Third Citizen
Tear him, tear him! Come, brands ho! fire-brands:
to Brutus', to Cassius'; burn all: some to Decius'
house, and some to Casca's; some to Ligarius': away, go!
Exeunt
ACT IV
SCENE I. A house in Rome.
ANTONY, OCTAVIUS, and LEPIDUS, seated at a table
ANTONY
These many, then, shall die; their names are prick'd.
OCTAVIUS
Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus?
LEPIDUS
I do consent--
OCTAVIUS
Prick him down, Antony.
LEPIDUS
Upon condition Publius shall not live,
Who is your sister's son, Mark Antony.
ANTONY
He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him.
But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar's house;
Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine
How to cut off some charge in legacies.
LEPIDUS
What, shall I find you here?
OCTAVIUS
Or here, or at the Capitol.
Exit LEPIDUS
ANTONY
This is a slight unmeritable man,
Meet to be sent on errands: is it fit,
The three-fold world divided, he should stand
One of the three to share it?
OCTAVIUS
So you thought him;
And took his voice who should be prick'd to die,
In our black sentence and proscription.
ANTONY
Octavius, I have seen more days than you:
And though we lay these honours on this man,
To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads,
He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,
To groan and sweat under the business,
Either led or driven, as we point the way;
And having brought our treasure where we will,
Then take we down his load, and turn him off,
Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears,
And graze in commons.
OCTAVIUS
You may do your will;
But he's a tried and valiant soldier.
ANTONY
So is my horse, Octavius; and for that
I do appoint him store of provender:
It is a creature that I teach to fight,
To wind, to stop, to run directly on,
His corporal motion govern'd by my spirit.
And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so;
He must be taught and train'd and bid go forth;
A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds
On abjects, orts and imitations,
Which, out of use and staled by other men,
Begin his fashion: do not talk of him,
But as a property. And now, Octavius,
Listen great things:--Brutus and Cassius
Are levying powers: we must straight make head:
Therefore let our alliance be combined,
Our best friends made, our means stretch'd
And let us presently go sit in council,
How covert matters may be best disclosed,
And open perils surest answered.
OCTAVIUS
Let us do so: for we are at the stake,
And bay'd about with many enemies;
And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear,
Millions of mischiefs.
Exeunt
SCENE II. Camp near Sardis. Before BRUTUS's tent.
Drum. Enter BRUTUS, LUCILIUS, LUCIUS, and Soldiers; TITINIUS and PINDARUS meeting them
BRUTUS
Stand, ho!
LUCILIUS
Give the word, ho! and stand.
BRUTUS
What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near?
LUCILIUS
He is at hand; and Pindarus is come
To do you salutation from his master.
BRUTUS
He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus,
In his own change, or by ill officers,
Hath given me some worthy cause to wish
Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand,
I shall be satisfied.
PINDARUS
I do not doubt
But that my noble master will appear
Such as he is, full of regard and honour.
BRUTUS
He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius;
How he received you, let me be resolved.
LUCILIUS
With courtesy and with respect enough;
But not with such familiar instances,
Nor with such free and friendly conference,
As he hath used of old.
BRUTUS
Thou hast described
A hot friend cooling: ever note, Lucilius,
When love begins to sicken and decay,
It useth an enforced ceremony.
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith;
But hollow men, like horses hot at hand,
Make gallant show and promise of their mettle;
But when they should endure the bloody spur,
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades,
Sink in the trial. Comes his army on?
LUCILIUS
They mean this night in Sardis to be quarter'd;
The greater part, the horse in general,
Are come with Cassius.
BRUTUS
Hark! he is arrived.
Low march within
March gently on to meet him.
Enter CASSIUS and his powers
CASSIUS
Stand, ho!
BRUTUS
Stand, ho! Speak the word along.
First Soldier
Stand!
Second Soldier
Stand!
Third Soldier
Stand!
CASSIUS
Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.
BRUTUS
Judge me, you gods! wrong I mine enemies?
And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother?
CASSIUS
Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs;
And when you do them--
BRUTUS
Cassius, be content.
Speak your griefs softly: I do know you well.
Before the eyes of both our armies here,
Which should perceive nothing but love from us,
Let us not wrangle: bid them move away;
Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,
And I will give you audience.
CASSIUS
Pindarus,
Bid our commanders lead their charges off
A little from this ground.
BRUTUS
Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man
Come to our tent till we have done our conference.
Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door.
Exeunt
SCENE III. Brutus's tent.
Enter BRUTUS and CASSIUS
CASSIUS
That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this:
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.
BRUTUS
You wronged yourself to write in such a case.
CASSIUS
In such a time as this it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear his comment.
BRUTUS
Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.
CASSIUS
I an itching palm!
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
BRUTUS
The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.
CASSIUS
Chastisement!
BRUTUS
Remember March, the ides of March remember:
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What, shall one of us
That struck the foremost man of all this world
But for supporting robbers, shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
CASSIUS
Brutus, bay not me;
I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practise, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
BRUTUS
Go to; you are not, Cassius.
CASSIUS
I am.
BRUTUS
I say you are not.
CASSIUS
Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.
BRUTUS
Away, slight man!
CASSIUS
Is't possible?
BRUTUS
Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
CASSIUS
O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this?
BRUTUS
All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;
Go show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
CASSIUS
Is it come to this?
BRUTUS
You say you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well: for mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
CASSIUS
You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;
I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say 'better'?
BRUTUS
If you did, I care not.
CASSIUS
When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.
BRUTUS
Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.
CASSIUS
I durst not!
BRUTUS
No.
CASSIUS
What, durst not tempt him!
BRUTUS
For your life you durst not!
CASSIUS
Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
BRUTUS
You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection: I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;
Dash him to pieces!
CASSIUS
I denied you not.
BRUTUS
You did.
CASSIUS
I did not: he was but a fool that brought
My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
BRUTUS
I do not, till you practise them on me.
CASSIUS
You love me not.
BRUTUS
I do not like your faults.
CASSIUS
A friendly eye could never see such faults.
BRUTUS
A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.
CASSIUS
Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world;
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Cheque'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
BRUTUS
Sheathe your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb
That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
CASSIUS
Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him?
BRUTUS
When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
CASSIUS
Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
BRUTUS
And my heart too.
CASSIUS
O Brutus!
BRUTUS
What's the matter?
CASSIUS
Have not you love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful?
BRUTUS
Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Poet
[Within] Let me go in to see the generals;
There is some grudge between 'em, 'tis not meet
They be alone.
LUCILIUS
[Within] You shall not come to them.
Poet
[Within] Nothing but death shall stay me.
Enter Poet, followed by LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, and LUCIUS
CASSIUS
How now! what's the matter?
Poet
For shame, you generals! what do you mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be;
For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye.
CASSIUS
Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme!
BRUTUS
Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence!
CASSIUS
Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion.
BRUTUS
I'll know his humour, when he knows his time:
What should the wars do with these jigging fools?
Companion, hence!
CASSIUS
Away, away, be gone.
Exit Poet
BRUTUS
Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders
Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.
CASSIUS
And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you
Immediately to us.
Exeunt LUCILIUS and TITINIUS
BRUTUS
Lucius, a bowl of wine!
Exit LUCIUS
CASSIUS
I did not think you could have been so angry.
BRUTUS
O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
CASSIUS
Of your philosophy you make no use,
If you give place to accidental evils.
BRUTUS
No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead.
CASSIUS
Ha! Portia!
BRUTUS
She is dead.
CASSIUS
How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so?
O insupportable and touching loss!
Upon what sickness?
BRUTUS
Impatient of my absence,
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themselves so strong:--for with her death
That tidings came;--with this she fell distract,
And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.
CASSIUS
And died so?
BRUTUS
Even so.
CASSIUS
O ye immortal gods!
Re-enter LUCIUS, with wine and taper
BRUTUS
Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine.
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.
CASSIUS
My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.
Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;
I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.
BRUTUS
Come in, Titinius!
Exit LUCIUS
Re-enter TITINIUS, with MESSALA
Welcome, good Messala.
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.
CASSIUS
Portia, art thou gone?
BRUTUS
No more, I pray you.
Messala, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius and Mark Antony
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition toward Philippi.
MESSALA
Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor.
BRUTUS
With what addition?
MESSALA
That by proscription and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,
Have put to death an hundred senators.
BRUTUS
Therein our letters do not well agree;
Mine speak of seventy senators that died
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.
CASSIUS
Cicero one!
MESSALA
Cicero is dead,
And by that order of proscription.
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?
BRUTUS
No, Messala.
MESSALA
Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
BRUTUS
Nothing, Messala.
MESSALA
That, methinks, is strange.
BRUTUS
Why ask you? hear you aught of her in yours?
MESSALA
No, my lord.
BRUTUS
Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.
MESSALA
Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.
BRUTUS
Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once,
I have the patience to endure it now.
MESSALA
Even so great men great losses should endure.
CASSIUS
I have as much of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.
BRUTUS
Well, to our work alive. What do you think
Of marching to Philippi presently?
CASSIUS
I do not think it good.
BRUTUS
Your reason?
CASSIUS
This it is:
'Tis better that the enemy seek us:
So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,
Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still,
Are full of rest, defense, and nimbleness.
BRUTUS
Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.
The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground
Do stand but in a forced affection;
For they have grudged us contribution:
The enemy, marching along by them,
By them shall make a fuller number up,
Come on refresh'd, new-added, and encouraged;
From which advantage shall we cut him off,
If at Philippi we do face him there,
These people at our back.
CASSIUS
Hear me, good brother.
BRUTUS
Under your pardon. You must note beside,
That we have tried the utmost of our friends,
Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe:
The enemy increaseth every day;
We, at the height, are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
CASSIUS
Then, with your will, go on;
We'll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.
BRUTUS
The deep of night is crept upon our talk,
And nature must obey necessity;
Which we will niggard with a little rest.
There is no more to say?
CASSIUS
No more. Good night:
Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence.
BRUTUS
Lucius!
Enter LUCIUS
My gown.
Exit LUCIUS
Farewell, good Messala:
Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius,
Good night, and good repose.
CASSIUS
O my dear brother!
This was an ill beginning of the night:
Never come such division 'tween our souls!
Let it not, Brutus.
BRUTUS
Every thing is well.
CASSIUS
Good night, my lord.
BRUTUS
Good night, good brother.
TITINIUS MESSALA
Good night, Lord Brutus.
BRUTUS
Farewell, every one.
Exeunt all but BRUTUS
Re-enter LUCIUS, with the gown
Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument?
LUCIUS
Here in the tent.
BRUTUS
What, thou speak'st drowsily?
Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o'er-watch'd.
Call Claudius and some other of my men:
I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.
LUCIUS
Varro and Claudius!
Enter VARRO and CLAUDIUS
VARRO
Calls my lord?
BRUTUS
I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep;
It may be I shall raise you by and by
On business to my brother Cassius.
VARRO
So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure.
BRUTUS
I will not have it so: lie down, good sirs;
It may be I shall otherwise bethink me.
Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so;
I put it in the pocket of my gown.
VARRO and CLAUDIUS lie down
LUCIUS
I was sure your lordship did not give it me.
BRUTUS
Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.
Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,
And touch thy instrument a strain or two?
LUCIUS
Ay, my lord, an't please you.
BRUTUS
It does, my boy:
I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.
LUCIUS
It is my duty, sir.
BRUTUS
I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
LUCIUS
I have slept, my lord, already.
BRUTUS
It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again;
I will not hold thee long: if I do live,
I will be good to thee.
Music, and a song
This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber,
Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,
That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night;
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee:
If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument;
I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night.
Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn'd down
Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.
Enter the Ghost of CAESAR
How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here?
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes
That shapes this monstrous apparition.
It comes upon me. Art thou any thing?
Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare?
Speak to me what thou art.
GHOST
Thy evil spirit, Brutus.
BRUTUS
Why comest thou?
GHOST
To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.
BRUTUS
Well; then I shall see thee again?
GHOST
Ay, at Philippi.
BRUTUS
Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then.
Exit Ghost
Now I have taken heart thou vanishest:
Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.
Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius!
LUCIUS
The strings, my lord, are false.
BRUTUS
He thinks he still is at his instrument.
Lucius, awake!
LUCIUS
My lord?
BRUTUS
Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out?
LUCIUS
My lord, I do not know that I did cry.
BRUTUS
Yes, that thou didst: didst thou see any thing?
LUCIUS
Nothing, my lord.
BRUTUS
Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius!
To VARRO
Fellow thou, awake!
VARRO
My lord?
CLAUDIUS
My lord?
BRUTUS
Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?
VARRO CLAUDIUS
Did we, my lord?
BRUTUS
Ay: saw you any thing?
VARRO
No, my lord, I saw nothing.
CLAUDIUS
Nor I, my lord.
BRUTUS
Go and commend me to my brother Cassius;
Bid him set on his powers betimes before,
And we will follow.
VARRO CLAUDIUS
It shall be done, my lord.
Exeunt
ACT V
SCENE I. The plains of Philippi.
Enter OCTAVIUS, ANTONY, and their army
OCTAVIUS
Now, Antony, our hopes are answered:
You said the enemy would not come down,
But keep the hills and upper regions;
It proves not so: their battles are at hand;
They mean to warn us at Philippi here,
Answering before we do demand of them.
ANTONY
Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know
Wherefore they do it: they could be content
To visit other places; and come down
With fearful bravery, thinking by this face
To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage;
But 'tis not so.
Enter a Messenger
Messenger
Prepare you, generals:
The enemy comes on in gallant show;
Their bloody sign of battle is hung out,
And something to be done immediately.
ANTONY
Octavius, lead your battle softly on,
Upon the left hand of the even field.
OCTAVIUS
Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left.
ANTONY
Why do you cross me in this exigent?
OCTAVIUS
I do not cross you; but I will do so.
March
Drum. Enter BRUTUS, CASSIUS, and their Army; LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSALA, and others
BRUTUS
They stand, and would have parley.
CASSIUS
Stand fast, Titinius: we must out and talk.
OCTAVIUS
Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?
ANTONY
No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge.
Make forth; the generals would have some words.
OCTAVIUS
Stir not until the signal.
BRUTUS
Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?
OCTAVIUS
Not that we love words better, as you do.
BRUTUS
Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius.
ANTONY
In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words:
Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart,
Crying 'Long live! hail, Caesar!'
CASSIUS
Antony,
The posture of your blows are yet unknown;
But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,
And leave them honeyless.
ANTONY
Not stingless too.
BRUTUS
O, yes, and soundless too;
For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony,
And very wisely threat before you sting.
ANTONY
Villains, you did not so, when your vile daggers
Hack'd one another in the sides of Caesar:
You show'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd like hounds,
And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet;
Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind
Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers!
CASSIUS
Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself:
This tongue had not offended so to-day,
If Cassius might have ruled.
OCTAVIUS
Come, come, the cause: if arguing make us sweat,
The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look;
I draw a sword against conspirators;
When think you that the sword goes up again?
Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds
Be well avenged; or till another Caesar
Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.
BRUTUS
Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands,
Unless thou bring'st them with thee.
OCTAVIUS
So I hope;
I was not born to die on Brutus' sword.
BRUTUS
O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain,
Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.
CASSIUS
A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour,
Join'd with a masker and a reveller!
ANTONY
Old Cassius still!
OCTAVIUS
Come, Antony, away!
Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth:
If you dare fight to-day, come to the field;
If not, when you have stomachs.
Exeunt OCTAVIUS, ANTONY, and their army
CASSIUS
Why, now, blow wind, swell billow and swim bark!
The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.
BRUTUS
Ho, Lucilius! hark, a word with you.
LUCILIUS
[Standing forth] My lord?
BRUTUS and LUCILIUS converse apart
CASSIUS
Messala!
MESSALA
[Standing forth] What says my general?
CASSIUS
Messala,
This is my birth-day; as this very day
Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala:
Be thou my witness that against my will,
As Pompey was, am I compell'd to set
Upon one battle all our liberties.
You know that I held Epicurus strong
And his opinion: now I change my mind,
And partly credit things that do presage.
Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign
Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch'd,
Gorging and feeding from our soldiers' hands;
Who to Philippi here consorted us:
This morning are they fled away and gone;
And in their steads do ravens, crows and kites,
Fly o'er our heads and downward look on us,
As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem
A canopy most fatal, under which
Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.
MESSALA
Believe not so.
CASSIUS
I but believe it partly;
For I am fresh of spirit and resolved
To meet all perils very constantly.
BRUTUS
Even so, Lucilius.
CASSIUS
Now, most noble Brutus,
The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may,
Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age!
But since the affairs of men rest still incertain,
Let's reason with the worst that may befall.
If we do lose this battle, then is this
The very last time we shall speak together:
What are you then determined to do?
BRUTUS
Even by the rule of that philosophy
By which I did blame Cato for the death
Which he did give himself, I know not how,
But I do find it cowardly and vile,
For fear of what might fall, so to prevent
The time of life: arming myself with patience
To stay the providence of some high powers
That govern us below.
CASSIUS
Then, if we lose this battle,
You are contented to be led in triumph
Thorough the streets of Rome?
BRUTUS
No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,
That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;
He bears too great a mind. But this same day
Must end that work the ides of March begun;
And whether we shall meet again I know not.
Therefore our everlasting farewell take:
For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!
If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then, this parting was well made.
CASSIUS
For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus!
If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed;
If not, 'tis true this parting was well made.
BRUTUS
Why, then, lead on. O, that a man might know
The end of this day's business ere it come!
But it sufficeth that the day will end,
And then the end is known. Come, ho! away!
Exeunt
SCENE II. The same. The field of battle.
Alarum. Enter BRUTUS and MESSALA
BRUTUS
Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills
Unto the legions on the other side.
Loud alarum
Let them set on at once; for I perceive
But cold demeanor in Octavius' wing,
And sudden push gives them the overthrow.
Ride, ride, Messala: let them all come down.
Exeunt
SCENE III. Another part of the field.
Alarums. Enter CASSIUS and TITINIUS
CASSIUS
O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly!
Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy:
This ensign here of mine was turning back;
I slew the coward, and did take it from him.
TITINIUS
O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early;
Who, having some advantage on Octavius,
Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil,
Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed.
Enter PINDARUS
PINDARUS
Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;
Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord
Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.
CASSIUS
This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius;
Are those my tents where I perceive the fire?
TITINIUS
They are, my lord.
CASSIUS
Titinius, if thou lovest me,
Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him,
Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops,
And here again; that I may rest assured
Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.
TITINIUS
I will be here again, even with a thought.
Exit
CASSIUS
Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill;
My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius,
And tell me what thou notest about the field.
PINDARUS ascends the hill
This day I breathed first: time is come round,
And where I did begin, there shall I end;
My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news?
PINDARUS
[Above] O my lord!
CASSIUS
What news?
PINDARUS
[Above] Titinius is enclosed round about
With horsemen, that make to him on the spur;
Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him.
Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too.
He's ta'en.
Shout
And, hark! they shout for joy.
CASSIUS
Come down, behold no more.
O, coward that I am, to live so long,
To see my best friend ta'en before my face!
PINDARUS descends
Come hither, sirrah:
In Parthia did I take thee prisoner;
And then I swore thee, saving of thy life,
That whatsoever I did bid thee do,
Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath;
Now be a freeman: and with this good sword,
That ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom.
Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts;
And, when my face is cover'd, as 'tis now,
Guide thou the sword.
PINDARUS stabs him
Caesar, thou art revenged,
Even with the sword that kill'd thee.
Dies
PINDARUS
So, I am free; yet would not so have been,
Durst I have done my will. O Cassius,
Far from this country Pindarus shall run,
Where never Roman shall take note of him.
Exit
Re-enter TITINIUS with MESSALA
MESSALA
It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius
Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power,
As Cassius' legions are by Antony.
TITINIUS
These tidings will well comfort Cassius.
MESSALA
Where did you leave him?
TITINIUS
All disconsolate,
With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.
MESSALA
Is not that he t hat lies upon the ground?
TITINIUS
He lies not like the living. O my heart!
MESSALA
Is not that he?
TITINIUS
No, this was he, Messala,
But Cassius is no more. O setting sun,
As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night,
So in his red blood Cassius' day is set;
The sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone;
Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done!
Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.
MESSALA
Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.
O hateful error, melancholy's child,
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men
The things that are not? O error, soon conceived,
Thou never comest unto a happy birth,
But kill'st the mother that engender'd thee!
TITINIUS
What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus?
MESSALA
Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report
Into his ears; I may say, thrusting it;
For piercing steel and darts envenomed
Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus
As tidings of this sight.
TITINIUS
Hie you, Messala,
And I will seek for Pindarus the while.
Exit MESSALA
Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius?
Did I not meet thy friends? and did not they
Put on my brows this wreath of victory,
And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts?
Alas, thou hast misconstrued every thing!
But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I
Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace,
And see how I regarded Caius Cassius.
By your leave, gods:--this is a Roman's part
Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart.
Kills himself
Alarum. Re-enter MESSALA, with BRUTUS, CATO, STRATO, VOLUMNIUS, and LUCILIUS
BRUTUS
Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?
MESSALA
Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.
BRUTUS
Titinius' face is upward.
CATO
He is slain.
BRUTUS
O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!
Thy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords
In our own proper entrails.
Low alarums
CATO
Brave Titinius!
Look, whether he have not crown'd dead Cassius!
BRUTUS
Are yet two Romans living such as these?
The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!
It is impossible that ever Rome
Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears
To this dead man than you shall see me pay.
I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.
Come, therefore, and to Thasos send his body:
His funerals shall not be in our camp,
Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come;
And come, young Cato; let us to the field.
Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on:
'Tis three o'clock; and, Romans, yet ere night
We shall try fortune in a second fight.
Exeunt
SCENE IV. Another part of the field.
Alarum. Enter fighting, Soldiers of both armies; then BRUTUS, CATO, LUCILIUS, and others
BRUTUS
Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads!
CATO
What bastard doth not? Who will go with me?
I will proclaim my name about the field:
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend;
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
BRUTUS
And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I;
Brutus, my country's friend; know me for Brutus!
Exit
LUCILIUS
O young and noble Cato, art thou down?
Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius;
And mayst be honour'd, being Cato's son.
First Soldier
Yield, or thou diest.
LUCILIUS
Only I yield to die:
There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight;
Offering money
Kill Brutus, and be honour'd in his death.
First Soldier
We must not. A noble prisoner!
Second Soldier
Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en.
First Soldier
I'll tell the news. Here comes the general.
Enter ANTONY
Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord.
ANTONY
Where is he?
LUCILIUS
Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough:
I dare assure thee that no enemy
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:
The gods defend him from so great a shame!
When you do find him, or alive or dead,
He will be found like Brutus, like himself.
ANTONY
This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you,
A prize no less in worth: keep this man safe;
Give him all kindness: I had rather have
Such men my friends than enemies. Go on,
And see whether Brutus be alive or dead;
And bring us word unto Octavius' tent
How every thing is chanced.
Exeunt
SCENE V. Another part of the field.
Enter BRUTUS, DARDANIUS, CLITUS, STRATO, and VOLUMNIUS
BRUTUS
Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
CLITUS
Statilius show'd the torch-light, but, my lord,
He came not back: he is or ta'en or slain.
BRUTUS
Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word;
It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.
Whispers
CLITUS
What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
BRUTUS
Peace then! no words.
CLITUS
I'll rather kill myself.
BRUTUS
Hark thee, Dardanius.
Whispers
DARDANIUS
Shall I do such a deed?
CLITUS
O Dardanius!
DARDANIUS
O Clitus!
CLITUS
What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
DARDANIUS
To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.
CLITUS
Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.
BRUTUS
Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word.
VOLUMNIUS
What says my lord?
BRUTUS
Why, this, Volumnius:
The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me
Two several times by night; at Sardis once,
And, this last night, here in Philippi fields:
I know my hour is come.
VOLUMNIUS
Not so, my lord.
BRUTUS
Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius.
Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;
Our enemies have beat us to the pit:
Low alarums
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves,
Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius,
Thou know'st that we two went to school together:
Even for that our love of old, I prithee,
Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it.
VOLUMNIUS
That's not an office for a friend, my lord.
Alarum still
CLITUS
Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here.
BRUTUS
Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius.
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep;
Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen,
My heart doth joy that yet in all my life
I found no man but he was true to me.
I shall have glory by this losing day
More than Octavius and Mark Antony
By this vile conquest shall attain unto.
So fare you well at once; for Brutus' tongue
Hath almost ended his life's history:
Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,
That have but labour'd to attain this hour.
Alarum. Cry within, 'Fly, fly, fly!'
CLITUS
Fly, my lord, fly.
BRUTUS
Hence! I will follow.
Exeunt CLITUS, DARDANIUS, and VOLUMNIUS
I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:
Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?
STRATO
Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.
BRUTUS
Farewell, good Strato.
Runs on his sword
Caesar, now be still:
I kill'd not thee with half so good a will.
Dies
Alarum. Retreat. Enter OCTAVIUS, ANTONY, MESSALA, LUCILIUS, and the army
OCTAVIUS
What man is that?
MESSALA
My master's man. Strato, where is thy master?
STRATO
Free from the bondage you are in, Messala:
The conquerors can but make a fire of him;
For Brutus only overcame himself,
And no man else hath honour by his death.
LUCILIUS
So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus,
That thou hast proved Lucilius' saying true.
OCTAVIUS
All that served Brutus, I will entertain them.
Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?
STRATO
Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.
OCTAVIUS
Do so, good Messala.
MESSALA
How died my master, Strato?
STRATO
I held the sword, and he did run on it.
MESSALA
Octavius, then take him to follow thee,
That did the latest service to my master.
ANTONY
This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators save only he
Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
He only, in a general honest thought
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle, and the elements
So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world 'This was a man!'
OCTAVIUS
According to his virtue let us use him,
With all respect and rites of burial.
Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie,
Most like a soldier, order'd honourably.
So call the field to rest; and let's away,
To part the glories of this happy day.
Exeunt
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/27/2023
Public Domain Use#19,789,050text“The Star Spangled Banner”
By Francis Scott Key
Oh, say can you see,
By the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars,
Thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched
Were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets red glare,
The bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there.
O, say, does that
Star-Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free
And the home of the brave?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/27/2023
Public Domain Use#19,789,036textThe Tyger
By William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,617,974textO Captain! My Captain!
By Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,617,953textTHE TEMPEST
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ALONSO King of Naples.
SEBASTIAN his brother.
PROSPERO the right Duke of Milan.
ANTONIO his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.
FERDINAND son to the King of Naples.
GONZALO an honest old Counsellor.
ADRIAN |
| Lords.
FRANCISCO |
CALIBAN a savage and deformed Slave.
TRINCULO a Jester.
STEPHANO a drunken Butler.
Master of a Ship. (Master:)
Boatswain. (Boatswain:)
Mariners. (Mariners:)
MIRANDA daughter to Prospero.
ARIEL an airy Spirit.
IRIS |
|
CERES |
|
JUNO | presented by Spirits.
|
Nymphs |
|
Reapers |
Other Spirits attending on Prospero.
SCENE A ship at Sea: an island.
THE TEMPEST
ACT I
SCENE I On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise
of thunder and lightning heard.
[Enter a Master and a Boatswain]
Master Boatswain!
Boatswain Here, master: what cheer?
Master Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely,
or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.
[Exit]
[Enter Mariners]
Boatswain Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!
yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the
master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind,
if room enough!
[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND,
GONZALO, and others]
ALONSO Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master?
Play the men.
Boatswain I pray now, keep below.
ANTONIO Where is the master, boatswain?
Boatswain Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your
cabins: you do assist the storm.
GONZALO Nay, good, be patient.
Boatswain When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers
for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not.
GONZALO Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.
Boatswain None that I more love than myself. You are a
counsellor; if you can command these elements to
silence, and work the peace of the present, we will
not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you
cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make
yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of
the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out
of our way, I say.
[Exit]
GONZALO I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he
hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is
perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his
hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable,
for our own doth little advantage. If he be not
born to be hanged, our case is miserable.
[Exeunt]
[Re-enter Boatswain]
Boatswain Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring
her to try with main-course.
[A cry within]
A plague upon this howling! they are louder than
the weather or our office.
[Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO]
Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er
and drown? Have you a mind to sink?
SEBASTIAN A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous,
incharitable dog!
Boatswain Work you then.
ANTONIO Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!
We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.
GONZALO I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were
no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an
unstanched wench.
Boatswain Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off to
sea again; lay her off.
[Enter Mariners wet]
Mariners All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!
Boatswain What, must our mouths be cold?
GONZALO The king and prince at prayers! let's assist them,
For our case is as theirs.
SEBASTIAN I'm out of patience.
ANTONIO We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:
This wide-chapp'd rascal--would thou mightst lie drowning
The washing of ten tides!
GONZALO He'll be hang'd yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it
And gape at widest to glut him.
[A confused noise within: 'Mercy on us!'--
'We split, we split!'--'Farewell, my wife and
children!'--
'Farewell, brother!'--'We split, we split, we split!']
ANTONIO Let's all sink with the king.
SEBASTIAN Let's take leave of him.
[Exeunt ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN]
GONZALO Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an
acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any
thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain
die a dry death.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT I
SCENE II The island. Before PROSPERO'S cell.
[Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA]
MIRANDA If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.
PROSPERO Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.
MIRANDA O, woe the day!
PROSPERO No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.
MIRANDA More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.
PROSPERO 'Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. So:
[Lays down his mantle]
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered that there is no soul--
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.
MIRANDA You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding 'Stay: not yet.'
PROSPERO The hour's now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?
I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not
Out three years old.
MIRANDA Certainly, sir, I can.
PROSPERO By what? by any other house or person?
Of any thing the image tell me that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
MIRANDA 'Tis far off
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?
PROSPERO Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here,
How thou camest here thou mayst.
MIRANDA But that I do not.
PROSPERO Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan and
A prince of power.
MIRANDA Sir, are not you my father?
PROSPERO Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father
Was Duke of Milan; and thou his only heir
And princess no worse issued.
MIRANDA O the heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from thence?
Or blessed was't we did?
PROSPERO Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence,
But blessedly holp hither.
MIRANDA O, my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,
Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.
PROSPERO My brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio--
I pray thee, mark me--that a brother should
Be so perfidious!--he whom next thyself
Of all the world I loved and to him put
The manage of my state; as at that time
Through all the signories it was the first
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity, and for the liberal arts
Without a parallel; those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother
And to my state grew stranger, being transported
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle--
Dost thou attend me?
MIRANDA Sir, most heedfully.
PROSPERO Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who to advance and who
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em,
Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not.
MIRANDA O, good sir, I do.
PROSPERO I pray thee, mark me.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retired,
O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked an evil nature; and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie, he did believe
He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution
And executing the outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing--
Dost thou hear?
MIRANDA Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PROSPERO To have no screen between this part he play'd
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates--
So dry he was for sway--wi' the King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown and bend
The dukedom yet unbow'd--alas, poor Milan!--
To most ignoble stooping.
MIRANDA O the heavens!
PROSPERO Mark his condition and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
MIRANDA I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
PROSPERO Now the condition.
The King of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises
Of homage and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan
With all the honours on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose did Antonio open
The gates of Milan, and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.
MIRANDA Alack, for pity!
I, not remembering how I cried out then,
Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to't.
PROSPERO Hear a little further
And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now's upon's; without the which this story
Were most impertinent.
MIRANDA Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
PROSPERO Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business, but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh
To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
MIRANDA Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!
PROSPERO O, a cherubim
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile.
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt,
Under my burthen groan'd; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.
MIRANDA How came we ashore?
PROSPERO By Providence divine.
Some food we had and some fresh water that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, being then appointed
Master of this design, did give us, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me
From mine own library with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
MIRANDA Would I might
But ever see that man!
PROSPERO Now I arise:
[Resumes his mantle]
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princesses can that have more time
For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.
MIRANDA Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir,
For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
PROSPERO Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions:
Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,
And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.
[MIRANDA sleeps]
Come away, servant, come. I am ready now.
Approach, my Ariel, come.
[Enter ARIEL]
ARIEL All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality.
PROSPERO Hast thou, spirit,
Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee?
ARIEL To every article.
I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometime I'ld divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not; the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.
PROSPERO My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
ARIEL Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad and play'd
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,--
Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.'
PROSPERO Why that's my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?
ARIEL Close by, my master.
PROSPERO But are they, Ariel, safe?
ARIEL Not a hair perish'd;
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me,
In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle.
The king's son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.
PROSPERO Of the king's ship
The mariners say how thou hast disposed
And all the rest o' the fleet.
ARIEL Safely in harbour
Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid:
The mariners all under hatches stow'd;
Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour,
I have left asleep; and for the rest o' the fleet
Which I dispersed, they all have met again
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,
Bound sadly home for Naples,
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd
And his great person perish.
PROSPERO Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform'd: but there's more work.
What is the time o' the day?
ARIEL Past the mid season.
PROSPERO At least two glasses. The time 'twixt six and now
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
ARIEL Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised,
Which is not yet perform'd me.
PROSPERO How now? moody?
What is't thou canst demand?
ARIEL My liberty.
PROSPERO Before the time be out? no more!
ARIEL I prithee,
Remember I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.
PROSPERO Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee?
ARIEL No.
PROSPERO Thou dost, and think'st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north,
To do me business in the veins o' the earth
When it is baked with frost.
ARIEL I do not, sir.
PROSPERO Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?
ARIEL No, sir.
PROSPERO Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me.
ARIEL Sir, in Argier.
PROSPERO O, was she so? I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did
They would not take her life. Is not this true?
ARIEL Ay, sir.
PROSPERO This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child
And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave,
As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands,
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died
And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island--
Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour'd with
A human shape.
ARIEL Yes, Caliban her son.
PROSPERO Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans
Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts
Of ever angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax
Could not again undo: it was mine art,
When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape
The pine and let thee out.
ARIEL I thank thee, master.
PROSPERO If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak
And peg thee in his knotty entrails till
Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.
ARIEL Pardon, master;
I will be correspondent to command
And do my spiriting gently.
PROSPERO Do so, and after two days
I will discharge thee.
ARIEL That's my noble master!
What shall I do? say what; what shall I do?
PROSPERO Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: be subject
To no sight but thine and mine, invisible
To every eyeball else. Go take this shape
And hither come in't: go, hence with diligence!
[Exit ARIEL]
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!
MIRANDA The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
PROSPERO Shake it off. Come on;
We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
MIRANDA 'Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.
PROSPERO But, as 'tis,
We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood and serves in offices
That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! speak.
CALIBAN [Within] There's wood enough within.
PROSPERO Come forth, I say! there's other business for thee:
Come, thou tortoise! when?
[Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph]
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
ARIEL My lord it shall be done.
[Exit]
PROSPERO Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!
[Enter CALIBAN]
CALIBAN As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye
And blister you all o'er!
PROSPERO For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made 'em.
CALIBAN I must eat my dinner.
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,
Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst give me
Water with berries in't, and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee
And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:
Cursed be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o' the island.
PROSPERO Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.
CALIBAN O ho, O ho! would't had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.
PROSPERO Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in't which
good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confined into this rock,
Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
CALIBAN You taught me language; and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!
PROSPERO Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best,
To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice?
If thou neglect'st or dost unwillingly
What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps,
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
CALIBAN No, pray thee.
[Aside]
I must obey: his art is of such power,
It would control my dam's god, Setebos,
and make a vassal of him.
PROSPERO So, slave; hence!
[Exit CALIBAN]
[Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing;
FERDINAND following]
ARIEL'S song.
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
[Burthen [dispersedly, within] Bow-wow]
The watch-dogs bark!
[Burthen Bow-wow]
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
FERDINAND Where should this music be? i' the air or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon
Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father's wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,
Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.
[ARIEL sings]
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell
[Burthen Ding-dong]
Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell.
FERDINAND The ditty does remember my drown'd father.
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes. I hear it now above me.
PROSPERO The fringed curtains of thine eye advance
And say what thou seest yond.
MIRANDA What is't? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.
PROSPERO No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest
Was in the wreck; and, but he's something stain'd
With grief that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows
And strays about to find 'em.
MIRANDA I might call him
A thing divine, for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
PROSPERO [Aside] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee
Within two days for this.
FERDINAND Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?
MIRANDA No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
FERDINAND My language! heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where 'tis spoken.
PROSPERO How? the best?
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?
FERDINAND A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples,
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld
The king my father wreck'd.
MIRANDA Alack, for mercy!
FERDINAND Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan
And his brave son being twain.
PROSPERO [Aside] The Duke of Milan
And his more braver daughter could control thee,
If now 'twere fit to do't. At the first sight
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,
I'll set thee free for this.
[To FERDINAND]
A word, good sir;
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
MIRANDA Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e'er I saw, the first
That e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father
To be inclined my way!
FERDINAND O, if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you
The queen of Naples.
PROSPERO Soft, sir! one word more.
[Aside]
They are both in either's powers; but this swift business
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning
Make the prize light.
[To FERDINAND]
One word more; I charge thee
That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp
The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on't.
FERDINAND No, as I am a man.
MIRANDA There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with't.
PROSPERO Follow me.
Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come;
I'll manacle thy neck and feet together:
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.
FERDINAND No;
I will resist such entertainment till
Mine enemy has more power.
[Draws, and is charmed from moving]
MIRANDA O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He's gentle and not fearful.
PROSPERO What? I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.
MIRANDA Beseech you, father.
PROSPERO Hence! hang not on my garments.
MIRANDA Sir, have pity;
I'll be his surety.
PROSPERO Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an imposter! hush!
Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban
And they to him are angels.
MIRANDA My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
PROSPERO Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again
And have no vigour in them.
FERDINAND So they are;
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else o' the earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
PROSPERO [Aside] It works.
[To FERDINAND]
Come on.
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!
[To FERDINAND]
Follow me.
[To ARIEL]
Hark what thou else shalt do me.
MIRANDA Be of comfort;
My father's of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted
Which now came from him.
PROSPERO Thou shalt be free
As mountain winds: but then exactly do
All points of my command.
ARIEL To the syllable.
PROSPERO Come, follow. Speak not for him.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT II
SCENE I Another part of the island.
[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO,
ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others]
GONZALO Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,
So have we all, of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe
Is common; every day some sailor's wife,
The masters of some merchant and the merchant
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.
ALONSO Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN He receives comfort like cold porridge.
ANTONIO The visitor will not give him o'er so.
SEBASTIAN Look he's winding up the watch of his wit;
by and by it will strike.
GONZALO Sir,--
SEBASTIAN One: tell.
GONZALO When every grief is entertain'd that's offer'd,
Comes to the entertainer--
SEBASTIAN A dollar.
GONZALO Dolour comes to him, indeed: you
have spoken truer than you purposed.
SEBASTIAN You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.
GONZALO Therefore, my lord,--
ANTONIO Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
ALONSO I prithee, spare.
GONZALO Well, I have done: but yet,--
SEBASTIAN He will be talking.
ANTONIO Which, of he or Adrian, for a good
wager, first begins to crow?
SEBASTIAN The old cock.
ANTONIO The cockerel.
SEBASTIAN Done. The wager?
ANTONIO A laughter.
SEBASTIAN A match!
ADRIAN Though this island seem to be desert,--
SEBASTIAN Ha, ha, ha! So, you're paid.
ADRIAN Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,--
SEBASTIAN Yet,--
ADRIAN Yet,--
ANTONIO He could not miss't.
ADRIAN It must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate
temperance.
ANTONIO Temperance was a delicate wench.
SEBASTIAN Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.
ADRIAN The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.
SEBASTIAN As if it had lungs and rotten ones.
ANTONIO Or as 'twere perfumed by a fen.
GONZALO Here is everything advantageous to life.
ANTONIO True; save means to live.
SEBASTIAN Of that there's none, or little.
GONZALO How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
ANTONIO The ground indeed is tawny.
SEBASTIAN With an eye of green in't.
ANTONIO He misses not much.
SEBASTIAN No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.
GONZALO But the rarity of it is,--which is indeed almost
beyond credit,--
SEBASTIAN As many vouched rarities are.
GONZALO That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in
the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and
glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with
salt water.
ANTONIO If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not
say he lies?
SEBASTIAN Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report
GONZALO Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we
put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of
the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.
SEBASTIAN 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.
ADRIAN Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to
their queen.
GONZALO Not since widow Dido's time.
ANTONIO Widow! a pox o' that! How came that widow in?
widow Dido!
SEBASTIAN What if he had said 'widower AEneas' too? Good Lord,
how you take it!
ADRIAN 'Widow Dido' said you? you make me study of that:
she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
GONZALO This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
ADRIAN Carthage?
GONZALO I assure you, Carthage.
SEBASTIAN His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath
raised the wall and houses too.
ANTONIO What impossible matter will he make easy next?
SEBASTIAN I think he will carry this island home in his pocket
and give it his son for an apple.
ANTONIO And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring
forth more islands.
GONZALO Ay.
ANTONIO Why, in good time.
GONZALO Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now
as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage
of your daughter, who is now queen.
ANTONIO And the rarest that e'er came there.
SEBASTIAN Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
ANTONIO O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.
GONZALO Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I
wore it? I mean, in a sort.
ANTONIO That sort was well fished for.
GONZALO When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?
ALONSO You cram these words into mine ears against
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost and, in my rate, she too,
Who is so far from Italy removed
I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?
FRANCISCO Sir, he may live:
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd,
As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt
He came alive to land.
ALONSO No, no, he's gone.
SEBASTIAN Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she at least is banish'd from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.
ALONSO Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN You were kneel'd to and importuned otherwise
By all of us, and the fair soul herself
Weigh'd between loathness and obedience, at
Which end o' the beam should bow. We have lost your
son,
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them of this business' making
Than we bring men to comfort them:
The fault's your own.
ALONSO So is the dear'st o' the loss.
GONZALO My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness
And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.
SEBASTIAN Very well.
ANTONIO And most chirurgeonly.
GONZALO It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.
SEBASTIAN Foul weather?
ANTONIO Very foul.
GONZALO Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,--
ANTONIO He'ld sow't with nettle-seed.
SEBASTIAN Or docks, or mallows.
GONZALO And were the king on't, what would I do?
SEBASTIAN 'Scape being drunk for want of wine.
GONZALO I' the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty;--
SEBASTIAN Yet he would be king on't.
ANTONIO The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the
beginning.
GONZALO All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
SEBASTIAN No marrying 'mong his subjects?
ANTONIO None, man; all idle: whores and knaves.
GONZALO I would with such perfection govern, sir,
To excel the golden age.
SEBASTIAN God save his majesty!
ANTONIO Long live Gonzalo!
GONZALO And,--do you mark me, sir?
ALONSO Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.
GONZALO I do well believe your highness; and
did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen,
who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that
they always use to laugh at nothing.
ANTONIO 'Twas you we laughed at.
GONZALO Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing
to you: so you may continue and laugh at
nothing still.
ANTONIO What a blow was there given!
SEBASTIAN An it had not fallen flat-long.
GONZALO You are gentlemen of brave metal; you would lift
the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue
in it five weeks without changing.
[Enter ARIEL, invisible, playing solemn music]
SEBASTIAN We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.
ANTONIO Nay, good my lord, be not angry.
GONZALO No, I warrant you; I will not adventure
my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh
me asleep, for I am very heavy?
ANTONIO Go sleep, and hear us.
[All sleep except ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, and ANTONIO]
ALONSO What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find
They are inclined to do so.
SEBASTIAN Please you, sir,
Do not omit the heavy offer of it:
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
It is a comforter.
ANTONIO We two, my lord,
Will guard your person while you take your rest,
And watch your safety.
ALONSO Thank you. Wondrous heavy.
[ALONSO sleeps. Exit ARIEL]
SEBASTIAN What a strange drowsiness possesses them!
ANTONIO It is the quality o' the climate.
SEBASTIAN Why
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
Myself disposed to sleep.
ANTONIO Nor I; my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent;
They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,
Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?--No more:--
And yet me thinks I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
SEBASTIAN What, art thou waking?
ANTONIO Do you not hear me speak?
SEBASTIAN I do; and surely
It is a sleepy language and thou speak'st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?
This is a strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,
And yet so fast asleep.
ANTONIO Noble Sebastian,
Thou let'st thy fortune sleep--die, rather; wink'st
Whiles thou art waking.
SEBASTIAN Thou dost snore distinctly;
There's meaning in thy snores.
ANTONIO I am more serious than my custom: you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do
Trebles thee o'er.
SEBASTIAN Well, I am standing water.
ANTONIO I'll teach you how to flow.
SEBASTIAN Do so: to ebb
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
ANTONIO O,
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.
SEBASTIAN Prithee, say on:
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
A matter from thee, and a birth indeed
Which throes thee much to yield.
ANTONIO Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth'd, hath here almost persuade,--
For he's a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade,--the king his son's alive,
'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd
And he that sleeps here swims.
SEBASTIAN I have no hope
That he's undrown'd.
ANTONIO O, out of that 'no hope'
What great hope have you! no hope that way is
Another way so high a hope that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me
That Ferdinand is drown'd?
SEBASTIAN He's gone.
ANTONIO Then, tell me,
Who's the next heir of Naples?
SEBASTIAN Claribel.
ANTONIO She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post--
The man i' the moon's too slow--till new-born chins
Be rough and razorable; she that--from whom?
We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again,
And by that destiny to perform an act
Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come
In yours and my discharge.
SEBASTIAN What stuff is this! how say you?
'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis;
So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions
There is some space.
ANTONIO A space whose every cubit
Seems to cry out, 'How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake.' Say, this were death
That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?
SEBASTIAN Methinks I do.
ANTONIO And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?
SEBASTIAN I remember
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
ANTONIO True:
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much feater than before: my brother's servants
Were then my fellows; now they are my men.
SEBASTIAN But, for your conscience?
ANTONIO Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a kibe,
'Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,
That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they
And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,
No better than the earth he lies upon,
If he were that which now he's like, that's dead;
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,
They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;
They'll tell the clock to any business that
We say befits the hour.
SEBASTIAN Thy case, dear friend,
Shall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan,
I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest;
And I the king shall love thee.
ANTONIO Draw together;
And when I rear my hand, do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.
SEBASTIAN O, but one word.
[They talk apart]
[Re-enter ARIEL, invisible]
ARIEL My master through his art foresees the danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth--
For else his project dies--to keep them living.
[Sings in GONZALO's ear]
While you here do snoring lie,
Open-eyed conspiracy
His time doth take.
If of life you keep a care,
Shake off slumber, and beware:
Awake, awake!
ANTONIO Then let us both be sudden.
GONZALO Now, good angels
Preserve the king.
[They wake]
ALONSO Why, how now? ho, awake! Why are you drawn?
Wherefore this ghastly looking?
GONZALO What's the matter?
SEBASTIAN Whiles we stood here securing your repose,
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing
Like bulls, or rather lions: did't not wake you?
It struck mine ear most terribly.
ALONSO I heard nothing.
ANTONIO O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear,
To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar
Of a whole herd of lions.
ALONSO Heard you this, Gonzalo?
GONZALO Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,
And that a strange one too, which did awake me:
I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open'd,
I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise,
That's verily. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard,
Or that we quit this place; let's draw our weapons.
ALONSO Lead off this ground; and let's make further search
For my poor son.
GONZALO Heavens keep him from these beasts!
For he is, sure, i' the island.
ALONSO Lead away.
ARIEL Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT II
SCENE II Another part of the island.
[Enter CALIBAN with a burden of wood. A noise of
thunder heard]
CALIBAN All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me
And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin--shows, pitch me i' the mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid 'em; but
For every trifle are they set upon me;
Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me
And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness.
[Enter TRINCULO]
Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat;
Perchance he will not mind me.
TRINCULO Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off
any weather at all, and another storm brewing;
I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black
cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul
bombard that would shed his liquor. If it
should thunder as it did before, I know not
where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot
choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we
here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish:
he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-
like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-
John. A strange fish! Were I in England now,
as once I was, and had but this fish painted,
not a holiday fool there but would give a piece
of silver: there would this monster make a
man; any strange beast there makes a man:
when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame
beggar, they will lazy out ten to see a dead
Indian. Legged like a man and his fins like
arms! Warm o' my troth! I do now let loose
my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish,
but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a
thunderbolt.
[Thunder]
Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to
creep under his gaberdine; there is no other
shelter hereabouts: misery acquaints a man with
strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the
dregs of the storm be past.
[Enter STEPHANO, singing: a bottle in his hand]
STEPHANO I shall no more to sea, to sea,
Here shall I die ashore--
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's
funeral: well, here's my comfort. [Drinks]
[Sings]
The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort.
[Drinks]
CALIBAN Do not torment me: Oh!
STEPHANO What's the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put
tricks upon's with savages and men of Ind, ha? I
have not scaped drowning to be afeard now of your
four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as
ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground;
and it shall be said so again while Stephano
breathes at's nostrils.
CALIBAN The spirit torments me; Oh!
STEPHANO This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who
hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil
should he learn our language? I will give him some
relief, if it be but for that. if I can recover him
and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he's a
present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's leather.
CALIBAN Do not torment me, prithee; I'll bring my wood home faster.
STEPHANO He's in his fit now and does not talk after the
wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have
never drunk wine afore will go near to remove his
fit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, I will
not take too much for him; he shall pay for him that
hath him, and that soundly.
CALIBAN Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I
know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.
STEPHANO Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is that
which will give language to you, cat: open your
mouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you,
and that soundly: you cannot tell who's your friend:
open your chaps again.
TRINCULO I should know that voice: it should be--but he is
drowned; and these are devils: O defend me!
STEPHANO Four legs and two voices: a most delicate monster!
His forward voice now is to speak well of his
friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches
and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will
recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I
will pour some in thy other mouth.
TRINCULO Stephano!
STEPHANO Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! This is
a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no
long spoon.
TRINCULO Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me and
speak to me: for I am Trinculo--be not afeard--thy
good friend Trinculo.
STEPHANO If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I'll pull thee
by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo's legs,
these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How
camest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? can
he vent Trinculos?
TRINCULO I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. But
art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now thou art
not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me
under the dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of
the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O
Stephano, two Neapolitans 'scaped!
STEPHANO Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach is not constant.
CALIBAN [Aside] These be fine things, an if they be
not sprites.
That's a brave god and bears celestial liquor.
I will kneel to him.
STEPHANO How didst thou 'scape? How camest thou hither?
swear by this bottle how thou camest hither. I
escaped upon a butt of sack which the sailors
heaved o'erboard, by this bottle; which I made of
the bark of a tree with mine own hands since I was
cast ashore.
CALIBAN I'll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject;
for the liquor is not earthly.
STEPHANO Here; swear then how thou escapedst.
TRINCULO Swum ashore. man, like a duck: I can swim like a
duck, I'll be sworn.
STEPHANO Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a
duck, thou art made like a goose.
TRINCULO O Stephano. hast any more of this?
STEPHANO The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the
sea-side where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf!
how does thine ague?
CALIBAN Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven?
STEPHANO Out o' the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man i'
the moon when time was.
CALIBAN I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee:
My mistress show'd me thee and thy dog and thy bush.
STEPHANO Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will furnish
it anon with new contents swear.
TRINCULO By this good light, this is a very shallow monster!
I afeard of him! A very weak monster! The man i'
the moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well
drawn, monster, in good sooth!
CALIBAN I'll show thee every fertile inch o' th' island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.
TRINCULO By this light, a most perfidious and drunken
monster! when 's god's asleep, he'll rob his bottle.
CALIBAN I'll kiss thy foot; I'll swear myself thy subject.
STEPHANO Come on then; down, and swear.
TRINCULO I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed
monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my
heart to beat him,--
STEPHANO Come, kiss.
TRINCULO But that the poor monster's in drink: an abominable monster!
CALIBAN I'll show thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee berries;
I'll fish for thee and get thee wood enough.
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!
I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,
Thou wondrous man.
TRINCULO A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a
Poor drunkard!
CALIBAN I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts;
Show thee a jay's nest and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset; I'll bring thee
To clustering filberts and sometimes I'll get thee
Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?
STEPHANO I prithee now, lead the way without any more
talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company
else being drowned, we will inherit here: here;
bear my bottle: fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by
and by again.
CALIBAN [Sings drunkenly]
Farewell master; farewell, farewell!
TRINCULO A howling monster: a drunken monster!
CALIBAN No more dams I'll make for fish
Nor fetch in firing
At requiring;
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish
'Ban, 'Ban, Cacaliban
Has a new master: get a new man.
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom,
hey-day, freedom!
STEPHANO O brave monster! Lead the way.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT III
SCENE I Before PROSPERO'S Cell.
[Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log]
FERDINAND There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed,
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
Most busy lest, when I do it.
[Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance, unseen]
MIRANDA Alas, now, pray you,
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile!
Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.
FERDINAND O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
MIRANDA If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;
I'll carry it to the pile.
FERDINAND No, precious creature;
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
MIRANDA It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it,
And yours it is against.
PROSPERO Poor worm, thou art infected!
This visitation shows it.
MIRANDA You look wearily.
FERDINAND No, noble mistress;'tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you--
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers--
What is your name?
MIRANDA Miranda.--O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so!
FERDINAND Admired Miranda!
Indeed the top of admiration! worth
What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any
With so fun soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed
And put it to the foil: but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best!
MIRANDA I do not know
One of my sex; no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you,
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.
FERDINAND I am in my condition
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;
I would, not so!--and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log--man.
MIRANDA Do you love me?
FERDINAND O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound
And crown what I profess with kind event
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me to mischief! I
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world
Do love, prize, honour you.
MIRANDA I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
PROSPERO Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between 'em!
FERDINAND Wherefore weep you?
MIRANDA At mine unworthiness that dare not offer
What I desire to give, and much less take
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, it you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.
FERDINAND My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
MIRANDA My husband, then?
FERDINAND Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.
MIRANDA And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
FERDINAND A thousand thousand!
[Exeunt FERDINAND and MIRANDA severally]
PROSPERO So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I'll to my book,
For yet ere supper-time must I perform
Much business appertaining.
[Exit]
THE TEMPEST
ACT III
SCENE II Another part of the island.
[Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO]
STEPHANO Tell not me; when the butt is out, we will drink
water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and
board 'em. Servant-monster, drink to me.
TRINCULO Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They
say there's but five upon this isle: we are three
of them; if th' other two be brained like us, the
state totters.
STEPHANO Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes
are almost set in thy head.
TRINCULO Where should they be set else? he were a brave
monster indeed, if they were set in his tail.
STEPHANO My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack:
for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I
could recover the shore, five and thirty leagues off
and on. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant,
monster, or my standard.
TRINCULO Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no standard.
STEPHANO We'll not run, Monsieur Monster.
TRINCULO Nor go neither; but you'll lie like dogs and yet say
nothing neither.
STEPHANO Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a
good moon-calf.
CALIBAN How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe.
I'll not serve him; he's not valiant.
TRINCULO Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to
justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou,
was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much
sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie,
being but half a fish and half a monster?
CALIBAN Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord?
TRINCULO 'Lord' quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural!
CALIBAN Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee.
STEPHANO Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you
prove a mutineer,--the next tree! The poor monster's
my subject and he shall not suffer indignity.
CALIBAN I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to
hearken once again to the suit I made to thee?
STEPHANO Marry, will I kneel and repeat it; I will stand,
and so shall Trinculo.
[Enter ARIEL, invisible]
CALIBAN As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a
sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.
ARIEL Thou liest.
CALIBAN Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou: I would my
valiant master would destroy thee! I do not lie.
STEPHANO Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in's tale, by
this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.
TRINCULO Why, I said nothing.
STEPHANO Mum, then, and no more. Proceed.
CALIBAN I say, by sorcery he got this isle;
From me he got it. if thy greatness will
Revenge it on him,--for I know thou darest,
But this thing dare not,--
STEPHANO That's most certain.
CALIBAN Thou shalt be lord of it and I'll serve thee.
STEPHANO How now shall this be compassed?
Canst thou bring me to the party?
CALIBAN Yea, yea, my lord: I'll yield him thee asleep,
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his bead.
ARIEL Thou liest; thou canst not.
CALIBAN What a pied ninny's this! Thou scurvy patch!
I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows
And take his bottle from him: when that's gone
He shall drink nought but brine; for I'll not show him
Where the quick freshes are.
STEPHANO Trinculo, run into no further danger:
interrupt the monster one word further, and,
by this hand, I'll turn my mercy out o' doors
and make a stock-fish of thee.
TRINCULO Why, what did I? I did nothing. I'll go farther
off.
STEPHANO Didst thou not say he lied?
ARIEL Thou liest.
STEPHANO Do I so? take thou that.
[Beats TRINCULO]
As you like this, give me the lie another time.
TRINCULO I did not give the lie. Out o' your
wits and bearing too? A pox o' your bottle!
this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on
your monster, and the devil take your fingers!
CALIBAN Ha, ha, ha!
STEPHANO Now, forward with your tale. Prithee, stand farther
off.
CALIBAN Beat him enough: after a little time
I'll beat him too.
STEPHANO Stand farther. Come, proceed.
CALIBAN Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him,
I' th' afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him,
Having first seized his books, or with a log
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember
First to possess his books; for without them
He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not
One spirit to command: they all do hate him
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books.
He has brave utensils,--for so he calls them--
Which when he has a house, he'll deck withal
And that most deeply to consider is
The beauty of his daughter; he himself
Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,
But only Sycorax my dam and she;
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax
As great'st does least.
STEPHANO Is it so brave a lass?
CALIBAN Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant.
And bring thee forth brave brood.
STEPHANO Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and I
will be king and queen--save our graces!--and
Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou
like the plot, Trinculo?
TRINCULO Excellent.
STEPHANO Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but,
while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head.
CALIBAN Within this half hour will he be asleep:
Wilt thou destroy him then?
STEPHANO Ay, on mine honour.
ARIEL This will I tell my master.
CALIBAN Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure:
Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch
You taught me but while-ere?
STEPHANO At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any
reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing.
[Sings]
Flout 'em and scout 'em
And scout 'em and flout 'em
Thought is free.
CALIBAN That's not the tune.
[Ariel plays the tune on a tabour and pipe]
STEPHANO What is this same?
TRINCULO This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture
of Nobody.
STEPHANO If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness:
if thou beest a devil, take't as thou list.
TRINCULO O, forgive me my sins!
STEPHANO He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us!
CALIBAN Art thou afeard?
STEPHANO No, monster, not I.
CALIBAN Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
STEPHANO This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall
have my music for nothing.
CALIBAN When Prospero is destroyed.
STEPHANO That shall be by and by: I remember the story.
TRINCULO The sound is going away; let's follow it, and
after do our work.
STEPHANO Lead, monster; we'll follow. I would I could see
this tabourer; he lays it on.
TRINCULO Wilt come? I'll follow, Stephano.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT III
SCENE III Another part of the island.
[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO,
ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others]
GONZALO By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod indeed
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,
I needs must rest me.
ALONSO Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach'd with weariness,
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
ANTONIO [Aside to SEBASTIAN] I am right glad that he's so
out of hope.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.
SEBASTIAN [Aside to ANTONIO] The next advantage
Will we take throughly.
ANTONIO [Aside to SEBASTIAN] Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance
As when they are fresh.
SEBASTIAN [Aside to ANTONIO] I say, to-night: no more.
[Solemn and strange music]
ALONSO What harmony is this? My good friends, hark!
GONZALO Marvellous sweet music!
[Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several
strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet;
they dance about it with gentle actions of
salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to
eat, they depart]
ALONSO Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these?
SEBASTIAN A living drollery. Now I will believe
That there are unicorns, that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix' throne, one phoenix
At this hour reigning there.
ANTONIO I'll believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me,
And I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did
lie,
Though fools at home condemn 'em.
GONZALO If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me?
If I should say, I saw such islanders--
For, certes, these are people of the island--
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.
PROSPERO [Aside] Honest lord,
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present
Are worse than devils.
ALONSO I cannot too much muse
Such shapes, such gesture and such sound, expressing,
Although they want the use of tongue, a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
PROSPERO [Aside] Praise in departing.
FRANCISCO They vanish'd strangely.
SEBASTIAN No matter, since
They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.
Will't please you taste of what is here?
ALONSO Not I.
GONZALO Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,
Who would believe that there were mountaineers
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.
ALONSO I will stand to and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,
Stand to and do as we.
[Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a
harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and,
with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes]
ARIEL You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,
That hath to instrument this lower world
And what is in't, the never-surfeited sea
Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island
Where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
And even with such-like valour men hang and drown
Their proper selves.
[ALONSO, SEBASTIAN &c. draw their swords]
You fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of Fate: the elements,
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths
And will not be uplifted. But remember--
For that's my business to you--that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero;
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,
Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:
Lingering perdition, worse than any death
Can be at once, shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from--
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls
Upon your heads--is nothing but heart-sorrow
And a clear life ensuing.
[He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music
enter the Shapes again, and dance, with
mocks and mows, and carrying out the table]
PROSPERO Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done. My high charms work
And these mine enemies are all knit up
In their distractions; they now are in my power;
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown'd,
And his and mine loved darling.
[Exit above]
GONZALO I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you
In this strange stare?
ALONSO O, it is monstrous, monstrous:
Methought the billows spoke and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded, and
I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded
And with him there lie mudded.
[Exit]
SEBASTIAN But one fiend at a time,
I'll fight their legions o'er.
ANTONIO I'll be thy second.
[Exeunt SEBASTIAN, and ANTONIO]
GONZALO All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after,
Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly
And hinder them from what this ecstasy
May now provoke them to.
ADRIAN Follow, I pray you.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT IV
SCENE I Before PROSPERO'S cell.
[Enter PROSPERO, FERDINAND, and MIRANDA]
PROSPERO If I have too austerely punish'd you,
Your compensation makes amends, for I
Have given you here a third of mine own life,
Or that for which I live; who once again
I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love and thou
Hast strangely stood the test here, afore Heaven,
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me that I boast her off,
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise
And make it halt behind her.
FERDINAND I do believe it
Against an oracle.
PROSPERO Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition
Worthily purchased take my daughter: but
If thou dost break her virgin-knot before
All sanctimonious ceremonies may
With full and holy rite be minister'd,
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow: but barren hate,
Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly
That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,
As Hymen's lamps shall light you.
FERDINAND As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue and long life,
With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den,
The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion.
Our worser genius can, shall never melt
Mine honour into lust, to take away
The edge of that day's celebration
When I shall think: or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd,
Or Night kept chain'd below.
PROSPERO Fairly spoke.
Sit then and talk with her; she is thine own.
What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!
[Enter ARIEL]
ARIEL What would my potent master? here I am.
PROSPERO Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service
Did worthily perform; and I must use you
In such another trick. Go bring the rabble,
O'er whom I give thee power, here to this place:
Incite them to quick motion; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple
Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,
And they expect it from me.
ARIEL Presently?
PROSPERO Ay, with a twink.
ARIEL Before you can say 'come' and 'go,'
And breathe twice and cry 'so, so,'
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mop and mow.
Do you love me, master? no?
PROSPERO Dearly my delicate Ariel. Do not approach
Till thou dost hear me call.
ARIEL Well, I conceive.
[Exit]
PROSPERO Look thou be true; do not give dalliance
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw
To the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious,
Or else, good night your vow!
FERDINAND I warrant you sir;
The white cold virgin snow upon my heart
Abates the ardour of my liver.
PROSPERO Well.
Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,
Rather than want a spirit: appear and pertly!
No tongue! all eyes! be silent.
[Soft music]
[Enter IRIS]
IRIS Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom -groves,
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn: thy pole-clipt vineyard;
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air;--the queen o' the sky,
Whose watery arch and messenger am I,
Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain:
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
[Enter CERES]
CERES Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;
Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers,
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown
My bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down,
Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen
Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green?
IRIS A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estate
On the blest lovers.
CERES Tell me, heavenly bow,
If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,
Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,
Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company
I have forsworn.
IRIS Of her society
Be not afraid: I met her deity
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son
Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,
Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid
Till Hymen's torch be lighted: but vain;
Mars's hot minion is returned again;
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,
Swears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows
And be a boy right out.
CERES High'st queen of state,
Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait.
[Enter JUNO]
JUNO How does my bounteous sister? Go with me
To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be
And honour'd in their issue.
[They sing:]
JUNO Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!
Juno sings her blessings upon you.
CERES Earth's increase, foison plenty,
Barns and garners never empty,
Vines and clustering bunches growing,
Plants with goodly burthen bowing;
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest!
Scarcity and want shall shun you;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.
FERDINAND This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmoniously charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits?
PROSPERO Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines call'd to enact
My present fancies.
FERDINAND Let me live here ever;
So rare a wonder'd father and a wife
Makes this place Paradise.
[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on
employment]
PROSPERO Sweet, now, silence!
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously;
There's something else to do: hush, and be mute,
Or else our spell is marr'd.
IRIS You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks,
With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks,
Leave your crisp channels and on this green land
Answer your summons; Juno does command:
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; be not too late.
[Enter certain Nymphs]
You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow and be merry:
Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
[Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they
join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance;
towards the end whereof PROSPERO starts
suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a
strange, hollow, and confused noise, they
heavily vanish]
PROSPERO [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come.
[To the Spirits]
Well done! avoid; no more!
FERDINAND This is strange: your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.
MIRANDA Never till this day
Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.
PROSPERO You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,
To still my beating mind.
FERDINAND |
| We wish your peace.
MIRANDA |
[Exeunt]
PROSPERO Come with a thought I thank thee, Ariel: come.
[Enter ARIEL]
ARIEL Thy thoughts I cleave to. What's thy pleasure?
PROSPERO Spirit,
We must prepare to meet with Caliban.
ARIEL Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,
I thought to have told thee of it, but I fear'd
Lest I might anger thee.
PROSPERO Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?
ARIEL I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;
So fun of valour that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
For kissing of their feet; yet always bending
Towards their project. Then I beat my tabour;
At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd
their ears,
Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses
As they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears
That calf-like they my lowing follow'd through
Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns,
Which entered their frail shins: at last I left them
I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
O'erstunk their feet.
PROSPERO This was well done, my bird.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still:
The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,
For stale to catch these thieves.
ARIEL I go, I go.
[Exit]
PROSPERO A devil, a born devil, on whose nature
Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;
And as with age his body uglier grows,
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,
Even to roaring.
[Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c]
Come, hang them on this line.
[PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter
CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet]
CALIBAN Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.
STEPHANO Monster, your fairy, which you say is
a harmless fairy, has done little better than
played the Jack with us.
TRINCULO Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at
which my nose is in great indignation.
STEPHANO So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take
a displeasure against you, look you,--
TRINCULO Thou wert but a lost monster.
CALIBAN Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to
Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.
All's hush'd as midnight yet.
TRINCULO Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,--
STEPHANO There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that,
monster, but an infinite loss.
TRINCULO That's more to me than my wetting: yet this is your
harmless fairy, monster.
STEPHANO I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears
for my labour.
CALIBAN Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,
This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter.
Do that good mischief which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.
STEPHANO Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
TRINCULO O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look
what a wardrobe here is for thee!
CALIBAN Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
TRINCULO O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.
O king Stephano!
STEPHANO Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I'll have
that gown.
TRINCULO Thy grace shall have it.
CALIBAN The dropsy drown this fool I what do you mean
To dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone
And do the murder first: if he awake,
From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches,
Make us strange stuff.
STEPHANO Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line,
is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under
the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your
hair and prove a bald jerkin.
TRINCULO Do, do: we steal by line and level, an't like your grace.
STEPHANO I thank thee for that jest; here's a garment for't:
wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this
country. 'Steal by line and level' is an excellent
pass of pate; there's another garment for't.
TRINCULO Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and
away with the rest.
CALIBAN I will have none on't: we shall lose our time,
And all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes
With foreheads villanous low.
STEPHANO Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this
away where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you
out of my kingdom: go to, carry this.
TRINCULO And this.
STEPHANO Ay, and this.
[A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits,
in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about,
PROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on]
PROSPERO Hey, Mountain, hey!
ARIEL Silver I there it goes, Silver!
PROSPERO Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! hark!
[CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, are
driven out]
Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints
With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews
With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them
Than pard or cat o' mountain.
ARIEL Hark, they roar!
PROSPERO Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:
Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou
Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little
Follow, and do me service.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT V
SCENE I Before PROSPERO'S cell.
[Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes, and ARIEL]
PROSPERO Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time
Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day?
ARIEL On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
You said our work should cease.
PROSPERO I did say so,
When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,
How fares the king and's followers?
ARIEL Confined together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge,
Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,
In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;
They cannot budge till your release. The king,
His brother and yours, abide all three distracted
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
Him that you term'd, sir, 'The good old lord Gonzalo;'
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops
From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
PROSPERO Dost thou think so, spirit?
ARIEL Mine would, sir, were I human.
PROSPERO And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
Yet with my nobler reason 'gaitist my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:
My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,
And they shall be themselves.
ARIEL I'll fetch them, sir.
[Exit]
PROSPERO Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
[Solemn music]
[Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a
frantic gesture, attended by GONZALO;
SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner,
attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO they all
enter the circle which PROSPERO had made,
and there stand charmed; which PROSPERO
observing, speaks:]
A solemn air and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains,
Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand,
For you are spell-stopp'd.
Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace,
And as the morning steals upon the night,
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,
My true preserver, and a loyal sir
To him you follow'st! I will pay thy graces
Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.
Thou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,
You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,
Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,
Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,
Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee,
Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding
Begins to swell, and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shore
That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them
That yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel,
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:
I will discase me, and myself present
As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;
Thou shalt ere long be free.
[ARIEL sings and helps to attire him]
Where the bee sucks. there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
PROSPERO Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee:
But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art:
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain
Being awake, enforce them to this place,
And presently, I prithee.
ARIEL I drink the air before me, and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat.
[Exit]
GONZALO All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement
Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us
Out of this fearful country!
PROSPERO Behold, sir king,
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
And to thee and thy company I bid
A hearty welcome.
ALONSO Whether thou best he or no,
Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,
As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
Beats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,
The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
I fear, a madness held me: this must crave,
An if this be at all, a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero
Be living and be here?
PROSPERO First, noble friend,
Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot
Be measured or confined.
GONZALO Whether this be
Or be not, I'll not swear.
PROSPERO You do yet taste
Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all!
[Aside to SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO]
But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you
And justify you traitors: at this time
I will tell no tales.
SEBASTIAN [Aside] The devil speaks in him.
PROSPERO No.
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,
Thou must restore.
ALONSO If thou be'st Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation;
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost--
How sharp the point of this remembrance is!--
My dear son Ferdinand.
PROSPERO I am woe for't, sir.
ALONSO Irreparable is the loss, and patience
Says it is past her cure.
PROSPERO I rather think
You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid
And rest myself content.
ALONSO You the like loss!
PROSPERO As great to me as late; and, supportable
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you, for I
Have lost my daughter.
ALONSO A daughter?
O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen there! that they were, I wish
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed
Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?
PROSPERO In this last tempest. I perceive these lords
At this encounter do so much admire
That they devour their reason and scarce think
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
Are natural breath: but, howsoe'er you have
Been justled from your senses, know for certain
That I am Prospero and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely
Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed,
To be the lord on't. No more yet of this;
For 'tis a chronicle of day by day,
Not a relation for a breakfast nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;
This cell's my court: here have I few attendants
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again,
I will requite you with as good a thing;
At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye
As much as me my dukedom.
[Here PROSPERO discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA
playing at chess]
MIRANDA Sweet lord, you play me false.
FERDINAND No, my dear'st love,
I would not for the world.
MIRANDA Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,
And I would call it, fair play.
ALONSO If this prove
A vision of the Island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
SEBASTIAN A most high miracle!
FERDINAND Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;
I have cursed them without cause.
[Kneels]
ALONSO Now all the blessings
Of a glad father compass thee about!
Arise, and say how thou camest here.
MIRANDA O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!
PROSPERO 'Tis new to thee.
ALONSO What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours:
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us,
And brought us thus together?
FERDINAND Sir, she is mortal;
But by immortal Providence she's mine:
I chose her when I could not ask my father
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before; of whom I have
Received a second life; and second father
This lady makes him to me.
ALONSO I am hers:
But, O, how oddly will it sound that I
Must ask my child forgiveness!
PROSPERO There, sir, stop:
Let us not burthen our remembrance with
A heaviness that's gone.
GONZALO I have inly wept,
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you god,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown!
For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way
Which brought us hither.
ALONSO I say, Amen, Gonzalo!
GONZALO Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue
Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice
Beyond a common joy, and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife
Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom
In a poor isle and all of us ourselves
When no man was his own.
ALONSO [To FERDINAND and MIRANDA] Give me your hands:
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
That doth not wish you joy!
GONZALO Be it so! Amen!
[Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain
amazedly following]
O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:
I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,
This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,
That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore?
Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?
Boatswain The best news is, that we have safely found
Our king and company; the next, our ship--
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split--
Is tight and yare and bravely rigg'd as when
We first put out to sea.
ARIEL [Aside to PROSPERO] Sir, all this service
Have I done since I went.
PROSPERO [Aside to ARIEL] My tricksy spirit!
ALONSO These are not natural events; they strengthen
From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?
Boatswain If I did think, sir, I were well awake,
I'ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,
And--how we know not--all clapp'd under hatches;
Where but even now with strange and several noises
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,
We were awaked; straightway, at liberty;
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
Our royal, good and gallant ship, our master
Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,
Even in a dream, were we divided from them
And were brought moping hither.
ARIEL [Aside to PROSPERO] Was't well done?
PROSPERO [Aside to ARIEL] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.
ALONSO This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod
And there is in this business more than nature
Was ever conduct of: some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
PROSPERO Sir, my liege,
Do not infest your mind with beating on
The strangeness of this business; at pick'd leisure
Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you,
Which to you shall seem probable, of every
These happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerful
And think of each thing well.
[Aside to ARIEL]
Come hither, spirit:
Set Caliban and his companions free;
Untie the spell.
[Exit ARIEL]
How fares my gracious sir?
There are yet missing of your company
Some few odd lads that you remember not.
[Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO
and TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel]
STEPHANO Every man shift for all the rest, and
let no man take care for himself; for all is
but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!
TRINCULO If these be true spies which I wear in my head,
here's a goodly sight.
CALIBAN O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!
How fine my master is! I am afraid
He will chastise me.
SEBASTIAN Ha, ha!
What things are these, my lord Antonio?
Will money buy 'em?
ANTONIO Very like; one of them
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.
PROSPERO Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,
Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,
His mother was a witch, and one so strong
That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
And deal in her command without her power.
These three have robb'd me; and this demi-devil--
For he's a bastard one--had plotted with them
To take my life. Two of these fellows you
Must know and own; this thing of darkness!
Acknowledge mine.
CALIBAN I shall be pinch'd to death.
ALONSO Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?
SEBASTIAN He is drunk now: where had he wine?
ALONSO And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em?
How camest thou in this pickle?
TRINCULO I have been in such a pickle since I
saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of
my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.
SEBASTIAN Why, how now, Stephano!
STEPHANO O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp.
PROSPERO You'ld be king o' the isle, sirrah?
STEPHANO I should have been a sore one then.
ALONSO This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on.
[Pointing to Caliban]
PROSPERO He is as disproportion'd in his manners
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
CALIBAN Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god
And worship this dull fool!
PROSPERO Go to; away!
ALONSO Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.
SEBASTIAN Or stole it, rather.
[Exeunt CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO]
PROSPERO Sir, I invite your highness and your train
To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which, part of it, I'll waste
With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go quick away; the story of my life
And the particular accidents gone by
Since I came to this isle: and in the morn
I'll bring you to your ship and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-beloved solemnized;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.
ALONSO I long
To hear the story of your life, which must
Take the ear strangely.
PROSPERO I'll deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales
And sail so expeditious that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off.
[Aside to ARIEL]
My Ariel, chick,
That is thy charge: then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
EPILOGUE
SPOKEN BY PROSPERO
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,616,613textThe Tell-Tale Heart
BY EDGAR ALLEN POE
TRUE!—NERVOUS—VERY, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who's there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
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Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,616,601textKing James Bible:Book of Genesis
Genesis 1:1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
Genesis 1:2 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness [was] upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
Genesis 1:3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
Genesis 1:4 And God saw the light, that [it was] good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
Genesis 1:5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
Genesis 1:6 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
Genesis 1:7 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which [were] under the firmament from the waters which [were] above the firmament: and it was so.
Genesis 1:8 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.
Genesis 1:9 And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry [land] appear: and it was so.
Genesis 1:10 And God called the dry [land] Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:11 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, [and] the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed [is] in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.
Genesis 1:12 And the earth brought forth grass, [and] herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed [was] in itself, after his kind: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:13 And the evening and the morning were the third day.
Genesis 1:14 And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years:
Genesis 1:15 And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so.
Genesis 1:16 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: [he made] the stars also.
Genesis 1:17 And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth,
Genesis 1:18 And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:19 And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.
Genesis 1:20 And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl [that] may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.
Genesis 1:21 And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:22 And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth.
Genesis 1:23 And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.
Genesis 1:24 And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind: and it was so.
Genesis 1:25 And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:26 And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.
Genesis 1:27 So God created man in his [own] image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.
Genesis 1:28 And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.
Genesis 1:29 And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which [is] upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which [is] the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat.
Genesis 1:30 And to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing that creepeth upon the earth, wherein [there is] life, [I have given] every green herb for meat: and it was so.
Genesis 1:31 And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, [it was] very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.
Genesis 2:1 Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them.
Genesis 2:2 And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.
Genesis 2:3 And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made.
Genesis 2:4 These [are] the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the LORD God made the earth and the heavens,
Genesis 2:5 And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and [there was] not a man to till the ground.
Genesis 2:6 But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground.
Genesis 2:7 And the LORD God formed man [of] the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
Genesis 2:8 And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.
Genesis 2:9 And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
Genesis 2:10 And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads.
Genesis 2:11 The name of the first [is] Pison: that [is] it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where [there is] gold;
Genesis 2:12 And the gold of that land [is] good: there [is] bdellium and the onyx stone.
Genesis 2:13 And the name of the second river [is] Gihon: the same [is] it that compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia.
Genesis 2:14 And the name of the third river [is] Hiddekel: that [is] it which goeth toward the east of Assyria. And the fourth river [is] Euphrates.
Genesis 2:15 And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.
Genesis 2:16 And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat:
Genesis 2:17 But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
Genesis 2:18 And the LORD God said, [It is] not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.
Genesis 2:19 And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought [them] unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that [was] the name thereof.
Genesis 2:20 And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him.
Genesis 2:21 And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
Genesis 2:22 And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.
Genesis 2:23 And Adam said, This [is] now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.
Genesis 2:24 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.
Genesis 2:25 And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
Genesis 3:1 Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?
Genesis 3:2 And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:
Genesis 3:3 But of the fruit of the tree which [is] in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.
Genesis 3:4 And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:
Genesis 3:5 For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.
Genesis 3:6 And when the woman saw that the tree [was] good for food, and that it [was] pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make [one] wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.
Genesis 3:7 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they [were] naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.
Genesis 3:8 And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.
Genesis 3:9 And the LORD God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where [art] thou?
Genesis 3:10 And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I [was] naked; and I hid myself.
Genesis 3:11 And he said, Who told thee that thou [wast] naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?
Genesis 3:12 And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest [to be] with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
Genesis 3:13 And the LORD God said unto the woman, What [is] this [that] thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.
Genesis 3:14 And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou [art] cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life:
Genesis 3:15 And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.
Genesis 3:16 Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire [shall be] to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.
Genesis 3:17 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed [is] the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat [of] it all the days of thy life;
Genesis 3:18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
Genesis 3:19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou [art], and unto dust shalt thou return.
Genesis 3:20 And Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living.
Genesis 3:21 Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them.
Genesis 3:22 And the LORD God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:
Genesis 3:23 Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.
Genesis 3:24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.
Genesis 4:1 And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived, and bare Cain, and said, I have gotten a man from the LORD.
Genesis 4:2 And she again bare his brother Abel. And Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain was a tiller of the ground.
Genesis 4:3 And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the LORD.
Genesis 4:4 And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And the LORD had respect unto Abel and to his offering:
Genesis 4:5 But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.
Genesis 4:6 And the LORD said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen?
Genesis 4:7 If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee [shall be] his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.
Genesis 4:8 And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.
Genesis 4:9 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where [is] Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: [Am] I my brother’s keeper?
Genesis 4:10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
Genesis 4:11 And now [art] thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand;
Genesis 4:12 When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
Genesis 4:13 And Cain said unto the LORD, My punishment [is] greater than I can bear.
Genesis 4:14 Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, [that] every one that findeth me shall slay me.
Genesis 4:15 And the LORD said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the LORD set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.
Genesis 4:16 And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.
Genesis 4:17 And Cain knew his wife; and she conceived, and bare Enoch: and he builded a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son, Enoch.
Genesis 4:18 And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methusael: and Methusael begat Lamech.
Genesis 4:19 And Lamech took unto him two wives: the name of the one [was] Adah, and the name of the other Zillah.
Genesis 4:20 And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and [of such as have] cattle.
Genesis 4:21 And his brother’s name [was] Jubal: he was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ.
Genesis 4:22 And Zillah, she also bare Tubalcain, an instructer of every artificer in brass and iron: and the sister of Tubalcain [was] Naamah.
Genesis 4:23 And Lamech said unto his wives, Adah and Zillah, Hear my voice; ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my speech: for I have slain a man to my wounding, and a young man to my hurt.
Genesis 4:24 If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy and sevenfold.
Genesis 4:25 And Adam knew his wife again; and she bare a son, and called his name Seth: For God, [said she], hath appointed me another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew.
Genesis 4:26 And to Seth, to him also there was born a son; and he called his name Enos: then began men to call upon the name of the LORD.
Genesis 5:1 This [is] the book of the generations of Adam. In the day that God created man, in the likeness of God made he him;
Genesis 5:2 Male and female created he them; and blessed them, and called their name Adam, in the day when they were created.
Genesis 5:3 And Adam lived an hundred and thirty years, and begat [a son] in his own likeness, after his image; and called his name Seth:
Genesis 5:4 And the days of Adam after he had begotten Seth were eight hundred years: and he begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:5 And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died.
Genesis 5:6 And Seth lived an hundred and five years, and begat Enos:
Genesis 5:7 And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:8 And all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years: and he died.
Genesis 5:9 And Enos lived ninety years, and begat Cainan:
Genesis 5:10 And Enos lived after he begat Cainan eight hundred and fifteen years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:11 And all the days of Enos were nine hundred and five years: and he died.
Genesis 5:12 And Cainan lived seventy years, and begat Mahalaleel:
Genesis 5:13 And Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:14 And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years: and he died.
Genesis 5:15 And Mahalaleel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared:
Genesis 5:16 And Mahalaleel lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:17 And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five years: and he died.
Genesis 5:18 And Jared lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat Enoch:
Genesis 5:19 And Jared lived after he begat Enoch eight hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:20 And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died.
Genesis 5:21 And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat Methuselah:
Genesis 5:22 And Enoch walked with God after he begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:23 And all the days of Enoch were three hundred sixty and five years:
Genesis 5:24 And Enoch walked with God: and he [was] not; for God took him.
Genesis 5:25 And Methuselah lived an hundred eighty and seven years, and begat Lamech:
Genesis 5:26 And Methuselah lived after he begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:27 And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.
Genesis 5:28 And Lamech lived an hundred eighty and two years, and begat a son:
Genesis 5:29 And he called his name Noah, saying, This [same] shall comfort us concerning our work and toil of our hands, because of the ground which the LORD hath cursed.
Genesis 5:30 And Lamech lived after he begat Noah five hundred ninety and five years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:31 And all the days of Lamech were seven hundred seventy and seven years: and he died.
Genesis 5:32 And Noah was five hundred years old: and Noah begat Shem, Ham, and Japheth.
Genesis 6:1 And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them,
Genesis 6:2 That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they [were] fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.
Genesis 6:3 And the LORD said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also [is] flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.
Genesis 6:4 There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare [children] to them, the same [became] mighty men which [were] of old, men of renown.
Genesis 6:5 And GOD saw that the wickedness of man [was] great in the earth, and [that] every imagination of the thoughts of his heart [was] only evil continually.
Genesis 6:6 And it repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.
Genesis 6:7 And the LORD said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.
Genesis 6:8 But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD.
Genesis 6:9 These [are] the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man [and] perfect in his generations, [and] Noah walked with God.
Genesis 6:10 And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth.
Genesis 6:11 The earth also was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence.
Genesis 6:12 And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth.
Genesis 6:13 And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth.
Genesis 6:14 Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch.
Genesis 6:15 And this [is the fashion] which thou shalt make it [of]: The length of the ark [shall be] three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits.
Genesis 6:16 A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; [with] lower, second, and third [stories] shalt thou make it.
Genesis 6:17 And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein [is] the breath of life, from under heaven; [and] every thing that [is] in the earth shall die.
Genesis 6:18 But with thee will I establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons’ wives with thee.
Genesis 6:19 And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every [sort] shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep [them] alive with thee; they shall be male and female.
Genesis 6:20 Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind, two of every [sort] shall come unto thee, to keep [them] alive.
Genesis 6:21 And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and thou shalt gather [it] to thee; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them.
Genesis 6:22 Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.
Genesis 7:1 And the LORD said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before me in this generation.
Genesis 7:2 Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that [are] not clean by two, the male and his female.
Genesis 7:3 Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth.
Genesis 7:4 For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth.
Genesis 7:5 And Noah did according unto all that the LORD commanded him.
Genesis 7:6 And Noah [was] six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.
Genesis 7:7 And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood.
Genesis 7:8 Of clean beasts, and of beasts that [are] not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing that creepeth upon the earth,
Genesis 7:9 There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah.
Genesis 7:10 And it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth.
Genesis 7:11 In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.
Genesis 7:12 And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.
Genesis 7:13 In the selfsame day entered Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japheth, the sons of Noah, and Noah’s wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark;
Genesis 7:14 They, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his kind, every bird of every sort.
Genesis 7:15 And they went in unto Noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein [is] the breath of life.
Genesis 7:16 And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him: and the LORD shut him in.
Genesis 7:17 And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth.
Genesis 7:18 And the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters.
Genesis 7:19 And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that [were] under the whole heaven, were covered.
Genesis 7:20 Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered.
Genesis 7:21 And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man:
Genesis 7:22 All in whose nostrils [was] the breath of life, of all that [was] in the dry [land], died.
Genesis 7:23 And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained [alive], and they that [were] with him in the ark.
Genesis 7:24 And the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.
Genesis 8:1 And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that [was] with him in the ark: and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters asswaged;
Genesis 8:2 The fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained;
Genesis 8:3 And the waters returned from off the earth continually: and after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated.
Genesis 8:4 And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat.
Genesis 8:5 And the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth [month], on the first [day] of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen.
Genesis 8:6 And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he had made:
Genesis 8:7 And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth.
Genesis 8:8 Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground;
Genesis 8:9 But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark, for the waters [were] on the face of the whole earth: then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.
Genesis 8:10 And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark;
Genesis 8:11 And the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth [was] an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.
Genesis 8:12 And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more.
Genesis 8:13 And it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the first [month], the first [day] of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth: and Noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry.
Genesis 8:14 And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the month, was the earth dried.
Genesis 8:15 And God spake unto Noah, saying,
Genesis 8:16 Go forth of the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons’ wives with thee.
Genesis 8:17 Bring forth with thee every living thing that [is] with thee, of all flesh, [both] of fowl, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruitful, and multiply upon the earth.
Genesis 8:18 And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him:
Genesis 8:19 Every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, [and] whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark.
Genesis 8:20 And Noah builded an altar unto the LORD; and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar.
Genesis 8:21 And the LORD smelled a sweet savour; and the LORD said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart [is] evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done.
Genesis 8:22 While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.
Genesis 9:1 And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.
Genesis 9:2 And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all that moveth [upon] the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered.
Genesis 9:3 Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things.
Genesis 9:4 But flesh with the life thereof, [which is] the blood thereof, shall ye not eat.
Genesis 9:5 And surely your blood of your lives will I require; at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man; at the hand of every man’s brother will I require the life of man.
Genesis 9:6 Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man.
Genesis 9:7 And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.
Genesis 9:8 And God spake unto Noah, and to his sons with him, saying,
Genesis 9:9 And I, behold, I establish my covenant with you, and with your seed after you;
Genesis 9:10 And with every living creature that [is] with you, of the fowl, of the cattle, and of every beast of the earth with you; from all that go out of the ark, to every beast of the earth.
Genesis 9:11 And I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.
Genesis 9:12 And God said, This [is] the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that [is] with you, for perpetual generations:
Genesis 9:13 I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
Genesis 9:14 And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud:
Genesis 9:15 And I will remember my covenant, which [is] between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.
Genesis 9:16 And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that [is] upon the earth.
Genesis 9:17 And God said unto Noah, This [is] the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh that [is] upon the earth.
Genesis 9:18 And the sons of Noah, that went forth of the ark, were Shem, and Ham, and Japheth: and Ham [is] the father of Canaan.
Genesis 9:19 These [are] the three sons of Noah: and of them was the whole earth overspread.
Genesis 9:20 And Noah began [to be] an husbandman, and he planted a vineyard:
Genesis 9:21 And he drank of the wine, and was drunken; and he was uncovered within his tent.
Genesis 9:22 And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father, and told his two brethren without.
Genesis 9:23 And Shem and Japheth took a garment, and laid [it] upon both their shoulders, and went backward, and covered the nakedness of their father; and their faces [were] backward, and they saw not their father’s nakedness.
Genesis 9:24 And Noah awoke from his wine, and knew what his younger son had done unto him.
Genesis 9:25 And he said, Cursed [be] Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.
Genesis 9:26 And he said, Blessed [be] the LORD God of Shem; and Canaan shall be his servant.
Genesis 9:27 God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem; and Canaan shall be his servant.
Genesis 9:28 And Noah lived after the flood three hundred and fifty years.
Genesis 9:29 And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years: and he died.
Genesis 10:1 Now these [are] the generations of the sons of Noah, Shem, Ham, and Japheth: and unto them were sons born after the flood.
Genesis 10:2 The sons of Japheth; Gomer, and Magog, and Madai, and Javan, and Tubal, and Meshech, and Tiras.
Genesis 10:3 And the sons of Gomer; Ashkenaz, and Riphath, and Togarmah.
Genesis 10:4 And the sons of Javan; Elishah, and Tarshish, Kittim, and Dodanim.
Genesis 10:5 By these were the isles of the Gentiles divided in their lands; every one after his tongue, after their families, in their nations.
Genesis 10:6 And the sons of Ham; Cush, and Mizraim, and Phut, and Canaan.
Genesis 10:7 And the sons of Cush; Seba, and Havilah, and Sabtah, and Raamah, and Sabtecha: and the sons of Raamah; Sheba, and Dedan.
Genesis 10:8 And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth.
Genesis 10:9 He was a mighty hunter before the LORD: wherefore it is said, Even as Nimrod the mighty hunter before the LORD.
Genesis 10:10 And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar.
Genesis 10:11 Out of that land went forth Asshur, and builded Nineveh, and the city Rehoboth, and Calah,
Genesis 10:12 And Resen between Nineveh and Calah: the same [is] a great city.
Genesis 10:13 And Mizraim begat Ludim, and Anamim, and Lehabim, and Naphtuhim,
Genesis 10:14 And Pathrusim, and Casluhim, (out of whom came Philistim,) and Caphtorim.
Genesis 10:15 And Canaan begat Sidon his firstborn, and Heth,
Genesis 10:16 And the Jebusite, and the Amorite, and the Girgasite,
Genesis 10:17 And the Hivite, and the Arkite, and the Sinite,
Genesis 10:18 And the Arvadite, and the Zemarite, and the Hamathite: and afterward were the families of the Canaanites spread abroad.
Genesis 10:19 And the border of the Canaanites was from Sidon, as thou comest to Gerar, unto Gaza; as thou goest, unto Sodom, and Gomorrah, and Admah, and Zeboim, even unto Lasha.
Genesis 10:20 These [are] the sons of Ham, after their families, after their tongues, in their countries, [and] in their nations.
Genesis 10:21 Unto Shem also, the father of all the children of Eber, the brother of Japheth the elder, even to him were [children] born.
Genesis 10:22 The children of Shem; Elam, and Asshur, and Arphaxad, and Lud, and Aram.
Genesis 10:23 And the children of Aram; Uz, and Hul, and Gether, and Mash.
Genesis 10:24 And Arphaxad begat Salah; and Salah begat Eber.
Genesis 10:25 And unto Eber were born two sons: the name of one [was] Peleg; for in his days was the earth divided; and his brother’s name [was] Joktan.
Genesis 10:26 And Joktan begat Almodad, and Sheleph, and Hazarmaveth, and Jerah,
Genesis 10:27 And Hadoram, and Uzal, and Diklah,
Genesis 10:28 And Obal, and Abimael, and Sheba,
Genesis 10:29 And Ophir, and Havilah, and Jobab: all these [were] the sons of Joktan.
Genesis 10:30 And their dwelling was from Mesha, as thou goest unto Sephar a mount of the east.
Genesis 10:31 These [are] the sons of Shem, after their families, after their tongues, in their lands, after their nations.
Genesis 10:32 These [are] the families of the sons of Noah, after their generations, in their nations: and by these were the nations divided in the earth after the flood.
Genesis 11:1 And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.
Genesis 11:2 And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.
Genesis 11:3 And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them throughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter.
Genesis 11:4 And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top [may reach] unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.
Genesis 11:5 And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.
Genesis 11:6 And the LORD said, Behold, the people [is] one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
Genesis 11:7 Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.
Genesis 11:8 So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.
Genesis 11:9 Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.
Genesis 11:10 These [are] the generations of Shem: Shem [was] an hundred years old, and begat Arphaxad two years after the flood:
Genesis 11:11 And Shem lived after he begat Arphaxad five hundred years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:12 And Arphaxad lived five and thirty years, and begat Salah:
Genesis 11:13 And Arphaxad lived after he begat Salah four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:14 And Salah lived thirty years, and begat Eber:
Genesis 11:15 And Salah lived after he begat Eber four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:16 And Eber lived four and thirty years, and begat Peleg:
Genesis 11:17 And Eber lived after he begat Peleg four hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:18 And Peleg lived thirty years, and begat Reu:
Genesis 11:19 And Peleg lived after he begat Reu two hundred and nine years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:20 And Reu lived two and thirty years, and begat Serug:
Genesis 11:21 And Reu lived after he begat Serug two hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:22 And Serug lived thirty years, and begat Nahor:
Genesis 11:23 And Serug lived after he begat Nahor two hundred years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:24 And Nahor lived nine and twenty years, and begat Terah:
Genesis 11:25 And Nahor lived after he begat Terah an hundred and nineteen years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:26 And Terah lived seventy years, and begat Abram, Nahor, and Haran.
Genesis 11:27 Now these [are] the generations of Terah: Terah begat Abram, Nahor, and Haran; and Haran begat Lot.
Genesis 11:28 And Haran died before his father Terah in the land of his nativity, in Ur of the Chaldees.
Genesis 11:29 And Abram and Nahor took them wives: the name of Abram’s wife [was] Sarai; and the name of Nahor’s wife, Milcah, the daughter of Haran, the father of Milcah, and the father of Iscah.
Genesis 11:30 But Sarai was barren; she [had] no child.
Genesis 11:31 And Terah took Abram his son, and Lot the son of Haran his son’s son, and Sarai his daughter in law, his son Abram’s wife; and they went forth with them from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan; and they came unto Haran, and dwelt there.
Genesis 11:32 And the days of Terah were two hundred and five years: and Terah died in Haran.
Genesis 12:1 Now the LORD had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee:
Genesis 12:2 And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing:
Genesis 12:3 And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee: and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed.
Genesis 12:4 So Abram departed, as the LORD had spoken unto him; and Lot went with him: and Abram [was] seventy and five years old when he departed out of Haran.
Genesis 12:5 And Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their substance that they had gathered, and the souls that they had gotten in Haran; and they went forth to go into the land of Canaan; and into the land of Canaan they came.
Genesis 12:6 And Abram passed through the land unto the place of Sichem, unto the plain of Moreh. And the Canaanite [was] then in the land.
Genesis 12:7 And the LORD appeared unto Abram, and said, Unto thy seed will I give this land: and there builded he an altar unto the LORD, who appeared unto him.
Genesis 12:8 And he removed from thence unto a mountain on the east of Bethel, and pitched his tent, [having] Bethel on the west, and Hai on the east: and there he builded an altar unto the LORD, and called upon the name of the LORD.
Genesis 12:9 And Abram journeyed, going on still toward the south.
Genesis 12:10 And there was a famine in the land: and Abram went down into Egypt to sojourn there; for the famine [was] grievous in the land.
Genesis 12:11 And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou [art] a fair woman to look upon:
Genesis 12:12 Therefore it shall come to pass, when the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This [is] his wife: and they will kill me, but they will save thee alive.
Genesis 12:13 Say, I pray thee, thou [art] my sister: that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because of thee.
Genesis 12:14 And it came to pass, that, when Abram was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she [was] very fair.
Genesis 12:15 The princes also of Pharaoh saw her, and commended her before Pharaoh: and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s house.
Genesis 12:16 And he entreated Abram well for her sake: and he had sheep, and oxen, and he asses, and menservants, and maidservants, and she asses, and camels.
Genesis 12:17 And the LORD plagued Pharaoh and his house with great plagues because of Sarai Abram’s wife.
Genesis 12:18 And Pharaoh called Abram, and said, What [is] this [that] thou hast done unto me? why didst thou not tell me that she [was] thy wife?
Genesis 12:19 Why saidst thou, She [is] my sister? so I might have taken her to me to wife: now therefore behold thy wife, take [her], and go thy way.
Genesis 12:20 And Pharaoh commanded [his] men concerning him: and they sent him away, and his wife, and all that he had.
Genesis 13:1 And Abram went up out of Egypt, he, and his wife, and all that he had, and Lot with him, into the south.
Genesis 13:2 And Abram [was] very rich in cattle, in silver, and in gold.
Genesis 13:3 And he went on his journeys from the south even to Bethel, unto the place where his tent had been at the beginning, between Bethel and Hai;
Genesis 13:4 Unto the place of the altar, which he had made there at the first: and there Abram called on the name of the LORD.
Genesis 13:5 And Lot also, which went with Abram, had flocks, and herds, and tents.
Genesis 13:6 And the land was not able to bear them, that they might dwell together: for their substance was great, so that they could not dwell together.
Genesis 13:7 And there was a strife between the herdmen of Abram’s cattle and the herdmen of Lot’s cattle: and the Canaanite and the Perizzite dwelled then in the land.
Genesis 13:8 And Abram said unto Lot, Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdmen and thy herdmen; for we [be] brethren.
Genesis 13:9 [Is] not the whole land before thee? separate thyself, I pray thee, from me: if [thou wilt take] the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if [thou depart] to the right hand, then I will go to the left.
Genesis 13:10 And Lot lifted up his eyes, and beheld all the plain of Jordan, that it [was] well watered every where, before the LORD destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, [even] as the garden of the LORD, like the land of Egypt, as thou comest unto Zoar.
Genesis 13:11 Then Lot chose him all the plain of Jordan; and Lot journeyed east: and they separated themselves the one from the other.
Genesis 13:12 Abram dwelled in the land of Canaan, and Lot dwelled in the cities of the plain, and pitched [his] tent toward Sodom.
Genesis 13:13 But the men of Sodom [were] wicked and sinners before the LORD exceedingly.
Genesis 13:14 And the LORD said unto Abram, after that Lot was separated from him, Lift up now thine eyes, and look from the place where thou art northward, and southward, and eastward, and westward:
Genesis 13:15 For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed for ever.
Genesis 13:16 And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth: so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, [then] shall thy seed also be numbered.
Genesis 13:17 Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee.
Genesis 13:18 Then Abram removed [his] tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which [is] in Hebron, and built there an altar unto the LORD.
Genesis 14:1 And it came to pass in the days of Amraphel king of Shinar, Arioch king of Ellasar, Chedorlaomer king of Elam, and Tidal king of nations;
Genesis 14:2 [That these] made war with Bera king of Sodom, and with Birsha king of Gomorrah, Shinab king of Admah, and Shemeber king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela, which is Zoar.
Genesis 14:3 All these were joined together in the vale of Siddim, which is the salt sea.
Genesis 14:4 Twelve years they served Chedorlaomer, and in the thirteenth year they rebelled.
Genesis 14:5 And in the fourteenth year came Chedorlaomer, and the kings that [were] with him, and smote the Rephaims in Ashteroth Karnaim, and the Zuzims in Ham, and the Emims in Shaveh Kiriathaim,
Genesis 14:6 And the Horites in their mount Seir, unto Elparan, which [is] by the wilderness.
Genesis 14:7 And they returned, and came to Enmishpat, which [is] Kadesh, and smote all the country of the Amalekites, and also the Amorites, that dwelt in Hazezontamar.
Genesis 14:8 And there went out the king of Sodom, and the king of Gomorrah, and the king of Admah, and the king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela (the same [is] Zoar;) and they joined battle with them in the vale of Siddim;
Genesis 14:9 With Chedorlaomer the king of Elam, and with Tidal king of nations, and Amraphel king of Shinar, and Arioch king of Ellasar; four kings with five.
Genesis 14:10 And the vale of Siddim [was full of] slimepits; and the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fled, and fell there; and they that remained fled to the mountain.
Genesis 14:11 And they took all the goods of Sodom and Gomorrah, and all their victuals, and went their way.
Genesis 14:12 And they took Lot, Abram’s brother’s son, who dwelt in Sodom, and his goods, and departed.
Genesis 14:13 And there came one that had escaped, and told Abram the Hebrew; for he dwelt in the plain of Mamre the Amorite, brother of Eshcol, and brother of Aner: and these [were] confederate with Abram.
Genesis 14:14 And when Abram heard that his brother was taken captive, he armed his trained [servants], born in his own house, three hundred and eighteen, and pursued [them] unto Dan.
Genesis 14:15 And he divided himself against them, he and his servants, by night, and smote them, and pursued them unto Hobah, which [is] on the left hand of Damascus.
Genesis 14:16 And he brought back all the goods, and also brought again his brother Lot, and his goods, and the women also, and the people.
Genesis 14:17 And the king of Sodom went out to meet him after his return from the slaughter of Chedorlaomer, and of the kings that [were] with him, at the valley of Shaveh, which [is] the king’s dale.
Genesis 14:18 And Melchizedek king of Salem brought forth bread and wine: and he [was] the priest of the most high God.
Genesis 14:19 And he blessed him, and said, Blessed [be] Abram of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth:
Genesis 14:20 And blessed be the most high God, which hath delivered thine enemies into thy hand. And he gave him tithes of all.
Genesis 14:21 And the king of Sodom said unto Abram, Give me the persons, and take the goods to thyself.
Genesis 14:22 And Abram said to the king of Sodom, I have lift up mine hand unto the LORD, the most high God, the possessor of heaven and earth,
Genesis 14:23 That I will not [take] from a thread even to a shoelatchet, and that I will not take any thing that [is] thine, lest thou shouldest say, I have made Abram rich:
Genesis 14:24 Save only that which the young men have eaten, and the portion of the men which went with me, Aner, Eshcol, and Mamre; let them take their portion.
Genesis 15:1 After these things the word of the LORD came unto Abram in a vision, saying, Fear not, Abram: I [am] thy shield, [and] thy exceeding great reward.
Genesis 15:2 And Abram said, Lord GOD, what wilt thou give me, seeing I go childless, and the steward of my house [is] this Eliezer of Damascus?
Genesis 15:3 And Abram said, Behold, to me thou hast given no seed: and, lo, one born in my house is mine heir.
Genesis 15:4 And, behold, the word of the LORD [came] unto him, saying, This shall not be thine heir; but he that shall come forth out of thine own bowels shall be thine heir.
Genesis 15:5 And he brought him forth abroad, and said, Look now toward heaven, and tell the stars, if thou be able to number them: and he said unto him, So shall thy seed be.
Genesis 15:6 And he believed in the LORD; and he counted it to him for righteousness.
Genesis 15:7 And he said unto him, I [am] the LORD that brought thee out of Ur of the Chaldees, to give thee this land to inherit it.
Genesis 15:8 And he said, Lord GOD, whereby shall I know that I shall inherit it?
Genesis 15:9 And he said unto him, Take me an heifer of three years old, and a she goat of three years old, and a ram of three years old, and a turtledove, and a young pigeon.
Genesis 15:10 And he took unto him all these, and divided them in the midst, and laid each piece one against another: but the birds divided he not.
Genesis 15:11 And when the fowls came down upon the carcases, Abram drove them away.
Genesis 15:12 And when the sun was going down, a deep sleep fell upon Abram; and, lo, an horror of great darkness fell upon him.
Genesis 15:13 And he said unto Abram, Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land [that is] not theirs, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them four hundred years;
Genesis 15:14 And also that nation, whom they shall serve, will I judge: and afterward shall they come out with great substance.
Genesis 15:15 And thou shalt go to thy fathers in peace; thou shalt be buried in a good old age.
Genesis 15:16 But in the fourth generation they shall come hither again: for the iniquity of the Amorites [is] not yet full.
Genesis 15:17 And it came to pass, that, when the sun went down, and it was dark, behold a smoking furnace, and a burning lamp that passed between those pieces.
Genesis 15:18 In the same day the LORD made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the great river, the river Euphrates:
Genesis 15:19 The Kenites, and the Kenizzites, and the Kadmonites,
Genesis 15:20 And the Hittites, and the Perizzites, and the Rephaims,
Genesis 15:21 And the Amorites, and the Canaanites, and the Girgashites, and the Jebusites.
Genesis 16:1 Now Sarai Abram’s wife bare him no children: and she had an handmaid, an Egyptian, whose name [was] Hagar.
Genesis 16:2 And Sarai said unto Abram, Behold now, the LORD hath restrained me from bearing: I pray thee, go in unto my maid; it may be that I may obtain children by her. And Abram hearkened to the voice of Sarai.
Genesis 16:3 And Sarai Abram’s wife took Hagar her maid the Egyptian, after Abram had dwelt ten years in the land of Canaan, and gave her to her husband Abram to be his wife.
Genesis 16:4 And he went in unto Hagar, and she conceived: and when she saw that she had conceived, her mistress was despised in her eyes.
Genesis 16:5 And Sarai said unto Abram, My wrong [be] upon thee: I have given my maid into thy bosom; and when she saw that she had conceived, I was despised in her eyes: the LORD judge between me and thee.
Genesis 16:6 But Abram said unto Sarai, Behold, thy maid [is] in thy hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee. And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face.
Genesis 16:7 And the angel of the LORD found her by a fountain of water in the wilderness, by the fountain in the way to Shur.
Genesis 16:8 And he said, Hagar, Sarai’s maid, whence camest thou? and whither wilt thou go? And she said, I flee from the face of my mistress Sarai.
Genesis 16:9 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Return to thy mistress, and submit thyself under her hands.
Genesis 16:10 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, I will multiply thy seed exceedingly, that it shall not be numbered for multitude.
Genesis 16:11 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Behold, thou [art] with child, and shalt bear a son, and shalt call his name Ishmael; because the LORD hath heard thy affliction.
Genesis 16:12 And he will be a wild man; his hand [will be] against every man, and every man’s hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.
Genesis 16:13 And she called the name of the LORD that spake unto her, Thou God seest me: for she said, Have I also here looked after him that seeth me?
Genesis 16:14 Wherefore the well was called Beerlahairoi; behold, [it is] between Kadesh and Bered.
Genesis 16:15 And Hagar bare Abram a son: and Abram called his son’s name, which Hagar bare, Ishmael.
Genesis 16:16 And Abram [was] fourscore and six years old, when Hagar bare Ishmael to Abram.
Genesis 17:1 And when Abram was ninety years old and nine, the LORD appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I [am] the Almighty God; walk before me, and be thou perfect.
Genesis 17:2 And I will make my covenant between me and thee, and will multiply thee exceedingly.
Genesis 17:3 And Abram fell on his face: and God talked with him, saying,
Genesis 17:4 As for me, behold, my covenant [is] with thee, and thou shalt be a father of many nations.
Genesis 17:5 Neither shall thy name any more be called Abram, but thy name shall be Abraham; for a father of many nations have I made thee.
Genesis 17:6 And I will make thee exceeding fruitful, and I will make nations of thee, and kings shall come out of thee.
Genesis 17:7 And I will establish my covenant between me and thee and thy seed after thee in their generations for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.
Genesis 17:8 And I will give unto thee, and to thy seed after thee, the land wherein thou art a stranger, all the land of Canaan, for an everlasting possession; and I will be their God.
Genesis 17:9 And God said unto Abraham, Thou shalt keep my covenant therefore, thou, and thy seed after thee in their generations.
Genesis 17:10 This [is] my covenant, which ye shall keep, between me and you and thy seed after thee; Every man child among you shall be circumcised.
Genesis 17:11 And ye shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin; and it shall be a token of the covenant betwixt me and you.
Genesis 17:12 And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every man child in your generations, he that is born in the house, or bought with money of any stranger, which [is] not of thy seed.
Genesis 17:13 He that is born in thy house, and he that is bought with thy money, must needs be circumcised: and my covenant shall be in your flesh for an everlasting covenant.
Genesis 17:14 And the uncircumcised man child whose flesh of his foreskin is not circumcised, that soul shall be cut off from his people; he hath broken my covenant.
Genesis 17:15 And God said unto Abraham, As for Sarai thy wife, thou shalt not call her name Sarai, but Sarah [shall] her name [be].
Genesis 17:16 And I will bless her, and give thee a son also of her: yea, I will bless her, and she shall be [a mother] of nations; kings of people shall be of her.
Genesis 17:17 Then Abraham fell upon his face, and laughed, and said in his heart, Shall [a child] be born unto him that is an hundred years old? and shall Sarah, that is ninety years old, bear?
Genesis 17:18 And Abraham said unto God, O that Ishmael might live before thee!
Genesis 17:19 And God said, Sarah thy wife shall bear thee a son indeed; and thou shalt call his name Isaac: and I will establish my covenant with him for an everlasting covenant, [and] with his seed after him.
Genesis 17:20 And as for Ishmael, I have heard thee: Behold, I have blessed him, and will make him fruitful, and will multiply him exceedingly; twelve princes shall he beget, and I will make him a great nation.
Genesis 17:21 But my covenant will I establish with Isaac, which Sarah shall bear unto thee at this set time in the next year.
Genesis 17:22 And he left off talking with him, and God went up from Abraham.
Genesis 17:23 And Abraham took Ishmael his son, and all that were born in his house, and all that were bought with his money, every male among the men of Abraham’s house; and circumcised the flesh of their foreskin in the selfsame day, as God had said unto him.
Genesis 17:24 And Abraham [was] ninety years old and nine, when he was circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin.
Genesis 17:25 And Ishmael his son [was] thirteen years old, when he was circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin.
Genesis 17:26 In the selfsame day was Abraham circumcised, and Ishmael his son.
Genesis 17:27 And all the men of his house, born in the house, and bought with money of the stranger, were circumcised with him.
Genesis 18:1 And the LORD appeared unto him in the plains of Mamre: and he sat in the tent door in the heat of the day;
Genesis 18:2 And he lift up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him: and when he saw [them], he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself toward the ground,
Genesis 18:3 And said, My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant:
Genesis 18:4 Let a little water, I pray you, be fetched, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree:
Genesis 18:5 And I will fetch a morsel of bread, and comfort ye your hearts; after that ye shall pass on: for therefore are ye come to your servant. And they said, So do, as thou hast said.
Genesis 18:6 And Abraham hastened into the tent unto Sarah, and said, Make ready quickly three measures of fine meal, knead [it], and make cakes upon the hearth.
Genesis 18:7 And Abraham ran unto the herd, and fetcht a calf tender and good, and gave [it] unto a young man; and he hasted to dress it.
Genesis 18:8 And he took butter, and milk, and the calf which he had dressed, and set [it] before them; and he stood by them under the tree, and they did eat.
Genesis 18:9 And they said unto him, Where [is] Sarah thy wife? And he said, Behold, in the tent.
Genesis 18:10 And he said, I will certainly return unto thee according to the time of life; and, lo, Sarah thy wife shall have a son. And Sarah heard [it] in the tent door, which [was] behind him.
Genesis 18:11 Now Abraham and Sarah [were] old [and] well stricken in age; [and] it ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women.
Genesis 18:12 Therefore Sarah laughed within herself, saying, After I am waxed old shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?
Genesis 18:13 And the LORD said unto Abraham, Wherefore did Sarah laugh, saying, Shall I of a surety bear a child, which am old?
Genesis 18:14 Is any thing too hard for the LORD? At the time appointed I will return unto thee, according to the time of life, and Sarah shall have a son.
Genesis 18:15 Then Sarah denied, saying, I laughed not; for she was afraid. And he said, Nay; but thou didst laugh.
Genesis 18:16 And the men rose up from thence, and looked toward Sodom: and Abraham went with them to bring them on the way.
Genesis 18:17 And the LORD said, Shall I hide from Abraham that thing which I do;
Genesis 18:18 Seeing that Abraham shall surely become a great and mighty nation, and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed in him?
Genesis 18:19 For I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the LORD, to do justice and judgment; that the LORD may bring upon Abraham that which he hath spoken of him.
Genesis 18:20 And the LORD said, Because the cry of Sodom and Gomorrah is great, and because their sin is very grievous;
Genesis 18:21 I will go down now, and see whether they have done altogether according to the cry of it, which is come unto me; and if not, I will know.
Genesis 18:22 And the men turned their faces from thence, and went toward Sodom: but Abraham stood yet before the LORD.
Genesis 18:23 And Abraham drew near, and said, Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?
Genesis 18:24 Peradventure there be fifty righteous within the city: wilt thou also destroy and not spare the place for the fifty righteous that [are] therein?
Genesis 18:25 That be far from thee to do after this manner, to slay the righteous with the wicked: and that the righteous should be as the wicked, that be far from thee: Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?
Genesis 18:26 And the LORD said, If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for their sakes.
Genesis 18:27 And Abraham answered and said, Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the Lord, which [am but] dust and ashes:
Genesis 18:28 Peradventure there shall lack five of the fifty righteous: wilt thou destroy all the city for [lack of] five? And he said, If I find there forty and five, I will not destroy [it].
Genesis 18:29 And he spake unto him yet again, and said, Peradventure there shall be forty found there. And he said, I will not do [it] for forty’s sake.
Genesis 18:30 And he said [unto him], Oh let not the Lord be angry, and I will speak: Peradventure there shall thirty be found there. And he said, I will not do [it], if I find thirty there.
Genesis 18:31 And he said, Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the Lord: Peradventure there shall be twenty found there. And he said, I will not destroy [it] for twenty’s sake.
Genesis 18:32 And he said, Oh let not the Lord be angry, and I will speak yet but this once: Peradventure ten shall be found there. And he said, I will not destroy [it] for ten’s sake.
Genesis 18:33 And the LORD went his way, as soon as he had left communing with Abraham: and Abraham returned unto his place.
Genesis 19:1 And there came two angels to Sodom at even; and Lot sat in the gate of Sodom: and Lot seeing [them] rose up to meet them; and he bowed himself with his face toward the ground;
Genesis 19:2 And he said, Behold now, my lords, turn in, I pray you, into your servant’s house, and tarry all night, and wash your feet, and ye shall rise up early, and go on your ways. And they said, Nay; but we will abide in the street all night.
Genesis 19:3 And he pressed upon them greatly; and they turned in unto him, and entered into his house; and he made them a feast, and did bake unleavened bread, and they did eat.
Genesis 19:4 But before they lay down, the men of the city, [even] the men of Sodom, compassed the house round, both old and young, all the people from every quarter:
Genesis 19:5 And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where [are] the men which came in to thee this night? bring them out unto us, that we may know them.
Genesis 19:6 And Lot went out at the door unto them, and shut the door after him,
Genesis 19:7 And said, I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly.
Genesis 19:8 Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as [is] good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof.
Genesis 19:9 And they said, Stand back. And they said [again], This one [fellow] came in to sojourn, and he will needs be a judge: now will we deal worse with thee, than with them. And they pressed sore upon the man, [even] Lot, and came near to break the door.
Genesis 19:10 But the men put forth their hand, and pulled Lot into the house to them, and shut to the door.
Genesis 19:11 And they smote the men that [were] at the door of the house with blindness, both small and great: so that they wearied themselves to find the door.
Genesis 19:12 And the men said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides? son in law, and thy sons, and thy daughters, and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring [them] out of this place:
Genesis 19:13 For we will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the LORD; and the LORD hath sent us to destroy it.
Genesis 19:14 And Lot went out, and spake unto his sons in law, which married his daughters, and said, Up, get you out of this place; for the LORD will destroy this city. But he seemed as one that mocked unto his sons in law.
Genesis 19:15 And when the morning arose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, Arise, take thy wife, and thy two daughters, which are here; lest thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city.
Genesis 19:16 And while he lingered, the men laid hold upon his hand, and upon the hand of his wife, and upon the hand of his two daughters; the LORD being merciful unto him: and they brought him forth, and set him without the city.
Genesis 19:17 And it came to pass, when they had brought them forth abroad, that he said, Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed.
Genesis 19:18 And Lot said unto them, Oh, not so, my Lord:
Genesis 19:19 Behold now, thy servant hath found grace in thy sight, and thou hast magnified thy mercy, which thou hast shewed unto me in saving my life; and I cannot escape to the mountain, lest some evil take me, and I die:
Genesis 19:20 Behold now, this city [is] near to flee unto, and it [is] a little one: Oh, let me escape thither, ([is] it not a little one?) and my soul shall live.
Genesis 19:21 And he said unto him, See, I have accepted thee concerning this thing also, that I will not overthrow this city, for the which thou hast spoken.
Genesis 19:22 Haste thee, escape thither; for I cannot do any thing till thou be come thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar.
Genesis 19:23 The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar.
Genesis 19:24 Then the LORD rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the LORD out of heaven;
Genesis 19:25 And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.
Genesis 19:26 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.
Genesis 19:27 And Abraham gat up early in the morning to the place where he stood before the LORD:
Genesis 19:28 And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and, lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.
Genesis 19:29 And it came to pass, when God destroyed the cities of the plain, that God remembered Abraham, and sent Lot out of the midst of the overthrow, when he overthrew the cities in the which Lot dwelt.
Genesis 19:30 And Lot went up out of Zoar, and dwelt in the mountain, and his two daughters with him; for he feared to dwell in Zoar: and he dwelt in a cave, he and his two daughters.
Genesis 19:31 And the firstborn said unto the younger, Our father [is] old, and [there is] not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth:
Genesis 19:32 Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.
Genesis 19:33 And they made their father drink wine that night: and the firstborn went in, and lay with her father; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.
Genesis 19:34 And it came to pass on the morrow, that the firstborn said unto the younger, Behold, I lay yesternight with my father: let us make him drink wine this night also; and go thou in, [and] lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.
Genesis 19:35 And they made their father drink wine that night also: and the younger arose, and lay with him; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.
Genesis 19:36 Thus were both the daughters of Lot with child by their father.
Genesis 19:37 And the firstborn bare a son, and called his name Moab: the same [is] the father of the Moabites unto this day.
Genesis 19:38 And the younger, she also bare a son, and called his name Benammi: the same [is] the father of the children of Ammon unto this day.
Genesis 20:1 And Abraham journeyed from thence toward the south country, and dwelled between Kadesh and Shur, and sojourned in Gerar.
Genesis 20:2 And Abraham said of Sarah his wife, She [is] my sister: and Abimelech king of Gerar sent, and took Sarah.
Genesis 20:3 But God came to Abimelech in a dream by night, and said to him, Behold, thou [art but] a dead man, for the woman which thou hast taken; for she [is] a man’s wife.
Genesis 20:4 But Abimelech had not come near her: and he said, Lord, wilt thou slay also a righteous nation?
Genesis 20:5 Said he not unto me, She [is] my sister? and she, even she herself said, He [is] my brother: in the integrity of my heart and innocency of my hands have I done this.
Genesis 20:6 And God said unto him in a dream, Yea, I know that thou didst this in the integrity of thy heart; for I also withheld thee from sinning against me: therefore suffered I thee not to touch her.
Genesis 20:7 Now therefore restore the man [his] wife; for he [is] a prophet, and he shall pray for thee, and thou shalt live: and if thou restore [her] not, know thou that thou shalt surely die, thou, and all that [are] thine.
Genesis 20:8 Therefore Abimelech rose early in the morning, and called all his servants, and told all these things in their ears: and the men were sore afraid.
Genesis 20:9 Then Abimelech called Abraham, and said unto him, What hast thou done unto us? and what have I offended thee, that thou hast brought on me and on my kingdom a great sin? thou hast done deeds unto me that ought not to be done.
Genesis 20:10 And Abimelech said unto Abraham, What sawest thou, that thou hast done this thing?
Genesis 20:11 And Abraham said, Because I thought, Surely the fear of God [is] not in this place; and they will slay me for my wife’s sake.
Genesis 20:12 And yet indeed [she is] my sister; she [is] the daughter of my father, but not the daughter of my mother; and she became my wife.
Genesis 20:13 And it came to pass, when God caused me to wander from my father’s house, that I said unto her, This [is] thy kindness which thou shalt shew unto me; at every place whither we shall come, say of me, He [is] my brother.
Genesis 20:14 And Abimelech took sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and womenservants, and gave [them] unto Abraham, and restored him Sarah his wife.
Genesis 20:15 And Abimelech said, Behold, my land [is] before thee: dwell where it pleaseth thee.
Genesis 20:16 And unto Sarah he said, Behold, I have given thy brother a thousand [pieces] of silver: behold, he [is] to thee a covering of the eyes, unto all that [are] with thee, and with all [other]: thus she was reproved.
Genesis 20:17 So Abraham prayed unto God: and God healed Abimelech, and his wife, and his maidservants; and they bare [children].
Genesis 20:18 For the LORD had fast closed up all the wombs of the house of Abimelech, because of Sarah Abraham’s wife.
Genesis 21:1 And the LORD visited Sarah as he had said, and the LORD did unto Sarah as he had spoken.
Genesis 21:2 For Sarah conceived, and bare Abraham a son in his old age, at the set time of which God had spoken to him.
Genesis 21:3 And Abraham called the name of his son that was born unto him, whom Sarah bare to him, Isaac.
Genesis 21:4 And Abraham circumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.
Genesis 21:5 And Abraham was an hundred years old, when his son Isaac was born unto him.
Genesis 21:6 And Sarah said, God hath made me to laugh, [so that] all that hear will laugh with me.
Genesis 21:7 And she said, Who would have said unto Abraham, that Sarah should have given children suck? for I have born [him] a son in his old age.
Genesis 21:8 And the child grew, and was weaned: and Abraham made a great feast the [same] day that Isaac was weaned.
Genesis 21:9 And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, which she had born unto Abraham, mocking.
Genesis 21:10 Wherefore she said unto Abraham, Cast out this bondwoman and her son: for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, [even] with Isaac.
Genesis 21:11 And the thing was very grievous in Abraham’s sight because of his son.
Genesis 21:12 And God said unto Abraham, Let it not be grievous in thy sight because of the lad, and because of thy bondwoman; in all that Sarah hath said unto thee, hearken unto her voice; for in Isaac shall thy seed be called.
Genesis 21:13 And also of the son of the bondwoman will I make a nation, because he [is] thy seed.
Genesis 21:14 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread, and a bottle of water, and gave [it] unto Hagar, putting [it] on her shoulder, and the child, and sent her away: and she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba.
Genesis 21:15 And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the child under one of the shrubs.
Genesis 21:16 And she went, and sat her down over against [him] a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against [him], and lift up her voice, and wept.
Genesis 21:17 And God heard the voice of the lad; and the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he [is].
Genesis 21:18 Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand; for I will make him a great nation.
Genesis 21:19 And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink.
Genesis 21:20 And God was with the lad; and he grew, and dwelt in the wilderness, and became an archer.
Genesis 21:21 And he dwelt in the wilderness of Paran: and his mother took him a wife out of the land of Egypt.
Genesis 21:22 And it came to pass at that time, that Abimelech and Phichol the chief captain of his host spake unto Abraham, saying, God [is] with thee in all that thou doest:
Genesis 21:23 Now therefore swear unto me here by God that thou wilt not deal falsely with me, nor with my son, nor with my son’s son: [but] according to the kindness that I have done unto thee, thou shalt do unto me, and to the land wherein thou hast sojourned.
Genesis 21:24 And Abraham said, I will swear.
Genesis 21:25 And Abraham reproved Abimelech because of a well of water, which Abimelech’s servants had violently taken away.
Genesis 21:26 And Abimelech said, I wot not who hath done this thing: neither didst thou tell me, neither yet heard I [of it], but to day.
Genesis 21:27 And Abraham took sheep and oxen, and gave them unto Abimelech; and both of them made a covenant.
Genesis 21:28 And Abraham set seven ewe lambs of the flock by themselves.
Genesis 21:29 And Abimelech said unto Abraham, What [mean] these seven ewe lambs which thou hast set by themselves?
Genesis 21:30 And he said, For [these] seven ewe lambs shalt thou take of my hand, that they may be a witness unto me, that I have digged this well.
Genesis 21:31 Wherefore he called that place Beersheba; because there they sware both of them.
Genesis 21:32 Thus they made a covenant at Beersheba: then Abimelech rose up, and Phichol the chief captain of his host, and they returned into the land of the Philistines.
Genesis 21:33 And [Abraham] planted a grove in Beersheba, and called there on the name of the LORD, the everlasting God.
Genesis 21:34 And Abraham sojourned in the Philistines’ land many days.
Genesis 22:1 And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, [here] I [am].
Genesis 22:2 And he said, Take now thy son, thine only [son] Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.
Genesis 22:3 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.
Genesis 22:4 Then on the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off.
Genesis 22:5 And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass; and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come again to you.
Genesis 22:6 And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering, and laid [it] upon Isaac his son; and he took the fire in his hand, and a knife; and they went both of them together.
Genesis 22:7 And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here [am] I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where [is] the lamb for a burnt offering?
Genesis 22:8 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.
Genesis 22:9 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.
Genesis 22:10 And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.
Genesis 22:11 And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here [am] I.
Genesis 22:12 And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only [son] from me.
Genesis 22:13 And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind [him] a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son.
Genesis 22:14 And Abraham called the name of that place Jehovahjireh: as it is said [to] this day, In the mount of the LORD it shall be seen.
Genesis 22:15 And the angel of the LORD called unto Abraham out of heaven the second time,
Genesis 22:16 And said, By myself have I sworn, saith the LORD, for because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only [son]:
Genesis 22:17 That in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which [is] upon the sea shore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies;
Genesis 22:18 And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice.
Genesis 22:19 So Abraham returned unto his young men, and they rose up and went together to Beersheba; and Abraham dwelt at Beersheba.
Genesis 22:20 And it came to pass after these things, that it was told Abraham, saying, Behold, Milcah, she hath also born children unto thy brother Nahor;
Genesis 22:21 Huz his firstborn, and Buz his brother, and Kemuel the father of Aram,
Genesis 22:22 And Chesed, and Hazo, and Pildash, and Jidlaph, and Bethuel.
Genesis 22:23 And Bethuel begat Rebekah: these eight Milcah did bear to Nahor, Abraham’s brother.
Genesis 22:24 And his concubine, whose name [was] Reumah, she bare also Tebah, and Gaham, and Thahash, and Maachah.
Genesis 23:1 And Sarah was an hundred and seven and twenty years old: [these were] the years of the life of Sarah.
Genesis 23:2 And Sarah died in Kirjatharba; the same [is] Hebron in the land of Canaan: and Abraham came to mourn for Sarah, and to weep for her.
Genesis 23:3 And Abraham stood up from before his dead, and spake unto the sons of Heth, saying,
Genesis 23:4 I [am] a stranger and a sojourner with you: give me a possession of a buryingplace with you, that I may bury my dead out of my sight.
Genesis 23:5 And the children of Heth answered Abraham, saying unto him,
Genesis 23:6 Hear us, my lord: thou [art] a mighty prince among us: in the choice of our sepulchres bury thy dead; none of us shall withhold from thee his sepulchre, but that thou mayest bury thy dead.
Genesis 23:7 And Abraham stood up, and bowed himself to the people of the land, [even] to the children of Heth.
Genesis 23:8 And he communed with them, saying, If it be your mind that I should bury my dead out of my sight; hear me, and intreat for me to Ephron the son of Zohar,
Genesis 23:9 That he may give me the cave of Machpelah, which he hath, which [is] in the end of his field; for as much money as it is worth he shall give it me for a possession of a buryingplace amongst you.
Genesis 23:10 And Ephron dwelt among the children of Heth: and Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham in the audience of the children of Heth, [even] of all that went in at the gate of his city, saying,
Genesis 23:11 Nay, my lord, hear me: the field give I thee, and the cave that [is] therein, I give it thee; in the presence of the sons of my people give I it thee: bury thy dead.
Genesis 23:12 And Abraham bowed down himself before the people of the land.
Genesis 23:13 And he spake unto Ephron in the audience of the people of the land, saying, But if thou [wilt give it], I pray thee, hear me: I will give thee money for the field; take [it] of me, and I will bury my dead there.
Genesis 23:14 And Ephron answered Abraham, saying unto him,
Genesis 23:15 My lord, hearken unto me: the land [is worth] four hundred shekels of silver; what [is] that betwixt me and thee? bury therefore thy dead.
Genesis 23:16 And Abraham hearkened unto Ephron; and Abraham weighed to Ephron the silver, which he had named in the audience of the sons of Heth, four hundred shekels of silver, current [money] with the merchant.
Genesis 23:17 And the field of Ephron, which [was] in Machpelah, which [was] before Mamre, the field, and the cave which [was] therein, and all the trees that [were] in the field, that [were] in all the borders round about, were made sure
Genesis 23:18 Unto Abraham for a possession in the presence of the children of Heth, before all that went in at the gate of his city.
Genesis 23:19 And after this, Abraham buried Sarah his wife in the cave of the field of Machpelah before Mamre: the same [is] Hebron in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 23:20 And the field, and the cave that [is] therein, were made sure unto Abraham for a possession of a buryingplace by the sons of Heth.
Genesis 24:1 And Abraham was old, [and] well stricken in age: and the LORD had blessed Abraham in all things.
Genesis 24:2 And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh:
Genesis 24:3 And I will make thee swear by the LORD, the God of heaven, and the God of the earth, that thou shalt not take a wife unto my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, among whom I dwell:
Genesis 24:4 But thou shalt go unto my country, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son Isaac.
Genesis 24:5 And the servant said unto him, Peradventure the woman will not be willing to follow me unto this land: must I needs bring thy son again unto the land from whence thou camest?
Genesis 24:6 And Abraham said unto him, Beware thou that thou bring not my son thither again.
Genesis 24:7 The LORD God of heaven, which took me from my father’s house, and from the land of my kindred, and which spake unto me, and that sware unto me, saying, Unto thy seed will I give this land; he shall send his angel before thee, and thou shalt take a wife unto my son from thence.
Genesis 24:8 And if the woman will not be willing to follow thee, then thou shalt be clear from this my oath: only bring not my son thither again.
Genesis 24:9 And the servant put his hand under the thigh of Abraham his master, and sware to him concerning that matter.
Genesis 24:10 And the servant took ten camels of the camels of his master, and departed; for all the goods of his master [were] in his hand: and he arose, and went to Mesopotamia, unto the city of Nahor.
Genesis 24:11 And he made his camels to kneel down without the city by a well of water at the time of the evening, [even] the time that women go out to draw [water].
Genesis 24:12 And he said, O LORD God of my master Abraham, I pray thee, send me good speed this day, and shew kindness unto my master Abraham.
Genesis 24:13 Behold, I stand [here] by the well of water; and the daughters of the men of the city come out to draw water:
Genesis 24:14 And let it come to pass, that the damsel to whom I shall say, Let down thy pitcher, I pray thee, that I may drink; and she shall say, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: [let the same be] she [that] thou hast appointed for thy servant Isaac; and thereby shall I know that thou hast shewed kindness unto my master.
Genesis 24:15 And it came to pass, before he had done speaking, that, behold, Rebekah came out, who was born to Bethuel, son of Milcah, the wife of Nahor, Abraham’s brother, with her pitcher upon her shoulder.
Genesis 24:16 And the damsel [was] very fair to look upon, a virgin, neither had any man known her: and she went down to the well, and filled her pitcher, and came up.
Genesis 24:17 And the servant ran to meet her, and said, Let me, I pray thee, drink a little water of thy pitcher.
Genesis 24:18 And she said, Drink, my lord: and she hasted, and let down her pitcher upon her hand, and gave him drink.
Genesis 24:19 And when she had done giving him drink, she said, I will draw [water] for thy camels also, until they have done drinking.
Genesis 24:20 And she hasted, and emptied her pitcher into the trough, and ran again unto the well to draw [water], and drew for all his camels.
Genesis 24:21 And the man wondering at her held his peace, to wit whether the LORD had made his journey prosperous or not.
Genesis 24:22 And it came to pass, as the camels had done drinking, that the man took a golden earring of half a shekel weight, and two bracelets for her hands of ten [shekels] weight of gold;
Genesis 24:23 And said, Whose daughter [art] thou? tell me, I pray thee: is there room [in] thy father’s house for us to lodge in?
Genesis 24:24 And she said unto him, I [am] the daughter of Bethuel the son of Milcah, which she bare unto Nahor.
Genesis 24:25 She said moreover unto him, We have both straw and provender enough, and room to lodge in.
Genesis 24:26 And the man bowed down his head, and worshipped the LORD.
Genesis 24:27 And he said, Blessed [be] the LORD God of my master Abraham, who hath not left destitute my master of his mercy and his truth: I [being] in the way, the LORD led me to the house of my master’s brethren.
Genesis 24:28 And the damsel ran, and told [them of] her mother’s house these things.
Genesis 24:29 And Rebekah had a brother, and his name [was] Laban: and Laban ran out unto the man, unto the well.
Genesis 24:30 And it came to pass, when he saw the earring and bracelets upon his sister’s hands, and when he heard the words of Rebekah his sister, saying, Thus spake the man unto me; that he came unto the man; and, behold, he stood by the camels at the well.
Genesis 24:31 And he said, Come in, thou blessed of the LORD; wherefore standest thou without? for I have prepared the house, and room for the camels.
Genesis 24:32 And the man came into the house: and he ungirded his camels, and gave straw and provender for the camels, and water to wash his feet, and the men’s feet that [were] with him.
Genesis 24:33 And there was set [meat] before him to eat: but he said, I will not eat, until I have told mine errand. And he said, Speak on.
Genesis 24:34 And he said, I [am] Abraham’s servant.
Genesis 24:35 And the LORD hath blessed my master greatly; and he is become great: and he hath given him flocks, and herds, and silver, and gold, and menservants, and maidservants, and camels, and asses.
Genesis 24:36 And Sarah my master’s wife bare a son to my master when she was old: and unto him hath he given all that he hath.
Genesis 24:37 And my master made me swear, saying, Thou shalt not take a wife to my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, in whose land I dwell:
Genesis 24:38 But thou shalt go unto my father’s house, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son.
Genesis 24:39 And I said unto my master, Peradventure the woman will not follow me.
Genesis 24:40 And he said unto me, The LORD, before whom I walk, will send his angel with thee, and prosper thy way; and thou shalt take a wife for my son of my kindred, and of my father’s house:
Genesis 24:41 Then shalt thou be clear from [this] my oath, when thou comest to my kindred; and if they give not thee [one], thou shalt be clear from my oath.
Genesis 24:42 And I came this day unto the well, and said, O LORD God of my master Abraham, if now thou do prosper my way which I go:
Genesis 24:43 Behold, I stand by the well of water; and it shall come to pass, that when the virgin cometh forth to draw [water], and I say to her, Give me, I pray thee, a little water of thy pitcher to drink;
Genesis 24:44 And she say to me, Both drink thou, and I will also draw for thy camels: [let] the same [be] the woman whom the LORD hath appointed out for my master’s son.
Genesis 24:45 And before I had done speaking in mine heart, behold, Rebekah came forth with her pitcher on her shoulder; and she went down unto the well, and drew [water]: and I said unto her, Let me drink, I pray thee.
Genesis 24:46 And she made haste, and let down her pitcher from her [shoulder], and said, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: so I drank, and she made the camels drink also.
Genesis 24:47 And I asked her, and said, Whose daughter [art] thou? And she said, The daughter of Bethuel, Nahor’s son, whom Milcah bare unto him: and I put the earring upon her face, and the bracelets upon her hands.
Genesis 24:48 And I bowed down my head, and worshipped the LORD, and blessed the LORD God of my master Abraham, which had led me in the right way to take my master’s brother’s daughter unto his son.
Genesis 24:49 And now if ye will deal kindly and truly with my master, tell me: and if not, tell me; that I may turn to the right hand, or to the left.
Genesis 24:50 Then Laban and Bethuel answered and said, The thing proceedeth from the LORD: we cannot speak unto thee bad or good.
Genesis 24:51 Behold, Rebekah [is] before thee, take [her], and go, and let her be thy master’s son’s wife, as the LORD hath spoken.
Genesis 24:52 And it came to pass, that, when Abraham’s servant heard their words, he worshipped the LORD, [bowing himself] to the earth.
Genesis 24:53 And the servant brought forth jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment, and gave [them] to Rebekah: he gave also to her brother and to her mother precious things.
Genesis 24:54 And they did eat and drink, he and the men that [were] with him, and tarried all night; and they rose up in the morning, and he said, Send me away unto my master.
Genesis 24:55 And her brother and her mother said, Let the damsel abide with us [a few] days, at the least ten; after that she shall go.
Genesis 24:56 And he said unto them, Hinder me not, seeing the LORD hath prospered my way; send me away that I may go to my master.
Genesis 24:57 And they said, We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth.
Genesis 24:58 And they called Rebekah, and said unto her, Wilt thou go with this man? And she said, I will go.
Genesis 24:59 And they sent away Rebekah their sister, and her nurse, and Abraham’s servant, and his men.
Genesis 24:60 And they blessed Rebekah, and said unto her, Thou [art] our sister, be thou [the mother] of thousands of millions, and let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them.
Genesis 24:61 And Rebekah arose, and her damsels, and they rode upon the camels, and followed the man: and the servant took Rebekah, and went his way.
Genesis 24:62 And Isaac came from the way of the well Lahairoi; for he dwelt in the south country.
Genesis 24:63 And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide: and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels [were] coming.
Genesis 24:64 And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when she saw Isaac, she lighted off the camel.
Genesis 24:65 For she [had] said unto the servant, What man [is] this that walketh in the field to meet us? And the servant [had] said, It [is] my master: therefore she took a vail, and covered herself.
Genesis 24:66 And the servant told Isaac all things that he had done.
Genesis 24:67 And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her: and Isaac was comforted after his mother’s [death].
Genesis 25:1 Then again Abraham took a wife, and her name [was] Keturah.
Genesis 25:2 And she bare him Zimran, and Jokshan, and Medan, and Midian, and Ishbak, and Shuah.
Genesis 25:3 And Jokshan begat Sheba, and Dedan. And the sons of Dedan were Asshurim, and Letushim, and Leummim.
Genesis 25:4 And the sons of Midian; Ephah, and Epher, and Hanoch, and Abida, and Eldaah. All these [were] the children of Keturah.
Genesis 25:5 And Abraham gave all that he had unto Isaac.
Genesis 25:6 But unto the sons of the concubines, which Abraham had, Abraham gave gifts, and sent them away from Isaac his son, while he yet lived, eastward, unto the east country.
Genesis 25:7 And these [are] the days of the years of Abraham’s life which he lived, an hundred threescore and fifteen years.
Genesis 25:8 Then Abraham gave up the ghost, and died in a good old age, an old man, and full [of years]; and was gathered to his people.
Genesis 25:9 And his sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron the son of Zohar the Hittite, which [is] before Mamre;
Genesis 25:10 The field which Abraham purchased of the sons of Heth: there was Abraham buried, and Sarah his wife.
Genesis 25:11 And it came to pass after the death of Abraham, that God blessed his son Isaac; and Isaac dwelt by the well Lahairoi.
Genesis 25:12 Now these [are] the generations of Ishmael, Abraham’s son, whom Hagar the Egyptian, Sarah’s handmaid, bare unto Abraham:
Genesis 25:13 And these [are] the names of the sons of Ishmael, by their names, according to their generations: the firstborn of Ishmael, Nebajoth; and Kedar, and Adbeel, and Mibsam,
Genesis 25:14 And Mishma, and Dumah, and Massa,
Genesis 25:15 Hadar, and Tema, Jetur, Naphish, and Kedemah:
Genesis 25:16 These [are] the sons of Ishmael, and these [are] their names, by their towns, and by their castles; twelve princes according to their nations.
Genesis 25:17 And these [are] the years of the life of Ishmael, an hundred and thirty and seven years: and he gave up the ghost and died; and was gathered unto his people.
Genesis 25:18 And they dwelt from Havilah unto Shur, that [is] before Egypt, as thou goest toward Assyria: [and] he died in the presence of all his brethren.
Genesis 25:19 And these [are] the generations of Isaac, Abraham’s son: Abraham begat Isaac:
Genesis 25:20 And Isaac was forty years old when he took Rebekah to wife, the daughter of Bethuel the Syrian of Padanaram, the sister to Laban the Syrian.
Genesis 25:21 And Isaac intreated the LORD for his wife, because she [was] barren: and the LORD was intreated of him, and Rebekah his wife conceived.
Genesis 25:22 And the children struggled together within her; and she said, If [it be] so, why [am] I thus? And she went to inquire of the LORD.
Genesis 25:23 And the LORD said unto her, Two nations [are] in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels; and [the one] people shall be stronger than [the other] people; and the elder shall serve the younger.
Genesis 25:24 And when her days to be delivered were fulfilled, behold, [there were] twins in her womb.
Genesis 25:25 And the first came out red, all over like an hairy garment; and they called his name Esau.
Genesis 25:26 And after that came his brother out, and his hand took hold on Esau’s heel; and his name was called Jacob: and Isaac [was] threescore years old when she bare them.
Genesis 25:27 And the boys grew: and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob [was] a plain man, dwelling in tents.
Genesis 25:28 And Isaac loved Esau, because he did eat of [his] venison: but Rebekah loved Jacob.
Genesis 25:29 And Jacob sod pottage: and Esau came from the field, and he [was] faint:
Genesis 25:30 And Esau said to Jacob, Feed me, I pray thee, with that same red [pottage]; for I [am] faint: therefore was his name called Edom.
Genesis 25:31 And Jacob said, Sell me this day thy birthright.
Genesis 25:32 And Esau said, Behold, I [am] at the point to die: and what profit shall this birthright do to me?
Genesis 25:33 And Jacob said, Swear to me this day; and he sware unto him: and he sold his birthright unto Jacob.
Genesis 25:34 Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentiles; and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised [his] birthright.
Genesis 26:1 And there was a famine in the land, beside the first famine that was in the days of Abraham. And Isaac went unto Abimelech king of the Philistines unto Gerar.
Genesis 26:2 And the LORD appeared unto him, and said, Go not down into Egypt; dwell in the land which I shall tell thee of:
Genesis 26:3 Sojourn in this land, and I will be with thee, and will bless thee; for unto thee, and unto thy seed, I will give all these countries, and I will perform the oath which I sware unto Abraham thy father;
Genesis 26:4 And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed;
Genesis 26:5 Because that Abraham obeyed my voice, and kept my charge, my commandments, my statutes, and my laws.
Genesis 26:6 And Isaac dwelt in Gerar:
Genesis 26:7 And the men of the place asked [him] of his wife; and he said, She [is] my sister: for he feared to say, [She is] my wife; lest, [said he], the men of the place should kill me for Rebekah; because she [was] fair to look upon.
Genesis 26:8 And it came to pass, when he had been there a long time, that Abimelech king of the Philistines looked out at a window, and saw, and, behold, Isaac [was] sporting with Rebekah his wife.
Genesis 26:9 And Abimelech called Isaac, and said, Behold, of a surety she [is] thy wife: and how saidst thou, She [is] my sister? And Isaac said unto him, Because I said, Lest I die for her.
Genesis 26:10 And Abimelech said, What [is] this thou hast done unto us? one of the people might lightly have lien with thy wife, and thou shouldest have brought guiltiness upon us.
Genesis 26:11 And Abimelech charged all [his] people, saying, He that toucheth this man or his wife shall surely be put to death.
Genesis 26:12 Then Isaac sowed in that land, and received in the same year an hundredfold: and the LORD blessed him.
Genesis 26:13 And the man waxed great, and went forward, and grew until he became very great:
Genesis 26:14 For he had possession of flocks, and possession of herds, and great store of servants: and the Philistines envied him.
Genesis 26:15 For all the wells which his father’s servants had digged in the days of Abraham his father, the Philistines had stopped them, and filled them with earth.
Genesis 26:16 And Abimelech said unto Isaac, Go from us; for thou art much mightier than we.
Genesis 26:17 And Isaac departed thence, and pitched his tent in the valley of Gerar, and dwelt there.
Genesis 26:18 And Isaac digged again the wells of water, which they had digged in the days of Abraham his father; for the Philistines had stopped them after the death of Abraham: and he called their names after the names by which his father had called them.
Genesis 26:19 And Isaac’s servants digged in the valley, and found there a well of springing water.
Genesis 26:20 And the herdmen of Gerar did strive with Isaac’s herdmen, saying, The water [is] ours: and he called the name of the well Esek; because they strove with him.
Genesis 26:21 And they digged another well, and strove for that also: and he called the name of it Sitnah.
Genesis 26:22 And he removed from thence, and digged another well; and for that they strove not: and he called the name of it Rehoboth; and he said, For now the LORD hath made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land.
Genesis 26:23 And he went up from thence to Beersheba.
Genesis 26:24 And the LORD appeared unto him the same night, and said, I [am] the God of Abraham thy father: fear not, for I [am] with thee, and will bless thee, and multiply thy seed for my servant Abraham’s sake.
Genesis 26:25 And he builded an altar there, and called upon the name of the LORD, and pitched his tent there: and there Isaac’s servants digged a well.
Genesis 26:26 Then Abimelech went to him from Gerar, and Ahuzzath one of his friends, and Phichol the chief captain of his army.
Genesis 26:27 And Isaac said unto them, Wherefore come ye to me, seeing ye hate me, and have sent me away from you?
Genesis 26:28 And they said, We saw certainly that the LORD was with thee: and we said, Let there be now an oath betwixt us, [even] betwixt us and thee, and let us make a covenant with thee;
Genesis 26:29 That thou wilt do us no hurt, as we have not touched thee, and as we have done unto thee nothing but good, and have sent thee away in peace: thou [art] now the blessed of the LORD.
Genesis 26:30 And he made them a feast, and they did eat and drink.
Genesis 26:31 And they rose up betimes in the morning, and sware one to another: and Isaac sent them away, and they departed from him in peace.
Genesis 26:32 And it came to pass the same day, that Isaac’s servants came, and told him concerning the well which they had digged, and said unto him, We have found water.
Genesis 26:33 And he called it Shebah: therefore the name of the city [is] Beersheba unto this day.
Genesis 26:34 And Esau was forty years old when he took to wife Judith the daughter of Beeri the Hittite, and Bashemath the daughter of Elon the Hittite:
Genesis 26:35 Which were a grief of mind unto Isaac and to Rebekah.
Genesis 27:1 And it came to pass, that when Isaac was old, and his eyes were dim, so that he could not see, he called Esau his eldest son, and said unto him, My son: and he said unto him, Behold, [here am] I.
Genesis 27:2 And he said, Behold now, I am old, I know not the day of my death:
Genesis 27:3 Now therefore take, I pray thee, thy weapons, thy quiver and thy bow, and go out to the field, and take me [some] venison;
Genesis 27:4 And make me savoury meat, such as I love, and bring [it] to me, that I may eat; that my soul may bless thee before I die.
Genesis 27:5 And Rebekah heard when Isaac spake to Esau his son. And Esau went to the field to hunt [for] venison, [and] to bring [it].
Genesis 27:6 And Rebekah spake unto Jacob her son, saying, Behold, I heard thy father speak unto Esau thy brother, saying,
Genesis 27:7 Bring me venison, and make me savoury meat, that I may eat, and bless thee before the LORD before my death.
Genesis 27:8 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice according to that which I command thee.
Genesis 27:9 Go now to the flock, and fetch me from thence two good kids of the goats; and I will make them savoury meat for thy father, such as he loveth:
Genesis 27:10 And thou shalt bring [it] to thy father, that he may eat, and that he may bless thee before his death.
Genesis 27:11 And Jacob said to Rebekah his mother, Behold, Esau my brother [is] a hairy man, and I [am] a smooth man:
Genesis 27:12 My father peradventure will feel me, and I shall seem to him as a deceiver; and I shall bring a curse upon me, and not a blessing.
Genesis 27:13 And his mother said unto him, Upon me [be] thy curse, my son: only obey my voice, and go fetch me [them].
Genesis 27:14 And he went, and fetched, and brought [them] to his mother: and his mother made savoury meat, such as his father loved.
Genesis 27:15 And Rebekah took goodly raiment of her eldest son Esau, which [were] with her in the house, and put them upon Jacob her younger son:
Genesis 27:16 And she put the skins of the kids of the goats upon his hands, and upon the smooth of his neck:
Genesis 27:17 And she gave the savoury meat and the bread, which she had prepared, into the hand of her son Jacob.
Genesis 27:18 And he came unto his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here [am] I; who [art] thou, my son?
Genesis 27:19 And Jacob said unto his father, I [am] Esau thy firstborn; I have done according as thou badest me: arise, I pray thee, sit and eat of my venison, that thy soul may bless me.
Genesis 27:20 And Isaac said unto his son, How [is it] that thou hast found [it] so quickly, my son? And he said, Because the LORD thy God brought [it] to me.
Genesis 27:21 And Isaac said unto Jacob, Come near, I pray thee, that I may feel thee, my son, whether thou [be] my very son Esau or not.
Genesis 27:22 And Jacob went near unto Isaac his father; and he felt him, and said, The voice [is] Jacob’s voice, but the hands [are] the hands of Esau.
Genesis 27:23 And he discerned him not, because his hands were hairy, as his brother Esau’s hands: so he blessed him.
Genesis 27:24 And he said, [Art] thou my very son Esau? And he said, I [am].
Genesis 27:25 And he said, Bring [it] near to me, and I will eat of my son’s venison, that my soul may bless thee. And he brought [it] near to him, and he did eat: and he brought him wine, and he drank.
Genesis 27:26 And his father Isaac said unto him, Come near now, and kiss me, my son.
Genesis 27:27 And he came near, and kissed him: and he smelled the smell of his raiment, and blessed him, and said, See, the smell of my son [is] as the smell of a field which the LORD hath blessed:
Genesis 27:28 Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine:
Genesis 27:29 Let people serve thee, and nations bow down to thee: be lord over thy brethren, and let thy mother’s sons bow down to thee: cursed [be] every one that curseth thee, and blessed [be] he that blesseth thee.
Genesis 27:30 And it came to pass, as soon as Isaac had made an end of blessing Jacob, and Jacob was yet scarce gone out from the presence of Isaac his father, that Esau his brother came in from his hunting.
Genesis 27:31 And he also had made savoury meat, and brought it unto his father, and said unto his father, Let my father arise, and eat of his son’s venison, that thy soul may bless me.
Genesis 27:32 And Isaac his father said unto him, Who [art] thou? And he said, I [am] thy son, thy firstborn Esau.
Genesis 27:33 And Isaac trembled very exceedingly, and said, Who? where [is] he that hath taken venison, and brought [it] me, and I have eaten of all before thou camest, and have blessed him? yea, [and] he shall be blessed.
Genesis 27:34 And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, [even] me also, O my father.
Genesis 27:35 And he said, Thy brother came with subtilty, and hath taken away thy blessing.
Genesis 27:36 And he said, Is not he rightly named Jacob? for he hath supplanted me these two times: he took away my birthright; and, behold, now he hath taken away my blessing. And he said, Hast thou not reserved a blessing for me?
Genesis 27:37 And Isaac answered and said unto Esau, Behold, I have made him thy lord, and all his brethren have I given to him for servants; and with corn and wine have I sustained him: and what shall I do now unto thee, my son?
Genesis 27:38 And Esau said unto his father, Hast thou but one blessing, my father? bless me, [even] me also, O my father. And Esau lifted up his voice, and wept.
Genesis 27:39 And Isaac his father answered and said unto him, Behold, thy dwelling shall be the fatness of the earth, and of the dew of heaven from above;
Genesis 27:40 And by thy sword shalt thou live, and shalt serve thy brother; and it shall come to pass when thou shalt have the dominion, that thou shalt break his yoke from off thy neck.
Genesis 27:41 And Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing wherewith his father blessed him: and Esau said in his heart, The days of mourning for my father are at hand; then will I slay my brother Jacob.
Genesis 27:42 And these words of Esau her elder son were told to Rebekah: and she sent and called Jacob her younger son, and said unto him, Behold, thy brother Esau, as touching thee, doth comfort himself, [purposing] to kill thee.
Genesis 27:43 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice; and arise, flee thou to Laban my brother to Haran;
Genesis 27:44 And tarry with him a few days, until thy brother’s fury turn away;
Genesis 27:45 Until thy brother’s anger turn away from thee, and he forget [that] which thou hast done to him: then I will send, and fetch thee from thence: why should I be deprived also of you both in one day?
Genesis 27:46 And Rebekah said to Isaac, I am weary of my life because of the daughters of Heth: if Jacob take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these [which are] of the daughters of the land, what good shall my life do me?
Genesis 28:1 And Isaac called Jacob, and blessed him, and charged him, and said unto him, Thou shalt not take a wife of the daughters of Canaan.
Genesis 28:2 Arise, go to Padanaram, to the house of Bethuel thy mother’s father; and take thee a wife from thence of the daughters of Laban thy mother’s brother.
Genesis 28:3 And God Almighty bless thee, and make thee fruitful, and multiply thee, that thou mayest be a multitude of people;
Genesis 28:4 And give thee the blessing of Abraham, to thee, and to thy seed with thee; that thou mayest inherit the land wherein thou art a stranger, which God gave unto Abraham.
Genesis 28:5 And Isaac sent away Jacob: and he went to Padanaram unto Laban, son of Bethuel the Syrian, the brother of Rebekah, Jacob’s and Esau’s mother.
Genesis 28:6 When Esau saw that Isaac had blessed Jacob, and sent him away to Padanaram, to take him a wife from thence; and that as he blessed him he gave him a charge, saying, Thou shalt not take a wife of the daughters of Canaan;
Genesis 28:7 And that Jacob obeyed his father and his mother, and was gone to Padanaram;
Genesis 28:8 And Esau seeing that the daughters of Canaan pleased not Isaac his father;
Genesis 28:9 Then went Esau unto Ishmael, and took unto the wives which he had Mahalath the daughter of Ishmael Abraham’s son, the sister of Nebajoth, to be his wife.
Genesis 28:10 And Jacob went out from Beersheba, and went toward Haran.
Genesis 28:11 And he lighted upon a certain place, and tarried there all night, because the sun was set; and he took of the stones of that place, and put [them for] his pillows, and lay down in that place to sleep.
Genesis 28:12 And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it.
Genesis 28:13 And, behold, the LORD stood above it, and said, I [am] the LORD God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac: the land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed;
Genesis 28:14 And thy seed shall be as the dust of the earth, and thou shalt spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the north, and to the south: and in thee and in thy seed shall all the families of the earth be blessed.
Genesis 28:15 And, behold, I [am] with thee, and will keep thee in all [places] whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done [that] which I have spoken to thee of.
Genesis 28:16 And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew [it] not.
Genesis 28:17 And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful [is] this place! this [is] none other but the house of God, and this [is] the gate of heaven.
Genesis 28:18 And Jacob rose up early in the morning, and took the stone that he had put [for] his pillows, and set it up [for] a pillar, and poured oil upon the top of it.
Genesis 28:19 And he called the name of that place Bethel: but the name of that city [was called] Luz at the first.
Genesis 28:20 And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and raiment to put on,
Genesis 28:21 So that I come again to my father’s house in peace; then shall the LORD be my God:
Genesis 28:22 And this stone, which I have set [for] a pillar, shall be God’s house: and of all that thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto thee.
Genesis 29:1 Then Jacob went on his journey, and came into the land of the people of the east.
Genesis 29:2 And he looked, and behold a well in the field, and, lo, there [were] three flocks of sheep lying by it; for out of that well they watered the flocks: and a great stone [was] upon the well’s mouth.
Genesis 29:3 And thither were all the flocks gathered: and they rolled the stone from the well’s mouth, and watered the sheep, and put the stone again upon the well’s mouth in his place.
Genesis 29:4 And Jacob said unto them, My brethren, whence [be] ye? And they said, Of Haran [are] we.
Genesis 29:5 And he said unto them, Know ye Laban the son of Nahor? And they said, We know [him].
Genesis 29:6 And he said unto them, [Is] he well? And they said, [He is] well: and, behold, Rachel his daughter cometh with the sheep.
Genesis 29:7 And he said, Lo, [it is] yet high day, neither [is it] time that the cattle should be gathered together: water ye the sheep, and go [and] feed [them].
Genesis 29:8 And they said, We cannot, until all the flocks be gathered together, and [till] they roll the stone from the well’s mouth; then we water the sheep.
Genesis 29:9 And while he yet spake with them, Rachel came with her father’s sheep: for she kept them.
Genesis 29:10 And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel the daughter of Laban his mother’s brother, and the sheep of Laban his mother’s brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well’s mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his mother’s brother.
Genesis 29:11 And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice, and wept.
Genesis 29:12 And Jacob told Rachel that he [was] her father’s brother, and that he [was] Rebekah’s son: and she ran and told her father.
Genesis 29:13 And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister’s son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house. And he told Laban all these things.
Genesis 29:14 And Laban said to him, Surely thou [art] my bone and my flesh. And he abode with him the space of a month.
Genesis 29:15 And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou [art] my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what [shall] thy wages [be]?
Genesis 29:16 And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder [was] Leah, and the name of the younger [was] Rachel.
Genesis 29:17 Leah [was] tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured.
Genesis 29:18 And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter.
Genesis 29:19 And Laban said, [It is] better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
Genesis 29:20 And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him [but] a few days, for the love he had to her.
Genesis 29:21 And Jacob said unto Laban, Give [me] my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her.
Genesis 29:22 And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast.
Genesis 29:23 And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
Genesis 29:24 And Laban gave unto his daughter Leah Zilpah his maid [for] an handmaid.
Genesis 29:25 And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it [was] Leah: and he said to Laban, What [is] this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
Genesis 29:26 And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn.
Genesis 29:27 Fulfil her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
Genesis 29:28 And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.
Genesis 29:29 And Laban gave to Rachel his daughter Bilhah his handmaid to be her maid.
Genesis 29:30 And he went in also unto Rachel, and he loved also Rachel more than Leah, and served with him yet seven other years.
Genesis 29:31 And when the LORD saw that Leah [was] hated, he opened her womb: but Rachel [was] barren.
Genesis 29:32 And Leah conceived, and bare a son, and she called his name Reuben: for she said, Surely the LORD hath looked upon my affliction; now therefore my husband will love me.
Genesis 29:33 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and said, Because the LORD hath heard that I [was] hated, he hath therefore given me this [son] also: and she called his name Simeon.
Genesis 29:34 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and said, Now this time will my husband be joined unto me, because I have born him three sons: therefore was his name called Levi.
Genesis 29:35 And she conceived again, and bare a son: and she said, Now will I praise the LORD: therefore she called his name Judah; and left bearing.
Genesis 30:1 And when Rachel saw that she bare Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I die.
Genesis 30:2 And Jacob’s anger was kindled against Rachel: and he said, [Am] I in God’s stead, who hath withheld from thee the fruit of the womb?
Genesis 30:3 And she said, Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; and she shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her.
Genesis 30:4 And she gave him Bilhah her handmaid to wife: and Jacob went in unto her.
Genesis 30:5 And Bilhah conceived, and bare Jacob a son.
Genesis 30:6 And Rachel said, God hath judged me, and hath also heard my voice, and hath given me a son: therefore called she his name Dan.
Genesis 30:7 And Bilhah Rachel’s maid conceived again, and bare Jacob a second son.
Genesis 30:8 And Rachel said, With great wrestlings have I wrestled with my sister, and I have prevailed: and she called his name Naphtali.
Genesis 30:9 When Leah saw that she had left bearing, she took Zilpah her maid, and gave her Jacob to wife.
Genesis 30:10 And Zilpah Leah’s maid bare Jacob a son.
Genesis 30:11 And Leah said, A troop cometh: and she called his name Gad.
Genesis 30:12 And Zilpah Leah’s maid bare Jacob a second son.
Genesis 30:13 And Leah said, Happy am I, for the daughters will call me blessed: and she called his name Asher.
Genesis 30:14 And Reuben went in the days of wheat harvest, and found mandrakes in the field, and brought them unto his mother Leah. Then Rachel said to Leah, Give me, I pray thee, of thy son’s mandrakes.
Genesis 30:15 And she said unto her, [Is it] a small matter that thou hast taken my husband? and wouldest thou take away my son’s mandrakes also? And Rachel said, Therefore he shall lie with thee to night for thy son’s mandrakes.
Genesis 30:16 And Jacob came out of the field in the evening, and Leah went out to meet him, and said, Thou must come in unto me; for surely I have hired thee with my son’s mandrakes. And he lay with her that night.
Genesis 30:17 And God hearkened unto Leah, and she conceived, and bare Jacob the fifth son.
Genesis 30:18 And Leah said, God hath given me my hire, because I have given my maiden to my husband: and she called his name Issachar.
Genesis 30:19 And Leah conceived again, and bare Jacob the sixth son.
Genesis 30:20 And Leah said, God hath endued me [with] a good dowry; now will my husband dwell with me, because I have born him six sons: and she called his name Zebulun.
Genesis 30:21 And afterwards she bare a daughter, and called her name Dinah.
Genesis 30:22 And God remembered Rachel, and God hearkened to her, and opened her womb.
Genesis 30:23 And she conceived, and bare a son; and said, God hath taken away my reproach:
Genesis 30:24 And she called his name Joseph; and said, The LORD shall add to me another son.
Genesis 30:25 And it came to pass, when Rachel had born Joseph, that Jacob said unto Laban, Send me away, that I may go unto mine own place, and to my country.
Genesis 30:26 Give [me] my wives and my children, for whom I have served thee, and let me go: for thou knowest my service which I have done thee.
Genesis 30:27 And Laban said unto him, I pray thee, if I have found favour in thine eyes, [tarry: for] I have learned by experience that the LORD hath blessed me for thy sake.
Genesis 30:28 And he said, Appoint me thy wages, and I will give [it].
Genesis 30:29 And he said unto him, Thou knowest how I have served thee, and how thy cattle was with me.
Genesis 30:30 For [it was] little which thou hadst before I [came], and it is [now] increased unto a multitude; and the LORD hath blessed thee since my coming: and now when shall I provide for mine own house also?
Genesis 30:31 And he said, What shall I give thee? And Jacob said, Thou shalt not give me any thing: if thou wilt do this thing for me, I will again feed [and] keep thy flock:
Genesis 30:32 I will pass through all thy flock to day, removing from thence all the speckled and spotted cattle, and all the brown cattle among the sheep, and the spotted and speckled among the goats: and [of such] shall be my hire.
Genesis 30:33 So shall my righteousness answer for me in time to come, when it shall come for my hire before thy face: every one that [is] not speckled and spotted among the goats, and brown among the sheep, that shall be counted stolen with me.
Genesis 30:34 And Laban said, Behold, I would it might be according to thy word.
Genesis 30:35 And he removed that day the he goats that were ringstraked and spotted, and all the she goats that were speckled and spotted, [and] every one that had [some] white in it, and all the brown among the sheep, and gave [them] into the hand of his sons.
Genesis 30:36 And he set three days’ journey betwixt himself and Jacob: and Jacob fed the rest of Laban’s flocks.
Genesis 30:37 And Jacob took him rods of green poplar, and of the hazel and chesnut tree; and pilled white strakes in them, and made the white appear which [was] in the rods.
Genesis 30:38 And he set the rods which he had pilled before the flocks in the gutters in the watering troughs when the flocks came to drink, that they should conceive when they came to drink.
Genesis 30:39 And the flocks conceived before the rods, and brought forth cattle ringstraked, speckled, and spotted.
Genesis 30:40 And Jacob did separate the lambs, and set the faces of the flocks toward the ringstraked, and all the brown in the flock of Laban; and he put his own flocks by themselves, and put them not unto Laban’s cattle.
Genesis 30:41 And it came to pass, whensoever the stronger cattle did conceive, that Jacob laid the rods before the eyes of the cattle in the gutters, that they might conceive among the rods.
Genesis 30:42 But when the cattle were feeble, he put [them] not in: so the feebler were Laban’s, and the stronger Jacob’s.
Genesis 30:43 And the man increased exceedingly, and had much cattle, and maidservants, and menservants, and camels, and asses.
Genesis 31:1 And he heard the words of Laban’s sons, saying, Jacob hath taken away all that [was] our father’s; and of [that] which [was] our father’s hath he gotten all this glory.
Genesis 31:2 And Jacob beheld the countenance of Laban, and, behold, it [was] not toward him as before.
Genesis 31:3 And the LORD said unto Jacob, Return unto the land of thy fathers, and to thy kindred; and I will be with thee.
Genesis 31:4 And Jacob sent and called Rachel and Leah to the field unto his flock,
Genesis 31:5 And said unto them, I see your father’s countenance, that it [is] not toward me as before; but the God of my father hath been with me.
Genesis 31:6 And ye know that with all my power I have served your father.
Genesis 31:7 And your father hath deceived me, and changed my wages ten times; but God suffered him not to hurt me.
Genesis 31:8 If he said thus, The speckled shall be thy wages; then all the cattle bare speckled: and if he said thus, The ringstraked shall be thy hire; then bare all the cattle ringstraked.
Genesis 31:9 Thus God hath taken away the cattle of your father, and given [them] to me.
Genesis 31:10 And it came to pass at the time that the cattle conceived, that I lifted up mine eyes, and saw in a dream, and, behold, the rams which leaped upon the cattle [were] ringstraked, speckled, and grisled.
Genesis 31:11 And the angel of God spake unto me in a dream, [saying], Jacob: And I said, Here [am] I.
Genesis 31:12 And he said, Lift up now thine eyes, and see, all the rams which leap upon the cattle [are] ringstraked, speckled, and grisled: for I have seen all that Laban doeth unto thee.
Genesis 31:13 I [am] the God of Bethel, where thou anointedst the pillar, [and] where thou vowedst a vow unto me: now arise, get thee out from this land, and return unto the land of thy kindred.
Genesis 31:14 And Rachel and Leah answered and said unto him, [Is there] yet any portion or inheritance for us in our father’s house?
Genesis 31:15 Are we not counted of him strangers? for he hath sold us, and hath quite devoured also our money.
Genesis 31:16 For all the riches which God hath taken from our father, that [is] ours, and our children’s: now then, whatsoever God hath said unto thee, do.
Genesis 31:17 Then Jacob rose up, and set his sons and his wives upon camels;
Genesis 31:18 And he carried away all his cattle, and all his goods which he had gotten, the cattle of his getting, which he had gotten in Padanaram, for to go to Isaac his father in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 31:19 And Laban went to shear his sheep: and Rachel had stolen the images that [were] her father’s.
Genesis 31:20 And Jacob stole away unawares to Laban the Syrian, in that he told him not that he fled.
Genesis 31:21 So he fled with all that he had; and he rose up, and passed over the river, and set his face [toward] the mount Gilead.
Genesis 31:22 And it was told Laban on the third day that Jacob was fled.
Genesis 31:23 And he took his brethren with him, and pursued after him seven days’ journey; and they overtook him in the mount Gilead.
Genesis 31:24 And God came to Laban the Syrian in a dream by night, and said unto him, Take heed that thou speak not to Jacob either good or bad.
Genesis 31:25 Then Laban overtook Jacob. Now Jacob had pitched his tent in the mount: and Laban with his brethren pitched in the mount of Gilead.
Genesis 31:26 And Laban said to Jacob, What hast thou done, that thou hast stolen away unawares to me, and carried away my daughters, as captives [taken] with the sword?
Genesis 31:27 Wherefore didst thou flee away secretly, and steal away from me; and didst not tell me, that I might have sent thee away with mirth, and with songs, with tabret, and with harp?
Genesis 31:28 And hast not suffered me to kiss my sons and my daughters? thou hast now done foolishly in [so] doing.
Genesis 31:29 It is in the power of my hand to do you hurt: but the God of your father spake unto me yesternight, saying, Take thou heed that thou speak not to Jacob either good or bad.
Genesis 31:30 And now, [though] thou wouldest needs be gone, because thou sore longedst after thy father’s house, [yet] wherefore hast thou stolen my gods?
Genesis 31:31 And Jacob answered and said to Laban, Because I was afraid: for I said, Peradventure thou wouldest take by force thy daughters from me.
Genesis 31:32 With whomsoever thou findest thy gods, let him not live: before our brethren discern thou what [is] thine with me, and take [it] to thee. For Jacob knew not that Rachel had stolen them.
Genesis 31:33 And Laban went into Jacob’s tent, and into Leah’s tent, and into the two maidservants’ tents; but he found [them] not. Then went he out of Leah’s tent, and entered into Rachel’s tent.
Genesis 31:34 Now Rachel had taken the images, and put them in the camel’s furniture, and sat upon them. And Laban searched all the tent, but found [them] not.
Genesis 31:35 And she said to her father, Let it not displease my lord that I cannot rise up before thee; for the custom of women [is] upon me. And he searched, but found not the images.
Genesis 31:36 And Jacob was wroth, and chode with Laban: and Jacob answered and said to Laban, What [is] my trespass? what [is] my sin, that thou hast so hotly pursued after me?
Genesis 31:37 Whereas thou hast searched all my stuff, what hast thou found of all thy household stuff? set [it] here before my brethren and thy brethren, that they may judge betwixt us both.
Genesis 31:38 This twenty years [have] I [been] with thee; thy ewes and thy she goats have not cast their young, and the rams of thy flock have I not eaten.
Genesis 31:39 That which was torn [of beasts] I brought not unto thee; I bare the loss of it; of my hand didst thou require it, [whether] stolen by day, or stolen by night.
Genesis 31:40 [Thus] I was; in the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night; and my sleep departed from mine eyes.
Genesis 31:41 Thus have I been twenty years in thy house; I served thee fourteen years for thy two daughters, and six years for thy cattle: and thou hast changed my wages ten times.
Genesis 31:42 Except the God of my father, the God of Abraham, and the fear of Isaac, had been with me, surely thou hadst sent me away now empty. God hath seen mine affliction and the labour of my hands, and rebuked [thee] yesternight.
Genesis 31:43 And Laban answered and said unto Jacob, [These] daughters [are] my daughters, and [these] children [are] my children, and [these] cattle [are] my cattle, and all that thou seest [is] mine: and what can I do this day unto these my daughters, or unto their children which they have born?
Genesis 31:44 Now therefore come thou, let us make a covenant, I and thou; and let it be for a witness between me and thee.
Genesis 31:45 And Jacob took a stone, and set it up [for] a pillar.
Genesis 31:46 And Jacob said unto his brethren, Gather stones; and they took stones, and made an heap: and they did eat there upon the heap.
Genesis 31:47 And Laban called it Jegarsahadutha: but Jacob called it Galeed.
Genesis 31:48 And Laban said, This heap [is] a witness between me and thee this day. Therefore was the name of it called Galeed;
Genesis 31:49 And Mizpah; for he said, The LORD watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.
Genesis 31:50 If thou shalt afflict my daughters, or if thou shalt take [other] wives beside my daughters, no man [is] with us; see, God [is] witness betwixt me and thee.
Genesis 31:51 And Laban said to Jacob, Behold this heap, and behold [this] pillar, which I have cast betwixt me and thee;
Genesis 31:52 This heap [be] witness, and [this] pillar [be] witness, that I will not pass over this heap to thee, and that thou shalt not pass over this heap and this pillar unto me, for harm.
Genesis 31:53 The God of Abraham, and the God of Nahor, the God of their father, judge betwixt us. And Jacob sware by the fear of his father Isaac.
Genesis 31:54 Then Jacob offered sacrifice upon the mount, and called his brethren to eat bread: and they did eat bread, and tarried all night in the mount.
Genesis 31:55 And early in the morning Laban rose up, and kissed his sons and his daughters, and blessed them: and Laban departed, and returned unto his place.
Genesis 32:1 And Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God met him.
Genesis 32:2 And when Jacob saw them, he said, This [is] God’s host: and he called the name of that place Mahanaim.
Genesis 32:3 And Jacob sent messengers before him to Esau his brother unto the land of Seir, the country of Edom.
Genesis 32:4 And he commanded them, saying, Thus shall ye speak unto my lord Esau; Thy servant Jacob saith thus, I have sojourned with Laban, and stayed there until now:
Genesis 32:5 And I have oxen, and asses, flocks, and menservants, and womenservants: and I have sent to tell my lord, that I may find grace in thy sight.
Genesis 32:6 And the messengers returned to Jacob, saying, We came to thy brother Esau, and also he cometh to meet thee, and four hundred men with him.
Genesis 32:7 Then Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed: and he divided the people that [was] with him, and the flocks, and herds, and the camels, into two bands;
Genesis 32:8 And said, If Esau come to the one company, and smite it, then the other company which is left shall escape.
Genesis 32:9 And Jacob said, O God of my father Abraham, and God of my father Isaac, the LORD which saidst unto me, Return unto thy country, and to thy kindred, and I will deal well with thee:
Genesis 32:10 I am not worthy of the least of all the mercies, and of all the truth, which thou hast shewed unto thy servant; for with my staff I passed over this Jordan; and now I am become two bands.
Genesis 32:11 Deliver me, I pray thee, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau: for I fear him, lest he will come and smite me, [and] the mother with the children.
Genesis 32:12 And thou saidst, I will surely do thee good, and make thy seed as the sand of the sea, which cannot be numbered for multitude.
Genesis 32:13 And he lodged there that same night; and took of that which came to his hand a present for Esau his brother;
Genesis 32:14 Two hundred she goats, and twenty he goats, two hundred ewes, and twenty rams,
Genesis 32:15 Thirty milch camels with their colts, forty kine, and ten bulls, twenty she asses, and ten foals.
Genesis 32:16 And he delivered [them] into the hand of his servants, every drove by themselves; and said unto his servants, Pass over before me, and put a space betwixt drove and drove.
Genesis 32:17 And he commanded the foremost, saying, When Esau my brother meeteth thee, and asketh thee, saying, Whose [art] thou? and whither goest thou? and whose [are] these before thee?
Genesis 32:18 Then thou shalt say, [They be] thy servant Jacob’s; it [is] a present sent unto my lord Esau: and, behold, also he [is] behind us.
Genesis 32:19 And so commanded he the second, and the third, and all that followed the droves, saying, On this manner shall ye speak unto Esau, when ye find him.
Genesis 32:20 And say ye moreover, Behold, thy servant Jacob [is] behind us. For he said, I will appease him with the present that goeth before me, and afterward I will see his face; peradventure he will accept of me.
Genesis 32:21 So went the present over before him: and himself lodged that night in the company.
Genesis 32:22 And he rose up that night, and took his two wives, and his two womenservants, and his eleven sons, and passed over the ford Jabbok.
Genesis 32:23 And he took them, and sent them over the brook, and sent over that he had.
Genesis 32:24 And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.
Genesis 32:25 And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him.
Genesis 32:26 And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.
Genesis 32:27 And he said unto him, What [is] thy name? And he said, Jacob.
Genesis 32:28 And he said, Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.
Genesis 32:29 And Jacob asked [him], and said, Tell [me], I pray thee, thy name. And he said, Wherefore [is] it [that] thou dost ask after my name? And he blessed him there.
Genesis 32:30 And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.
Genesis 32:31 And as he passed over Penuel the sun rose upon him, and he halted upon his thigh.
Genesis 32:32 Therefore the children of Israel eat not [of] the sinew which shrank, which [is] upon the hollow of the thigh, unto this day: because he touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh in the sinew that shrank.
Genesis 33:1 And Jacob lifted up his eyes, and looked, and, behold, Esau came, and with him four hundred men. And he divided the children unto Leah, and unto Rachel, and unto the two handmaids.
Genesis 33:2 And he put the handmaids and their children foremost, and Leah and her children after, and Rachel and Joseph hindermost.
Genesis 33:3 And he passed over before them, and bowed himself to the ground seven times, until he came near to his brother.
Genesis 33:4 And Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him: and they wept.
Genesis 33:5 And he lifted up his eyes, and saw the women and the children; and said, Who [are] those with thee? And he said, The children which God hath graciously given thy servant.
Genesis 33:6 Then the handmaidens came near, they and their children, and they bowed themselves.
Genesis 33:7 And Leah also with her children came near, and bowed themselves: and after came Joseph near and Rachel, and they bowed themselves.
Genesis 33:8 And he said, What [meanest] thou by all this drove which I met? And he said, [These are] to find grace in the sight of my lord.
Genesis 33:9 And Esau said, I have enough, my brother; keep that thou hast unto thyself.
Genesis 33:10 And Jacob said, Nay, I pray thee, if now I have found grace in thy sight, then receive my present at my hand: for therefore I have seen thy face, as though I had seen the face of God, and thou wast pleased with me.
Genesis 33:11 Take, I pray thee, my blessing that is brought to thee; because God hath dealt graciously with me, and because I have enough. And he urged him, and he took [it].
Genesis 33:12 And he said, Let us take our journey, and let us go, and I will go before thee.
Genesis 33:13 And he said unto him, My lord knoweth that the children [are] tender, and the flocks and herds with young [are] with me: and if men should overdrive them one day, all the flock will die.
Genesis 33:14 Let my lord, I pray thee, pass over before his servant: and I will lead on softly, according as the cattle that goeth before me and the children be able to endure, until I come unto my lord unto Seir.
Genesis 33:15 And Esau said, Let me now leave with thee [some] of the folk that [are] with me. And he said, What needeth it? let me find grace in the sight of my lord.
Genesis 33:16 So Esau returned that day on his way unto Seir.
Genesis 33:17 And Jacob journeyed to Succoth, and built him an house, and made booths for his cattle: therefore the name of the place is called Succoth.
Genesis 33:18 And Jacob came to Shalem, a city of Shechem, which [is] in the land of Canaan, when he came from Padanaram; and pitched his tent before the city.
Genesis 33:19 And he bought a parcel of a field, where he had spread his tent, at the hand of the children of Hamor, Shechem’s father, for an hundred pieces of money.
Genesis 33:20 And he erected there an altar, and called it EleloheIsrael.
Genesis 34:1 And Dinah the daughter of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob, went out to see the daughters of the land.
Genesis 34:2 And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite, prince of the country, saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her.
Genesis 34:3 And his soul clave unto Dinah the daughter of Jacob, and he loved the damsel, and spake kindly unto the damsel.
Genesis 34:4 And Shechem spake unto his father Hamor, saying, Get me this damsel to wife.
Genesis 34:5 And Jacob heard that he had defiled Dinah his daughter: now his sons were with his cattle in the field: and Jacob held his peace until they were come.
Genesis 34:6 And Hamor the father of Shechem went out unto Jacob to commune with him.
Genesis 34:7 And the sons of Jacob came out of the field when they heard [it]: and the men were grieved, and they were very wroth, because he had wrought folly in Israel in lying with Jacob’s daughter; which thing ought not to be done.
Genesis 34:8 And Hamor communed with them, saying, The soul of my son Shechem longeth for your daughter: I pray you give her him to wife.
Genesis 34:9 And make ye marriages with us, [and] give your daughters unto us, and take our daughters unto you.
Genesis 34:10 And ye shall dwell with us: and the land shall be before you; dwell and trade ye therein, and get you possessions therein.
Genesis 34:11 And Shechem said unto her father and unto her brethren, Let me find grace in your eyes, and what ye shall say unto me I will give.
Genesis 34:12 Ask me never so much dowry and gift, and I will give according as ye shall say unto me: but give me the damsel to wife.
Genesis 34:13 And the sons of Jacob answered Shechem and Hamor his father deceitfully, and said, because he had defiled Dinah their sister:
Genesis 34:14 And they said unto them, We cannot do this thing, to give our sister to one that is uncircumcised; for that [were] a reproach unto us:
Genesis 34:15 But in this will we consent unto you: If ye will be as we [be], that every male of you be circumcised;
Genesis 34:16 Then will we give our daughters unto you, and we will take your daughters to us, and we will dwell with you, and we will become one people.
Genesis 34:17 But if ye will not hearken unto us, to be circumcised; then will we take our daughter, and we will be gone.
Genesis 34:18 And their words pleased Hamor, and Shechem Hamor’s son.
Genesis 34:19 And the young man deferred not to do the thing, because he had delight in Jacob’s daughter: and he [was] more honourable than all the house of his father.
Genesis 34:20 And Hamor and Shechem his son came unto the gate of their city, and communed with the men of their city, saying,
Genesis 34:21 These men [are] peaceable with us; therefore let them dwell in the land, and trade therein; for the land, behold, [it is] large enough for them; let us take their daughters to us for wives, and let us give them our daughters.
Genesis 34:22 Only herein will the men consent unto us for to dwell with us, to be one people, if every male among us be circumcised, as they [are] circumcised.
Genesis 34:23 [Shall] not their cattle and their substance and every beast of theirs [be] ours? only let us consent unto them, and they will dwell with us.
Genesis 34:24 And unto Hamor and unto Shechem his son hearkened all that went out of the gate of his city; and every male was circumcised, all that went out of the gate of his city.
Genesis 34:25 And it came to pass on the third day, when they were sore, that two of the sons of Jacob, Simeon and Levi, Dinah’s brethren, took each man his sword, and came upon the city boldly, and slew all the males.
Genesis 34:26 And they slew Hamor and Shechem his son with the edge of the sword, and took Dinah out of Shechem’s house, and went out.
Genesis 34:27 The sons of Jacob came upon the slain, and spoiled the city, because they had defiled their sister.
Genesis 34:28 They took their sheep, and their oxen, and their asses, and that which [was] in the city, and that which [was] in the field,
Genesis 34:29 And all their wealth, and all their little ones, and their wives took they captive, and spoiled even all that [was] in the house.
Genesis 34:30 And Jacob said to Simeon and Levi, Ye have troubled me to make me to stink among the inhabitants of the land, among the Canaanites and the Perizzites: and I [being] few in number, they shall gather themselves together against me, and slay me; and I shall be destroyed, I and my house.
Genesis 34:31 And they said, Should he deal with our sister as with an harlot?
Genesis 35:1 And God said unto Jacob, Arise, go up to Bethel, and dwell there: and make there an altar unto God, that appeared unto thee when thou fleddest from the face of Esau thy brother.
Genesis 35:2 Then Jacob said unto his household, and to all that [were] with him, Put away the strange gods that [are] among you, and be clean, and change your garments:
Genesis 35:3 And let us arise, and go up to Bethel; and I will make there an altar unto God, who answered me in the day of my distress, and was with me in the way which I went.
Genesis 35:4 And they gave unto Jacob all the strange gods which [were] in their hand, and [all their] earrings which [were] in their ears; and Jacob hid them under the oak which [was] by Shechem.
Genesis 35:5 And they journeyed: and the terror of God was upon the cities that [were] round about them, and they did not pursue after the sons of Jacob.
Genesis 35:6 So Jacob came to Luz, which [is] in the land of Canaan, that [is], Bethel, he and all the people that [were] with him.
Genesis 35:7 And he built there an altar, and called the place Elbethel: because there God appeared unto him, when he fled from the face of his brother.
Genesis 35:8 But Deborah Rebekah’s nurse died, and she was buried beneath Bethel under an oak: and the name of it was called Allonbachuth.
Genesis 35:9 And God appeared unto Jacob again, when he came out of Padanaram, and blessed him.
Genesis 35:10 And God said unto him, Thy name [is] Jacob: thy name shall not be called any more Jacob, but Israel shall be thy name: and he called his name Israel.
Genesis 35:11 And God said unto him, I [am] God Almighty: be fruitful and multiply; a nation and a company of nations shall be of thee, and kings shall come out of thy loins;
Genesis 35:12 And the land which I gave Abraham and Isaac, to thee I will give it, and to thy seed after thee will I give the land.
Genesis 35:13 And God went up from him in the place where he talked with him.
Genesis 35:14 And Jacob set up a pillar in the place where he talked with him, [even] a pillar of stone: and he poured a drink offering thereon, and he poured oil thereon.
Genesis 35:15 And Jacob called the name of the place where God spake with him, Bethel.
Genesis 35:16 And they journeyed from Bethel; and there was but a little way to come to Ephrath: and Rachel travailed, and she had hard labour.
Genesis 35:17 And it came to pass, when she was in hard labour, that the midwife said unto her, Fear not; thou shalt have this son also.
Genesis 35:18 And it came to pass, as her soul was in departing, (for she died) that she called his name Benoni: but his father called him Benjamin.
Genesis 35:19 And Rachel died, and was buried in the way to Ephrath, which [is] Bethlehem.
Genesis 35:20 And Jacob set a pillar upon her grave: that [is] the pillar of Rachel’s grave unto this day.
Genesis 35:21 And Israel journeyed, and spread his tent beyond the tower of Edar.
Genesis 35:22 And it came to pass, when Israel dwelt in that land, that Reuben went and lay with Bilhah his father’s concubine: and Israel heard [it]. Now the sons of Jacob were twelve:
Genesis 35:23 The sons of Leah; Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn, and Simeon, and Levi, and Judah, and Issachar, and Zebulun:
Genesis 35:24 The sons of Rachel; Joseph, and Benjamin:
Genesis 35:25 And the sons of Bilhah, Rachel’s handmaid; Dan, and Naphtali:
Genesis 35:26 And the sons of Zilpah, Leah’s handmaid; Gad, and Asher: these [are] the sons of Jacob, which were born to him in Padanaram.
Genesis 35:27 And Jacob came unto Isaac his father unto Mamre, unto the city of Arbah, which [is] Hebron, where Abraham and Isaac sojourned.
Genesis 35:28 And the days of Isaac were an hundred and fourscore years.
Genesis 35:29 And Isaac gave up the ghost, and died, and was gathered unto his people, [being] old and full of days: and his sons Esau and Jacob buried him.
Genesis 36:1 Now these [are] the generations of Esau, who [is] Edom.
Genesis 36:2 Esau took his wives of the daughters of Canaan; Adah the daughter of Elon the Hittite, and Aholibamah the daughter of Anah the daughter of Zibeon the Hivite;
Genesis 36:3 And Bashemath Ishmael’s daughter, sister of Nebajoth.
Genesis 36:4 And Adah bare to Esau Eliphaz; and Bashemath bare Reuel;
Genesis 36:5 And Aholibamah bare Jeush, and Jaalam, and Korah: these [are] the sons of Esau, which were born unto him in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 36:6 And Esau took his wives, and his sons, and his daughters, and all the persons of his house, and his cattle, and all his beasts, and all his substance, which he had got in the land of Canaan; and went into the country from the face of his brother Jacob.
Genesis 36:7 For their riches were more than that they might dwell together; and the land wherein they were strangers could not bear them because of their cattle.
Genesis 36:8 Thus dwelt Esau in mount Seir: Esau [is] Edom.
Genesis 36:9 And these [are] the generations of Esau the father of the Edomites in mount Seir:
Genesis 36:10 These [are] the names of Esau’s sons; Eliphaz the son of Adah the wife of Esau, Reuel the son of Bashemath the wife of Esau.
Genesis 36:11 And the sons of Eliphaz were Teman, Omar, Zepho, and Gatam, and Kenaz.
Genesis 36:12 And Timna was concubine to Eliphaz Esau’s son; and she bare to Eliphaz Amalek: these [were] the sons of Adah Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:13 And these [are] the sons of Reuel; Nahath, and Zerah, Shammah, and Mizzah: these were the sons of Bashemath Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:14 And these were the sons of Aholibamah, the daughter of Anah the daughter of Zibeon, Esau’s wife: and she bare to Esau Jeush, and Jaalam, and Korah.
Genesis 36:15 These [were] dukes of the sons of Esau: the sons of Eliphaz the firstborn [son] of Esau; duke Teman, duke Omar, duke Zepho, duke Kenaz,
Genesis 36:16 Duke Korah, duke Gatam, [and] duke Amalek: these [are] the dukes [that came] of Eliphaz in the land of Edom; these [were] the sons of Adah.
Genesis 36:17 And these [are] the sons of Reuel Esau’s son; duke Nahath, duke Zerah, duke Shammah, duke Mizzah: these [are] the dukes [that came] of Reuel in the land of Edom; these [are] the sons of Bashemath Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:18 And these [are] the sons of Aholibamah Esau’s wife; duke Jeush, duke Jaalam, duke Korah: these [were] the dukes [that came] of Aholibamah the daughter of Anah, Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:19 These [are] the sons of Esau, who [is] Edom, and these [are] their dukes.
Genesis 36:20 These [are] the sons of Seir the Horite, who inhabited the land; Lotan, and Shobal, and Zibeon, and Anah,
Genesis 36:21 And Dishon, and Ezer, and Dishan: these [are] the dukes of the Horites, the children of Seir in the land of Edom.
Genesis 36:22 And the children of Lotan were Hori and Hemam; and Lotan’s sister [was] Timna.
Genesis 36:23 And the children of Shobal [were] these; Alvan, and Manahath, and Ebal, Shepho, and Onam.
Genesis 36:24 And these [are] the children of Zibeon; both Ajah, and Anah: this [was that] Anah that found the mules in the wilderness, as he fed the asses of Zibeon his father.
Genesis 36:25 And the children of Anah [were] these; Dishon, and Aholibamah the daughter of Anah.
Genesis 36:26 And these [are] the children of Dishon; Hemdan, and Eshban, and Ithran, and Cheran.
Genesis 36:27 The children of Ezer [are] these; Bilhan, and Zaavan, and Akan.
Genesis 36:28 The children of Dishan [are] these; Uz, and Aran.
Genesis 36:29 These [are] the dukes [that came] of the Horites; duke Lotan, duke Shobal, duke Zibeon, duke Anah,
Genesis 36:30 Duke Dishon, duke Ezer, duke Dishan: these [are] the dukes [that came] of Hori, among their dukes in the land of Seir.
Genesis 36:31 And these [are] the kings that reigned in the land of Edom, before there reigned any king over the children of Israel.
Genesis 36:32 And Bela the son of Beor reigned in Edom: and the name of his city [was] Dinhabah.
Genesis 36:33 And Bela died, and Jobab the son of Zerah of Bozrah reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:34 And Jobab died, and Husham of the land of Temani reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:35 And Husham died, and Hadad the son of Bedad, who smote Midian in the field of Moab, reigned in his stead: and the name of his city [was] Avith.
Genesis 36:36 And Hadad died, and Samlah of Masrekah reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:37 And Samlah died, and Saul of Rehoboth [by] the river reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:38 And Saul died, and Baalhanan the son of Achbor reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:39 And Baalhanan the son of Achbor died, and Hadar reigned in his stead: and the name of his city [was] Pau; and his wife’s name [was] Mehetabel, the daughter of Matred, the daughter of Mezahab.
Genesis 36:40 And these [are] the names of the dukes [that came] of Esau, according to their families, after their places, by their names; duke Timnah, duke Alvah, duke Jetheth,
Genesis 36:41 Duke Aholibamah, duke Elah, duke Pinon,
Genesis 36:42 Duke Kenaz, duke Teman, duke Mibzar,
Genesis 36:43 Duke Magdiel, duke Iram: these [be] the dukes of Edom, according to their habitations in the land of their possession: he [is] Esau the father of the Edomites.
Genesis 37:1 And Jacob dwelt in the land wherein his father was a stranger, in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 37:2 These [are] the generations of Jacob. Joseph, [being] seventeen years old, was feeding the flock with his brethren; and the lad [was] with the sons of Bilhah, and with the sons of Zilpah, his father’s wives: and Joseph brought unto his father their evil report.
Genesis 37:3 Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his children, because he [was] the son of his old age: and he made him a coat of [many] colours.
Genesis 37:4 And when his brethren saw that their father loved him more than all his brethren, they hated him, and could not speak peaceably unto him.
Genesis 37:5 And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told [it] his brethren: and they hated him yet the more.
Genesis 37:6 And he said unto them, Hear, I pray you, this dream which I have dreamed:
Genesis 37:7 For, behold, we [were] binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and also stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves stood round about, and made obeisance to my sheaf.
Genesis 37:8 And his brethren said to him, Shalt thou indeed reign over us? or shalt thou indeed have dominion over us? And they hated him yet the more for his dreams, and for his words.
Genesis 37:9 And he dreamed yet another dream, and told it his brethren, and said, Behold, I have dreamed a dream more; and, behold, the sun and the moon and the eleven stars made obeisance to me.
Genesis 37:10 And he told [it] to his father, and to his brethren: and his father rebuked him, and said unto him, What [is] this dream that thou hast dreamed? Shall I and thy mother and thy brethren indeed come to bow down ourselves to thee to the earth?
Genesis 37:11 And his brethren envied him; but his father observed the saying.
Genesis 37:12 And his brethren went to feed their father’s flock in Shechem.
Genesis 37:13 And Israel said unto Joseph, Do not thy brethren feed [the flock] in Shechem? come, and I will send thee unto them. And he said to him, Here [am I].
Genesis 37:14 And he said to him, Go, I pray thee, see whether it be well with thy brethren, and well with the flocks; and bring me word again. So he sent him out of the vale of Hebron, and he came to Shechem.
Genesis 37:15 And a certain man found him, and, behold, [he was] wandering in the field: and the man asked him, saying, What seekest thou?
Genesis 37:16 And he said, I seek my brethren: tell me, I pray thee, where they feed [their flocks].
Genesis 37:17 And the man said, They are departed hence; for I heard them say, Let us go to Dothan. And Joseph went after his brethren, and found them in Dothan.
Genesis 37:18 And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him.
Genesis 37:19 And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh.
Genesis 37:20 Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.
Genesis 37:21 And Reuben heard [it], and he delivered him out of their hands; and said, Let us not kill him.
Genesis 37:22 And Reuben said unto them, Shed no blood, [but] cast him into this pit that [is] in the wilderness, and lay no hand upon him; that he might rid him out of their hands, to deliver him to his father again.
Genesis 37:23 And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, [his] coat of [many] colours that [was] on him;
Genesis 37:24 And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit [was] empty, [there was] no water in it.
Genesis 37:25 And they sat down to eat bread: and they lifted up their eyes and looked, and, behold, a company of Ishmeelites came from Gilead with their camels bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going to carry [it] down to Egypt.
Genesis 37:26 And Judah said unto his brethren, What profit [is it] if we slay our brother, and conceal his blood?
Genesis 37:27 Come, and let us sell him to the Ishmeelites, and let not our hand be upon him; for he [is] our brother [and] our flesh. And his brethren were content.
Genesis 37:28 Then there passed by Midianites merchantmen; and they drew and lifted up Joseph out of the pit, and sold Joseph to the Ishmeelites for twenty [pieces] of silver: and they brought Joseph into Egypt.
Genesis 37:29 And Reuben returned unto the pit; and, behold, Joseph [was] not in the pit; and he rent his clothes.
Genesis 37:30 And he returned unto his brethren, and said, The child [is] not; and I, whither shall I go?
Genesis 37:31 And they took Joseph’s coat, and killed a kid of the goats, and dipped the coat in the blood;
Genesis 37:32 And they sent the coat of [many] colours, and they brought [it] to their father; and said, This have we found: know now whether it [be] thy son’s coat or no.
Genesis 37:33 And he knew it, and said, [It is] my son’s coat; an evil beast hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces.
Genesis 37:34 And Jacob rent his clothes, and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days.
Genesis 37:35 And all his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him; but he refused to be comforted; and he said, For I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning. Thus his father wept for him.
Genesis 37:36 And the Midianites sold him into Egypt unto Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh’s, [and] captain of the guard.
Genesis 38:1 And it came to pass at that time, that Judah went down from his brethren, and turned in to a certain Adullamite, whose name [was] Hirah.
Genesis 38:2 And Judah saw there a daughter of a certain Canaanite, whose name [was] Shuah; and he took her, and went in unto her.
Genesis 38:3 And she conceived, and bare a son; and he called his name Er.
Genesis 38:4 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and she called his name Onan.
Genesis 38:5 And she yet again conceived, and bare a son; and called his name Shelah: and he was at Chezib, when she bare him.
Genesis 38:6 And Judah took a wife for Er his firstborn, whose name [was] Tamar.
Genesis 38:7 And Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the LORD; and the LORD slew him.
Genesis 38:8 And Judah said unto Onan, Go in unto thy brother’s wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother.
Genesis 38:9 And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went in unto his brother’s wife, that he spilled [it] on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother.
Genesis 38:10 And the thing which he did displeased the LORD: wherefore he slew him also.
Genesis 38:11 Then said Judah to Tamar his daughter in law, Remain a widow at thy father’s house, till Shelah my son be grown: for he said, Lest peradventure he die also, as his brethren [did]. And Tamar went and dwelt in her father’s house.
Genesis 38:12 And in process of time the daughter of Shuah Judah’s wife died; and Judah was comforted, and went up unto his sheepshearers to Timnath, he and his friend Hirah the Adullamite.
Genesis 38:13 And it was told Tamar, saying, Behold thy father in law goeth up to Timnath to shear his sheep.
Genesis 38:14 And she put her widow’s garments off from her, and covered her with a vail, and wrapped herself, and sat in an open place, which [is] by the way to Timnath; for she saw that Shelah was grown, and she was not given unto him to wife.
Genesis 38:15 When Judah saw her, he thought her [to be] an harlot; because she had covered her face.
Genesis 38:16 And he turned unto her by the way, and said, Go to, I pray thee, let me come in unto thee; (for he knew not that she [was] his daughter in law.) And she said, What wilt thou give me, that thou mayest come in unto me?
Genesis 38:17 And he said, I will send [thee] a kid from the flock. And she said, Wilt thou give [me] a pledge, till thou send [it]?
Genesis 38:18 And he said, What pledge shall I give thee? And she said, Thy signet, and thy bracelets, and thy staff that [is] in thine hand. And he gave [it] her, and came in unto her, and she conceived by him.
Genesis 38:19 And she arose, and went away, and laid by her vail from her, and put on the garments of her widowhood.
Genesis 38:20 And Judah sent the kid by the hand of his friend the Adullamite, to receive [his] pledge from the woman’s hand: but he found her not.
Genesis 38:21 Then he asked the men of that place, saying, Where [is] the harlot, that [was] openly by the way side? And they said, There was no harlot in this [place].
Genesis 38:22 And he returned to Judah, and said, I cannot find her; and also the men of the place said, [that] there was no harlot in this [place].
Genesis 38:23 And Judah said, Let her take [it] to her, lest we be shamed: behold, I sent this kid, and thou hast not found her.
Genesis 38:24 And it came to pass about three months after, that it was told Judah, saying, Tamar thy daughter in law hath played the harlot; and also, behold, she [is] with child by whoredom. And Judah said, Bring her forth, and let her be burnt.
Genesis 38:25 When she [was] brought forth, she sent to her father in law, saying, By the man, whose these [are, am] I with child: and she said, Discern, I pray thee, whose [are] these, the signet, and bracelets, and staff.
Genesis 38:26 And Judah acknowledged [them], and said, She hath been more righteous than I; because that I gave her not to Shelah my son. And he knew her again no more.
Genesis 38:27 And it came to pass in the time of her travail, that, behold, twins [were] in her womb.
Genesis 38:28 And it came to pass, when she travailed, that [the one] put out [his] hand: and the midwife took and bound upon his hand a scarlet thread, saying, This came out first.
Genesis 38:29 And it came to pass, as he drew back his hand, that, behold, his brother came out: and she said, How hast thou broken forth? [this] breach [be] upon thee: therefore his name was called Pharez.
Genesis 38:30 And afterward came out his brother, that had the scarlet thread upon his hand: and his name was called Zarah.
Genesis 39:1 And Joseph was brought down to Egypt; and Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh, captain of the guard, an Egyptian, bought him of the hands of the Ishmeelites, which had brought him down thither.
Genesis 39:2 And the LORD was with Joseph, and he was a prosperous man; and he was in the house of his master the Egyptian.
Genesis 39:3 And his master saw that the LORD [was] with him, and that the LORD made all that he did to prosper in his hand.
Genesis 39:4 And Joseph found grace in his sight, and he served him: and he made him overseer over his house, and all [that] he had he put into his hand.
Genesis 39:5 And it came to pass from the time [that] he had made him overseer in his house, and over all that he had, that the LORD blessed the Egyptian’s house for Joseph’s sake; and the blessing of the LORD was upon all that he had in the house, and in the field.
Genesis 39:6 And he left all that he had in Joseph’s hand; and he knew not ought he had, save the bread which he did eat. And Joseph was [a] goodly [person], and well favoured.
Genesis 39:7 And it came to pass after these things, that his master’s wife cast her eyes upon Joseph; and she said, Lie with me.
Genesis 39:8 But he refused, and said unto his master’s wife, Behold, my master wotteth not what [is] with me in the house, and he hath committed all that he hath to my hand;
Genesis 39:9 [There is] none greater in this house than I; neither hath he kept back any thing from me but thee, because thou [art] his wife: how then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?
Genesis 39:10 And it came to pass, as she spake to Joseph day by day, that he hearkened not unto her, to lie by her, [or] to be with her.
Genesis 39:11 And it came to pass about this time, that [Joseph] went into the house to do his business; and [there was] none of the men of the house there within.
Genesis 39:12 And she caught him by his garment, saying, Lie with me: and he left his garment in her hand, and fled, and got him out.
Genesis 39:13 And it came to pass, when she saw that he had left his garment in her hand, and was fled forth,
Genesis 39:14 That she called unto the men of her house, and spake unto them, saying, See, he hath brought in an Hebrew unto us to mock us; he came in unto me to lie with me, and I cried with a loud voice:
Genesis 39:15 And it came to pass, when he heard that I lifted up my voice and cried, that he left his garment with me, and fled, and got him out.
Genesis 39:16 And she laid up his garment by her, until his lord came home.
Genesis 39:17 And she spake unto him according to these words, saying, The Hebrew servant, which thou hast brought unto us, came in unto me to mock me:
Genesis 39:18 And it came to pass, as I lifted up my voice and cried, that he left his garment with me, and fled out.
Genesis 39:19 And it came to pass, when his master heard the words of his wife, which she spake unto him, saying, After this manner did thy servant to me; that his wrath was kindled.
Genesis 39:20 And Joseph’s master took him, and put him into the prison, a place where the king’s prisoners [were] bound: and he was there in the prison.
Genesis 39:21 But the LORD was with Joseph, and shewed him mercy, and gave him favour in the sight of the keeper of the prison.
Genesis 39:22 And the keeper of the prison committed to Joseph’s hand all the prisoners that [were] in the prison; and whatsoever they did there, he was the doer [of it].
Genesis 39:23 The keeper of the prison looked not to any thing [that was] under his hand; because the LORD was with him, and [that] which he did, the LORD made [it] to prosper.
Genesis 40:1 And it came to pass after these things, [that] the butler of the king of Egypt and [his] baker had offended their lord the king of Egypt.
Genesis 40:2 And Pharaoh was wroth against two [of] his officers, against the chief of the butlers, and against the chief of the bakers.
Genesis 40:3 And he put them in ward in the house of the captain of the guard, into the prison, the place where Joseph [was] bound.
Genesis 40:4 And the captain of the guard charged Joseph with them, and he served them: and they continued a season in ward.
Genesis 40:5 And they dreamed a dream both of them, each man his dream in one night, each man according to the interpretation of his dream, the butler and the baker of the king of Egypt, which [were] bound in the prison.
Genesis 40:6 And Joseph came in unto them in the morning, and looked upon them, and, behold, they [were] sad.
Genesis 40:7 And he asked Pharaoh’s officers that [were] with him in the ward of his lord’s house, saying, Wherefore look ye [so] sadly to day?
Genesis 40:8 And they said unto him, We have dreamed a dream, and [there is] no interpreter of it. And Joseph said unto them, [Do] not interpretations [belong] to God? tell me [them], I pray you.
Genesis 40:9 And the chief butler told his dream to Joseph, and said to him, In my dream, behold, a vine [was] before me;
Genesis 40:10 And in the vine [were] three branches: and it [was] as though it budded, [and] her blossoms shot forth; and the clusters thereof brought forth ripe grapes:
Genesis 40:11 And Pharaoh’s cup [was] in my hand: and I took the grapes, and pressed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and I gave the cup into Pharaoh’s hand.
Genesis 40:12 And Joseph said unto him, This [is] the interpretation of it: The three branches [are] three days:
Genesis 40:13 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thine head, and restore thee unto thy place: and thou shalt deliver Pharaoh’s cup into his hand, after the former manner when thou wast his butler.
Genesis 40:14 But think on me when it shall be well with thee, and shew kindness, I pray thee, unto me, and make mention of me unto Pharaoh, and bring me out of this house:
Genesis 40:15 For indeed I was stolen away out of the land of the Hebrews: and here also have I done nothing that they should put me into the dungeon.
Genesis 40:16 When the chief baker saw that the interpretation was good, he said unto Joseph, I also [was] in my dream, and, behold, [I had] three white baskets on my head:
Genesis 40:17 And in the uppermost basket [there was] of all manner of bakemeats for Pharaoh; and the birds did eat them out of the basket upon my head.
Genesis 40:18 And Joseph answered and said, This [is] the interpretation thereof: The three baskets [are] three days:
Genesis 40:19 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thy head from off thee, and shall hang thee on a tree; and the birds shall eat thy flesh from off thee.
Genesis 40:20 And it came to pass the third day, [which was] Pharaoh’s birthday, that he made a feast unto all his servants: and he lifted up the head of the chief butler and of the chief baker among his servants.
Genesis 40:21 And he restored the chief butler unto his butlership again; and he gave the cup into Pharaoh’s hand:
Genesis 40:22 But he hanged the chief baker: as Joseph had interpreted to them.
Genesis 40:23 Yet did not the chief butler remember Joseph, but forgat him.
Genesis 41:1 And it came to pass at the end of two full years, that Pharaoh dreamed: and, behold, he stood by the river.
Genesis 41:2 And, behold, there came up out of the river seven well favoured kine and fatfleshed; and they fed in a meadow.
Genesis 41:3 And, behold, seven other kine came up after them out of the river, ill favoured and leanfleshed; and stood by the [other] kine upon the brink of the river.
Genesis 41:4 And the ill favoured and leanfleshed kine did eat up the seven well favoured and fat kine. So Pharaoh awoke.
Genesis 41:5 And he slept and dreamed the second time: and, behold, seven ears of corn came up upon one stalk, rank and good.
Genesis 41:6 And, behold, seven thin ears and blasted with the east wind sprung up after them.
Genesis 41:7 And the seven thin ears devoured the seven rank and full ears. And Pharaoh awoke, and, behold, [it was] a dream.
Genesis 41:8 And it came to pass in the morning that his spirit was troubled; and he sent and called for all the magicians of Egypt, and all the wise men thereof: and Pharaoh told them his dream; but [there was] none that could interpret them unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:9 Then spake the chief butler unto Pharaoh, saying, I do remember my faults this day:
Genesis 41:10 Pharaoh was wroth with his servants, and put me in ward in the captain of the guard’s house, [both] me and the chief baker:
Genesis 41:11 And we dreamed a dream in one night, I and he; we dreamed each man according to the interpretation of his dream.
Genesis 41:12 And [there was] there with us a young man, an Hebrew, servant to the captain of the guard; and we told him, and he interpreted to us our dreams; to each man according to his dream he did interpret.
Genesis 41:13 And it came to pass, as he interpreted to us, so it was; me he restored unto mine office, and him he hanged.
Genesis 41:14 Then Pharaoh sent and called Joseph, and they brought him hastily out of the dungeon: and he shaved [himself], and changed his raiment, and came in unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:15 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have dreamed a dream, and [there is] none that can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, [that] thou canst understand a dream to interpret it.
Genesis 41:16 And Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, [It is] not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace.
Genesis 41:17 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, In my dream, behold, I stood upon the bank of the river:
Genesis 41:18 And, behold, there came up out of the river seven kine, fatfleshed and well favoured; and they fed in a meadow:
Genesis 41:19 And, behold, seven other kine came up after them, poor and very ill favoured and leanfleshed, such as I never saw in all the land of Egypt for badness:
Genesis 41:20 And the lean and the ill favoured kine did eat up the first seven fat kine:
Genesis 41:21 And when they had eaten them up, it could not be known that they had eaten them; but they [were] still ill favoured, as at the beginning. So I awoke.
Genesis 41:22 And I saw in my dream, and, behold, seven ears came up in one stalk, full and good:
Genesis 41:23 And, behold, seven ears, withered, thin, [and] blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them:
Genesis 41:24 And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears: and I told [this] unto the magicians; but [there was] none that could declare [it] to me.
Genesis 41:25 And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, The dream of Pharaoh [is] one: God hath shewed Pharaoh what he [is] about to do.
Genesis 41:26 The seven good kine [are] seven years; and the seven good ears [are] seven years: the dream [is] one.
Genesis 41:27 And the seven thin and ill favoured kine that came up after them [are] seven years; and the seven empty ears blasted with the east wind shall be seven years of famine.
Genesis 41:28 This [is] the thing which I have spoken unto Pharaoh: What God [is] about to do he sheweth unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:29 Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt:
Genesis 41:30 And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land;
Genesis 41:31 And the plenty shall not be known in the land by reason of that famine following; for it [shall be] very grievous.
Genesis 41:32 And for that the dream was doubled unto Pharaoh twice; [it is] because the thing [is] established by God, and God will shortly bring it to pass.
Genesis 41:33 Now therefore let Pharaoh look out a man discreet and wise, and set him over the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:34 Let Pharaoh do [this], and let him appoint officers over the land, and take up the fifth part of the land of Egypt in the seven plenteous years.
Genesis 41:35 And let them gather all the food of those good years that come, and lay up corn under the hand of Pharaoh, and let them keep food in the cities.
Genesis 41:36 And that food shall be for store to the land against the seven years of famine, which shall be in the land of Egypt; that the land perish not through the famine.
Genesis 41:37 And the thing was good in the eyes of Pharaoh, and in the eyes of all his servants.
Genesis 41:38 And Pharaoh said unto his servants, Can we find [such a one] as this [is], a man in whom the Spirit of God [is]?
Genesis 41:39 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, Forasmuch as God hath shewed thee all this, [there is] none so discreet and wise as thou [art]:
Genesis 41:40 Thou shalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne will I be greater than thou.
Genesis 41:41 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, See, I have set thee over all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:42 And Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it upon Joseph’s hand, and arrayed him in vestures of fine linen, and put a gold chain about his neck;
Genesis 41:43 And he made him to ride in the second chariot which he had; and they cried before him, Bow the knee: and he made him [ruler] over all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:44 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I [am] Pharaoh, and without thee shall no man lift up his hand or foot in all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:45 And Pharaoh called Joseph’s name Zaphnathpaaneah; and he gave him to wife Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On. And Joseph went out over [all] the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:46 And Joseph [was] thirty years old when he stood before Pharaoh king of Egypt. And Joseph went out from the presence of Pharaoh, and went throughout all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:47 And in the seven plenteous years the earth brought forth by handfuls.
Genesis 41:48 And he gathered up all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in the cities: the food of the field, which [was] round about every city, laid he up in the same.
Genesis 41:49 And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, very much, until he left numbering; for [it was] without number.
Genesis 41:50 And unto Joseph were born two sons before the years of famine came, which Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On bare unto him.
Genesis 41:51 And Joseph called the name of the firstborn Manasseh: For God, [said he], hath made me forget all my toil, and all my father’s house.
Genesis 41:52 And the name of the second called he Ephraim: For God hath caused me to be fruitful in the land of my affliction.
Genesis 41:53 And the seven years of plenteousness, that was in the land of Egypt, were ended.
Genesis 41:54 And the seven years of dearth began to come, according as Joseph had said: and the dearth was in all lands; but in all the land of Egypt there was bread.
Genesis 41:55 And when all the land of Egypt was famished, the people cried to Pharaoh for bread: and Pharaoh said unto all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph; what he saith to you, do.
Genesis 41:56 And the famine was over all the face of the earth: And Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the Egyptians; and the famine waxed sore in the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:57 And all countries came into Egypt to Joseph for to buy [corn]; because that the famine was [so] sore in all lands.
Genesis 42:1 Now when Jacob saw that there was corn in Egypt, Jacob said unto his sons, Why do ye look one upon another?
Genesis 42:2 And he said, Behold, I have heard that there is corn in Egypt: get you down thither, and buy for us from thence; that we may live, and not die.
Genesis 42:3 And Joseph’s ten brethren went down to buy corn in Egypt.
Genesis 42:4 But Benjamin, Joseph’s brother, Jacob sent not with his brethren; for he said, Lest peradventure mischief befall him.
Genesis 42:5 And the sons of Israel came to buy [corn] among those that came: for the famine was in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 42:6 And Joseph [was] the governor over the land, [and] he [it was] that sold to all the people of the land: and Joseph’s brethren came, and bowed down themselves before him [with] their faces to the earth.
Genesis 42:7 And Joseph saw his brethren, and he knew them, but made himself strange unto them, and spake roughly unto them; and he said unto them, Whence come ye? And they said, From the land of Canaan to buy food.
Genesis 42:8 And Joseph knew his brethren, but they knew not him.
Genesis 42:9 And Joseph remembered the dreams which he dreamed of them, and said unto them, Ye [are] spies; to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.
Genesis 42:10 And they said unto him, Nay, my lord, but to buy food are thy servants come.
Genesis 42:11 We [are] all one man’s sons; we [are] true [men], thy servants are no spies.
Genesis 42:12 And he said unto them, Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.
Genesis 42:13 And they said, Thy servants [are] twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the land of Canaan; and, behold, the youngest [is] this day with our father, and one [is] not.
Genesis 42:14 And Joseph said unto them, That [is it] that I spake unto you, saying, Ye [are] spies:
Genesis 42:15 Hereby ye shall be proved: By the life of Pharaoh ye shall not go forth hence, except your youngest brother come hither.
Genesis 42:16 Send one of you, and let him fetch your brother, and ye shall be kept in prison, that your words may be proved, whether [there be any] truth in you: or else by the life of Pharaoh surely ye [are] spies.
Genesis 42:17 And he put them all together into ward three days.
Genesis 42:18 And Joseph said unto them the third day, This do, and live; [for] I fear God:
Genesis 42:19 If ye [be] true [men], let one of your brethren be bound in the house of your prison: go ye, carry corn for the famine of your houses:
Genesis 42:20 But bring your youngest brother unto me; so shall your words be verified, and ye shall not die. And they did so.
Genesis 42:21 And they said one to another, We [are] verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we saw the anguish of his soul, when he besought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this distress come upon us.
Genesis 42:22 And Reuben answered them, saying, Spake I not unto you, saying, Do not sin against the child; and ye would not hear? therefore, behold, also his blood is required.
Genesis 42:23 And they knew not that Joseph understood [them]; for he spake unto them by an interpreter.
Genesis 42:24 And he turned himself about from them, and wept; and returned to them again, and communed with them, and took from them Simeon, and bound him before their eyes.
Genesis 42:25 Then Joseph commanded to fill their sacks with corn, and to restore every man’s money into his sack, and to give them provision for the way: and thus did he unto them.
Genesis 42:26 And they laded their asses with the corn, and departed thence.
Genesis 42:27 And as one of them opened his sack to give his ass provender in the inn, he espied his money; for, behold, it [was] in his sack’s mouth.
Genesis 42:28 And he said unto his brethren, My money is restored; and, lo, [it is] even in my sack: and their heart failed [them], and they were afraid, saying one to another, What [is] this [that] God hath done unto us?
Genesis 42:29 And they came unto Jacob their father unto the land of Canaan, and told him all that befell unto them; saying,
Genesis 42:30 The man, [who is] the lord of the land, spake roughly to us, and took us for spies of the country.
Genesis 42:31 And we said unto him, We [are] true [men]; we are no spies:
Genesis 42:32 We [be] twelve brethren, sons of our father; one [is] not, and the youngest [is] this day with our father in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 42:33 And the man, the lord of the country, said unto us, Hereby shall I know that ye [are] true [men]; leave one of your brethren [here] with me, and take [food for] the famine of your households, and be gone:
Genesis 42:34 And bring your youngest brother unto me: then shall I know that ye [are] no spies, but [that] ye [are] true [men: so] will I deliver you your brother, and ye shall traffick in the land.
Genesis 42:35 And it came to pass as they emptied their sacks, that, behold, every man’s bundle of money [was] in his sack: and when [both] they and their father saw the bundles of money, they were afraid.
Genesis 42:36 And Jacob their father said unto them, Me have ye bereaved [of my children]: Joseph [is] not, and Simeon [is] not, and ye will take Benjamin [away]: all these things are against me.
Genesis 42:37 And Reuben spake unto his father, saying, Slay my two sons, if I bring him not to thee: deliver him into my hand, and I will bring him to thee again.
Genesis 42:38 And he said, My son shall not go down with you; for his brother is dead, and he is left alone: if mischief befall him by the way in the which ye go, then shall ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Genesis 43:1 And the famine [was] sore in the land.
Genesis 43:2 And it came to pass, when they had eaten up the corn which they had brought out of Egypt, their father said unto them, Go again, buy us a little food.
Genesis 43:3 And Judah spake unto him, saying, The man did solemnly protest unto us, saying, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother [be] with you.
Genesis 43:4 If thou wilt send our brother with us, we will go down and buy thee food:
Genesis 43:5 But if thou wilt not send [him], we will not go down: for the man said unto us, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother [be] with you.
Genesis 43:6 And Israel said, Wherefore dealt ye [so] ill with me, [as] to tell the man whether ye had yet a brother?
Genesis 43:7 And they said, The man asked us straitly of our state, and of our kindred, saying, [Is] your father yet alive? have ye [another] brother? and we told him according to the tenor of these words: could we certainly know that he would say, Bring your brother down?
Genesis 43:8 And Judah said unto Israel his father, Send the lad with me, and we will arise and go; that we may live, and not die, both we, and thou, [and] also our little ones.
Genesis 43:9 I will be surety for him; of my hand shalt thou require him: if I bring him not unto thee, and set him before thee, then let me bear the blame for ever:
Genesis 43:10 For except we had lingered, surely now we had returned this second time.
Genesis 43:11 And their father Israel said unto them, If [it must be] so now, do this; take of the best fruits in the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present, a little balm, and a little honey, spices, and myrrh, nuts, and almonds:
Genesis 43:12 And take double money in your hand; and the money that was brought again in the mouth of your sacks, carry [it] again in your hand; peradventure it [was] an oversight:
Genesis 43:13 Take also your brother, and arise, go again unto the man:
Genesis 43:14 And God Almighty give you mercy before the man, that he may send away your other brother, and Benjamin. If I be bereaved [of my children], I am bereaved.
Genesis 43:15 And the men took that present, and they took double money in their hand, and Benjamin; and rose up, and went down to Egypt, and stood before Joseph.
Genesis 43:16 And when Joseph saw Benjamin with them, he said to the ruler of his house, Bring [these] men home, and slay, and make ready; for [these] men shall dine with me at noon.
Genesis 43:17 And the man did as Joseph bade; and the man brought the men into Joseph’s house.
Genesis 43:18 And the men were afraid, because they were brought into Joseph’s house; and they said, Because of the money that was returned in our sacks at the first time are we brought in; that he may seek occasion against us, and fall upon us, and take us for bondmen, and our asses.
Genesis 43:19 And they came near to the steward of Joseph’s house, and they communed with him at the door of the house,
Genesis 43:20 And said, O sir, we came indeed down at the first time to buy food:
Genesis 43:21 And it came to pass, when we came to the inn, that we opened our sacks, and, behold, [every] man’s money [was] in the mouth of his sack, our money in full weight: and we have brought it again in our hand.
Genesis 43:22 And other money have we brought down in our hands to buy food: we cannot tell who put our money in our sacks.
Genesis 43:23 And he said, Peace [be] to you, fear not: your God, and the God of your father, hath given you treasure in your sacks: I had your money. And he brought Simeon out unto them.
Genesis 43:24 And the man brought the men into Joseph’s house, and gave [them] water, and they washed their feet; and he gave their asses provender.
Genesis 43:25 And they made ready the present against Joseph came at noon: for they heard that they should eat bread there.
Genesis 43:26 And when Joseph came home, they brought him the present which [was] in their hand into the house, and bowed themselves to him to the earth.
Genesis 43:27 And he asked them of [their] welfare, and said, [Is] your father well, the old man of whom ye spake? [Is] he yet alive?
Genesis 43:28 And they answered, Thy servant our father [is] in good health, he [is] yet alive. And they bowed down their heads, and made obeisance.
Genesis 43:29 And he lifted up his eyes, and saw his brother Benjamin, his mother’s son, and said, [Is] this your younger brother, of whom ye spake unto me? And he said, God be gracious unto thee, my son.
Genesis 43:30 And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother: and he sought [where] to weep; and he entered into [his] chamber, and wept there.
Genesis 43:31 And he washed his face, and went out, and refrained himself, and said, Set on bread.
Genesis 43:32 And they set on for him by himself, and for them by themselves, and for the Egyptians, which did eat with him, by themselves: because the Egyptians might not eat bread with the Hebrews; for that [is] an abomination unto the Egyptians.
Genesis 43:33 And they sat before him, the firstborn according to his birthright, and the youngest according to his youth: and the men marvelled one at another.
Genesis 43:34 And he took [and sent] messes unto them from before him: but Benjamin’s mess was five times so much as any of theirs. And they drank, and were merry with him.
Genesis 44:1 And he commanded the steward of his house, saying, Fill the men’s sacks [with] food, as much as they can carry, and put every man’s money in his sack’s mouth.
Genesis 44:2 And put my cup, the silver cup, in the sack’s mouth of the youngest, and his corn money. And he did according to the word that Joseph had spoken.
Genesis 44:3 As soon as the morning was light, the men were sent away, they and their asses.
Genesis 44:4 [And] when they were gone out of the city, [and] not [yet] far off, Joseph said unto his steward, Up, follow after the men; and when thou dost overtake them, say unto them, Wherefore have ye rewarded evil for good?
Genesis 44:5 [Is] not this [it] in which my lord drinketh, and whereby indeed he divineth? ye have done evil in so doing.
Genesis 44:6 And he overtook them, and he spake unto them these same words.
Genesis 44:7 And they said unto him, Wherefore saith my lord these words? God forbid that thy servants should do according to this thing:
Genesis 44:8 Behold, the money, which we found in our sacks’ mouths, we brought again unto thee out of the land of Canaan: how then should we steal out of thy lord’s house silver or gold?
Genesis 44:9 With whomsoever of thy servants it be found, both let him die, and we also will be my lord’s bondmen.
Genesis 44:10 And he said, Now also [let] it [be] according unto your words: he with whom it is found shall be my servant; and ye shall be blameless.
Genesis 44:11 Then they speedily took down every man his sack to the ground, and opened every man his sack.
Genesis 44:12 And he searched, [and] began at the eldest, and left at the youngest: and the cup was found in Benjamin’s sack.
Genesis 44:13 Then they rent their clothes, and laded every man his ass, and returned to the city.
Genesis 44:14 And Judah and his brethren came to Joseph’s house; for he [was] yet there: and they fell before him on the ground.
Genesis 44:15 And Joseph said unto them, What deed [is] this that ye have done? wot ye not that such a man as I can certainly divine?
Genesis 44:16 And Judah said, What shall we say unto my lord? what shall we speak? or how shall we clear ourselves? God hath found out the iniquity of thy servants: behold, we [are] my lord’s servants, both we, and [he] also with whom the cup is found.
Genesis 44:17 And he said, God forbid that I should do so: [but] the man in whose hand the cup is found, he shall be my servant; and as for you, get you up in peace unto your father.
Genesis 44:18 Then Judah came near unto him, and said, Oh my lord, let thy servant, I pray thee, speak a word in my lord’s ears, and let not thine anger burn against thy servant: for thou [art] even as Pharaoh.
Genesis 44:19 My lord asked his servants, saying, Have ye a father, or a brother?
Genesis 44:20 And we said unto my lord, We have a father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little one; and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of his mother, and his father loveth him.
Genesis 44:21 And thou saidst unto thy servants, Bring him down unto me, that I may set mine eyes upon him.
Genesis 44:22 And we said unto my lord, The lad cannot leave his father: for [if] he should leave his father, [his father] would die.
Genesis 44:23 And thou saidst unto thy servants, Except your youngest brother come down with you, ye shall see my face no more.
Genesis 44:24 And it came to pass when we came up unto thy servant my father, we told him the words of my lord.
Genesis 44:25 And our father said, Go again, [and] buy us a little food.
Genesis 44:26 And we said, We cannot go down: if our youngest brother be with us, then will we go down: for we may not see the man’s face, except our youngest brother [be] with us.
Genesis 44:27 And thy servant my father said unto us, Ye know that my wife bare me two [sons]:
Genesis 44:28 And the one went out from me, and I said, Surely he is torn in pieces; and I saw him not since:
Genesis 44:29 And if ye take this also from me, and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Genesis 44:30 Now therefore when I come to thy servant my father, and the lad [be] not with us; seeing that his life is bound up in the lad’s life;
Genesis 44:31 It shall come to pass, when he seeth that the lad [is] not [with us], that he will die: and thy servants shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant our father with sorrow to the grave.
Genesis 44:32 For thy servant became surety for the lad unto my father, saying, If I bring him not unto thee, then I shall bear the blame to my father for ever.
Genesis 44:33 Now therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant abide instead of the lad a bondman to my lord; and let the lad go up with his brethren.
Genesis 44:34 For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad [be] not with me? lest peradventure I see the evil that shall come on my father.
Genesis 45:1 Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him; and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.
Genesis 45:2 And he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard.
Genesis 45:3 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I [am] Joseph; doth my father yet live? And his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his presence.
Genesis 45:4 And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray you. And they came near. And he said, I [am] Joseph your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt.
Genesis 45:5 Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me hither: for God did send me before you to preserve life.
Genesis 45:6 For these two years [hath] the famine [been] in the land: and yet [there are] five years, in the which [there shall] neither [be] earing nor harvest.
Genesis 45:7 And God sent me before you to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance.
Genesis 45:8 So now [it was] not you [that] sent me hither, but God: and he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house, and a ruler throughout all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 45:9 Haste ye, and go up to my father, and say unto him, Thus saith thy son Joseph, God hath made me lord of all Egypt: come down unto me, tarry not:
Genesis 45:10 And thou shalt dwell in the land of Goshen, and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy children, and thy children’s children, and thy flocks, and thy herds, and all that thou hast:
Genesis 45:11 And there will I nourish thee; for yet [there are] five years of famine; lest thou, and thy household, and all that thou hast, come to poverty.
Genesis 45:12 And, behold, your eyes see, and the eyes of my brother Benjamin, that [it is] my mouth that speaketh unto you.
Genesis 45:13 And ye shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye have seen; and ye shall haste and bring down my father hither.
Genesis 45:14 And he fell upon his brother Benjamin’s neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon his neck.
Genesis 45:15 Moreover he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them: and after that his brethren talked with him.
Genesis 45:16 And the fame thereof was heard in Pharaoh’s house, saying, Joseph’s brethren are come: and it pleased Pharaoh well, and his servants.
Genesis 45:17 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, Say unto thy brethren, This do ye; lade your beasts, and go, get you unto the land of Canaan;
Genesis 45:18 And take your father and your households, and come unto me: and I will give you the good of the land of Egypt, and ye shall eat the fat of the land.
Genesis 45:19 Now thou art commanded, this do ye; take you wagons out of the land of Egypt for your little ones, and for your wives, and bring your father, and come.
Genesis 45:20 Also regard not your stuff; for the good of all the land of Egypt [is] yours.
Genesis 45:21 And the children of Israel did so: and Joseph gave them wagons, according to the commandment of Pharaoh, and gave them provision for the way.
Genesis 45:22 To all of them he gave each man changes of raiment; but to Benjamin he gave three hundred [pieces] of silver, and five changes of raiment.
Genesis 45:23 And to his father he sent after this [manner]; ten asses laden with the good things of Egypt, and ten she asses laden with corn and bread and meat for his father by the way.
Genesis 45:24 So he sent his brethren away, and they departed: and he said unto them, See that ye fall not out by the way.
Genesis 45:25 And they went up out of Egypt, and came into the land of Canaan unto Jacob their father,
Genesis 45:26 And told him, saying, Joseph [is] yet alive, and he [is] governor over all the land of Egypt. And Jacob’s heart fainted, for he believed them not.
Genesis 45:27 And they told him all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived:
Genesis 45:28 And Israel said, [It is] enough; Joseph my son [is] yet alive: I will go and see him before I die.
Genesis 46:1 And Israel took his journey with all that he had, and came to Beersheba, and offered sacrifices unto the God of his father Isaac.
Genesis 46:2 And God spake unto Israel in the visions of the night, and said, Jacob, Jacob. And he said, Here [am] I.
Genesis 46:3 And he said, I [am] God, the God of thy father: fear not to go down into Egypt; for I will there make of thee a great nation:
Genesis 46:4 I will go down with thee into Egypt; and I will also surely bring thee up [again]: and Joseph shall put his hand upon thine eyes.
Genesis 46:5 And Jacob rose up from Beersheba: and the sons of Israel carried Jacob their father, and their little ones, and their wives, in the wagons which Pharaoh had sent to carry him.
Genesis 46:6 And they took their cattle, and their goods, which they had gotten in the land of Canaan, and came into Egypt, Jacob, and all his seed with him:
Genesis 46:7 His sons, and his sons’ sons with him, his daughters, and his sons’ daughters, and all his seed brought he with him into Egypt.
Genesis 46:8 And these [are] the names of the children of Israel, which came into Egypt, Jacob and his sons: Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn.
Genesis 46:9 And the sons of Reuben; Hanoch, and Phallu, and Hezron, and Carmi.
Genesis 46:10 And the sons of Simeon; Jemuel, and Jamin, and Ohad, and Jachin, and Zohar, and Shaul the son of a Canaanitish woman.
Genesis 46:11 And the sons of Levi; Gershon, Kohath, and Merari.
Genesis 46:12 And the sons of Judah; Er, and Onan, and Shelah, and Pharez, and Zerah: but Er and Onan died in the land of Canaan. And the sons of Pharez were Hezron and Hamul.
Genesis 46:13 And the sons of Issachar; Tola, and Phuvah, and Job, and Shimron.
Genesis 46:14 And the sons of Zebulun; Sered, and Elon, and Jahleel.
Genesis 46:15 These [be] the sons of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob in Padanaram, with his daughter Dinah: all the souls of his sons and his daughters [were] thirty and three.
Genesis 46:16 And the sons of Gad; Ziphion, and Haggi, Shuni, and Ezbon, Eri, and Arodi, and Areli.
Genesis 46:17 And the sons of Asher; Jimnah, and Ishuah, and Isui, and Beriah, and Serah their sister: and the sons of Beriah; Heber, and Malchiel.
Genesis 46:18 These [are] the sons of Zilpah, whom Laban gave to Leah his daughter, and these she bare unto Jacob, [even] sixteen souls.
Genesis 46:19 The sons of Rachel Jacob’s wife; Joseph, and Benjamin.
Genesis 46:20 And unto Joseph in the land of Egypt were born Manasseh and Ephraim, which Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On bare unto him.
Genesis 46:21 And the sons of Benjamin [were] Belah, and Becher, and Ashbel, Gera, and Naaman, Ehi, and Rosh, Muppim, and Huppim, and Ard.
Genesis 46:22 These [are] the sons of Rachel, which were born to Jacob: all the souls [were] fourteen.
Genesis 46:23 And the sons of Dan; Hushim.
Genesis 46:24 And the sons of Naphtali; Jahzeel, and Guni, and Jezer, and Shillem.
Genesis 46:25 These [are] the sons of Bilhah, which Laban gave unto Rachel his daughter, and she bare these unto Jacob: all the souls [were] seven.
Genesis 46:26 All the souls that came with Jacob into Egypt, which came out of his loins, besides Jacob’s sons’ wives, all the souls [were] threescore and six;
Genesis 46:27 And the sons of Joseph, which were born him in Egypt, [were] two souls: all the souls of the house of Jacob, which came into Egypt, [were] threescore and ten.
Genesis 46:28 And he sent Judah before him unto Joseph, to direct his face unto Goshen; and they came into the land of Goshen.
Genesis 46:29 And Joseph made ready his chariot, and went up to meet Israel his father, to Goshen, and presented himself unto him; and he fell on his neck, and wept on his neck a good while.
Genesis 46:30 And Israel said unto Joseph, Now let me die, since I have seen thy face, because thou [art] yet alive.
Genesis 46:31 And Joseph said unto his brethren, and unto his father’s house, I will go up, and shew Pharaoh, and say unto him, My brethren, and my father’s house, which [were] in the land of Canaan, are come unto me;
Genesis 46:32 And the men [are] shepherds, for their trade hath been to feed cattle; and they have brought their flocks, and their herds, and all that they have.
Genesis 46:33 And it shall come to pass, when Pharaoh shall call you, and shall say, What [is] your occupation?
Genesis 46:34 That ye shall say, Thy servants’ trade hath been about cattle from our youth even until now, both we, [and] also our fathers: that ye may dwell in the land of Goshen; for every shepherd [is] an abomination unto the Egyptians.
Genesis 47:1 Then Joseph came and told Pharaoh, and said, My father and my brethren, and their flocks, and their herds, and all that they have, are come out of the land of Canaan; and, behold, they [are] in the land of Goshen.
Genesis 47:2 And he took some of his brethren, [even] five men, and presented them unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 47:3 And Pharaoh said unto his brethren, What [is] your occupation? And they said unto Pharaoh, Thy servants [are] shepherds, both we, [and] also our fathers.
Genesis 47:4 They said moreover unto Pharaoh, For to sojourn in the land are we come; for thy servants have no pasture for their flocks; for the famine [is] sore in the land of Canaan: now therefore, we pray thee, let thy servants dwell in the land of Goshen.
Genesis 47:5 And Pharaoh spake unto Joseph, saying, Thy father and thy brethren are come unto thee:
Genesis 47:6 The land of Egypt [is] before thee; in the best of the land make thy father and brethren to dwell; in the land of Goshen let them dwell: and if thou knowest [any] men of activity among them, then make them rulers over my cattle.
Genesis 47:7 And Joseph brought in Jacob his father, and set him before Pharaoh: and Jacob blessed Pharaoh.
Genesis 47:8 And Pharaoh said unto Jacob, How old [art] thou?
Genesis 47:9 And Jacob said unto Pharaoh, The days of the years of my pilgrimage [are] an hundred and thirty years: few and evil have the days of the years of my life been, and have not attained unto the days of the years of the life of my fathers in the days of their pilgrimage.
Genesis 47:10 And Jacob blessed Pharaoh, and went out from before Pharaoh.
Genesis 47:11 And Joseph placed his father and his brethren, and gave them a possession in the land of Egypt, in the best of the land, in the land of Rameses, as Pharaoh had commanded.
Genesis 47:12 And Joseph nourished his father, and his brethren, and all his father’s household, with bread, according to [their] families.
Genesis 47:13 And [there was] no bread in all the land; for the famine [was] very sore, so that the land of Egypt and [all] the land of Canaan fainted by reason of the famine.
Genesis 47:14 And Joseph gathered up all the money that was found in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, for the corn which they bought: and Joseph brought the money into Pharaoh’s house.
Genesis 47:15 And when money failed in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, all the Egyptians came unto Joseph, and said, Give us bread: for why should we die in thy presence? for the money faileth.
Genesis 47:16 And Joseph said, Give your cattle; and I will give you for your cattle, if money fail.
Genesis 47:17 And they brought their cattle unto Joseph: and Joseph gave them bread [in exchange] for horses, and for the flocks, and for the cattle of the herds, and for the asses: and he fed them with bread for all their cattle for that year.
Genesis 47:18 When that year was ended, they came unto him the second year, and said unto him, We will not hide [it] from my lord, how that our money is spent; my lord also hath our herds of cattle; there is not ought left in the sight of my lord, but our bodies, and our lands:
Genesis 47:19 Wherefore shall we die before thine eyes, both we and our land? buy us and our land for bread, and we and our land will be servants unto Pharaoh: and give [us] seed, that we may live, and not die, that the land be not desolate.
Genesis 47:20 And Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pharaoh; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, because the famine prevailed over them: so the land became Pharaoh’s.
Genesis 47:21 And as for the people, he removed them to cities from [one] end of the borders of Egypt even to the [other] end thereof.
Genesis 47:22 Only the land of the priests bought he not; for the priests had a portion [assigned them] of Pharaoh, and did eat their portion which Pharaoh gave them: wherefore they sold not their lands.
Genesis 47:23 Then Joseph said unto the people, Behold, I have bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh: lo, [here is] seed for you, and ye shall sow the land.
Genesis 47:24 And it shall come to pass in the increase, that ye shall give the fifth [part] unto Pharaoh, and four parts shall be your own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and for them of your households, and for food for your little ones.
Genesis 47:25 And they said, Thou hast saved our lives: let us find grace in the sight of my lord, and we will be Pharaoh’s servants.
Genesis 47:26 And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt unto this day, [that] Pharaoh should have the fifth [part]; except the land of the priests only, [which] became not Pharaoh’s.
Genesis 47:27 And Israel dwelt in the land of Egypt, in the country of Goshen; and they had possessions therein, and grew, and multiplied exceedingly.
Genesis 47:28 And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years: so the whole age of Jacob was an hundred forty and seven years.
Genesis 47:29 And the time drew nigh that Israel must die: and he called his son Joseph, and said unto him, If now I have found grace in thy sight, put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh, and deal kindly and truly with me; bury me not, I pray thee, in Egypt:
Genesis 47:30 But I will lie with my fathers, and thou shalt carry me out of Egypt, and bury me in their buryingplace. And he said, I will do as thou hast said.
Genesis 47:31 And he said, Swear unto me. And he sware unto him. And Israel bowed himself upon the bed’s head.
Genesis 48:1 And it came to pass after these things, that [one] told Joseph, Behold, thy father [is] sick: and he took with him his two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim.
Genesis 48:2 And [one] told Jacob, and said, Behold, thy son Joseph cometh unto thee: and Israel strengthened himself, and sat upon the bed.
Genesis 48:3 And Jacob said unto Joseph, God Almighty appeared unto me at Luz in the land of Canaan, and blessed me,
Genesis 48:4 And said unto me, Behold, I will make thee fruitful, and multiply thee, and I will make of thee a multitude of people; and will give this land to thy seed after thee [for] an everlasting possession.
Genesis 48:5 And now thy two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, which were born unto thee in the land of Egypt before I came unto thee into Egypt, [are] mine; as Reuben and Simeon, they shall be mine.
Genesis 48:6 And thy issue, which thou begettest after them, shall be thine, [and] shall be called after the name of their brethren in their inheritance.
Genesis 48:7 And as for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan in the way, when yet [there was] but a little way to come unto Ephrath: and I buried her there in the way of Ephrath; the same [is] Bethlehem.
Genesis 48:8 And Israel beheld Joseph’s sons, and said, Who [are] these?
Genesis 48:9 And Joseph said unto his father, They [are] my sons, whom God hath given me in this [place]. And he said, Bring them, I pray thee, unto me, and I will bless them.
Genesis 48:10 Now the eyes of Israel were dim for age, [so that] he could not see. And he brought them near unto him; and he kissed them, and embraced them.
Genesis 48:11 And Israel said unto Joseph, I had not thought to see thy face: and, lo, God hath shewed me also thy seed.
Genesis 48:12 And Joseph brought them out from between his knees, and he bowed himself with his face to the earth.
Genesis 48:13 And Joseph took them both, Ephraim in his right hand toward Israel’s left hand, and Manasseh in his left hand toward Israel’s right hand, and brought [them] near unto him.
Genesis 48:14 And Israel stretched out his right hand, and laid [it] upon Ephraim’s head, who [was] the younger, and his left hand upon Manasseh’s head, guiding his hands wittingly; for Manasseh [was] the firstborn.
Genesis 48:15 And he blessed Joseph, and said, God, before whom my fathers Abraham and Isaac did walk, the God which fed me all my life long unto this day,
Genesis 48:16 The Angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads; and let my name be named on them, and the name of my fathers Abraham and Isaac; and let them grow into a multitude in the midst of the earth.
Genesis 48:17 And when Joseph saw that his father laid his right hand upon the head of Ephraim, it displeased him: and he held up his father’s hand, to remove it from Ephraim’s head unto Manasseh’s head.
Genesis 48:18 And Joseph said unto his father, Not so, my father: for this [is] the firstborn; put thy right hand upon his head.
Genesis 48:19 And his father refused, and said, I know [it], my son, I know [it]: he also shall become a people, and he also shall be great: but truly his younger brother shall be greater than he, and his seed shall become a multitude of nations.
Genesis 48:20 And he blessed them that day, saying, In thee shall Israel bless, saying, God make thee as Ephraim and as Manasseh: and he set Ephraim before Manasseh.
Genesis 48:21 And Israel said unto Joseph, Behold, I die: but God shall be with you, and bring you again unto the land of your fathers.
Genesis 48:22 Moreover I have given to thee one portion above thy brethren, which I took out of the hand of the Amorite with my sword and with my bow.
Genesis 49:1 And Jacob called unto his sons, and said, Gather yourselves together, that I may tell you [that] which shall befall you in the last days.
Genesis 49:2 Gather yourselves together, and hear, ye sons of Jacob; and hearken unto Israel your father.
Genesis 49:3 Reuben, thou [art] my firstborn, my might, and the beginning of my strength, the excellency of dignity, and the excellency of power:
Genesis 49:4 Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel; because thou wentest up to thy father’s bed; then defiledst thou [it]: he went up to my couch.
Genesis 49:5 Simeon and Levi [are] brethren; instruments of cruelty [are in] their habitations.
Genesis 49:6 O my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united: for in their anger they slew a man, and in their selfwill they digged down a wall.
Genesis 49:7 Cursed [be] their anger, for [it was] fierce; and their wrath, for it was cruel: I will divide them in Jacob, and scatter them in Israel.
Genesis 49:8 Judah, thou [art he] whom thy brethren shall praise: thy hand [shall be] in the neck of thine enemies; thy father’s children shall bow down before thee.
Genesis 49:9 Judah [is] a lion’s whelp: from the prey, my son, thou art gone up: he stooped down, he couched as a lion, and as an old lion; who shall rouse him up?
Genesis 49:10 The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come; and unto him [shall] the gathering of the people [be].
Genesis 49:11 Binding his foal unto the vine, and his ass’s colt unto the choice vine; he washed his garments in wine, and his clothes in the blood of grapes:
Genesis 49:12 His eyes [shall be] red with wine, and his teeth white with milk.
Genesis 49:13 Zebulun shall dwell at the haven of the sea; and he [shall be] for an haven of ships; and his border [shall be] unto Zidon.
Genesis 49:14 Issachar [is] a strong ass couching down between two burdens:
Genesis 49:15 And he saw that rest [was] good, and the land that [it was] pleasant; and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a servant unto tribute.
Genesis 49:16 Dan shall judge his people, as one of the tribes of Israel.
Genesis 49:17 Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the path, that biteth the horse heels, so that his rider shall fall backward.
Genesis 49:18 I have waited for thy salvation, O LORD.
Genesis 49:19 Gad, a troop shall overcome him: but he shall overcome at the last.
Genesis 49:20 Out of Asher his bread [shall be] fat, and he shall yield royal dainties.
Genesis 49:21 Naphtali [is] a hind let loose: he giveth goodly words.
Genesis 49:22 Joseph [is] a fruitful bough, [even] a fruitful bough by a well; [whose] branches run over the wall:
Genesis 49:23 The archers have sorely grieved him, and shot [at him], and hated him:
Genesis 49:24 But his bow abode in strength, and the arms of his hands were made strong by the hands of the mighty [God] of Jacob; (from thence [is] the shepherd, the stone of Israel:)
Genesis 49:25 [Even] by the God of thy father, who shall help thee; and by the Almighty, who shall bless thee with blessings of heaven above, blessings of the deep that lieth under, blessings of the breasts, and of the womb:
Genesis 49:26 The blessings of thy father have prevailed above the blessings of my progenitors unto the utmost bound of the everlasting hills: they shall be on the head of Joseph, and on the crown of the head of him that was separate from his brethren.
Genesis 49:27 Benjamin shall ravin [as] a wolf: in the morning he shall devour the prey, and at night he shall divide the spoil.
Genesis 49:28 All these [are] the twelve tribes of Israel: and this [is it] that their father spake unto them, and blessed them; every one according to his blessing he blessed them.
Genesis 49:29 And he charged them, and said unto them, I am to be gathered unto my people: bury me with my fathers in the cave that [is] in the field of Ephron the Hittite,
Genesis 49:30 In the cave that [is] in the field of Machpelah, which [is] before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, which Abraham bought with the field of Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a buryingplace.
Genesis 49:31 There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah.
Genesis 49:32 The purchase of the field and of the cave that [is] therein [was] from the children of Heth.
Genesis 49:33 And when Jacob had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his feet into the bed, and yielded up the ghost, and was gathered unto his people.
Genesis 50:1 And Joseph fell upon his father’s face, and wept upon him, and kissed him.
Genesis 50:2 And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father: and the physicians embalmed Israel.
Genesis 50:3 And forty days were fulfilled for him; for so are fulfilled the days of those which are embalmed: and the Egyptians mourned for him threescore and ten days.
Genesis 50:4 And when the days of his mourning were past, Joseph spake unto the house of Pharaoh, saying, If now I have found grace in your eyes, speak, I pray you, in the ears of Pharaoh, saying,
Genesis 50:5 My father made me swear, saying, Lo, I die: in my grave which I have digged for me in the land of Canaan, there shalt thou bury me. Now therefore let me go up, I pray thee, and bury my father, and I will come again.
Genesis 50:6 And Pharaoh said, Go up, and bury thy father, according as he made thee swear.
Genesis 50:7 And Joseph went up to bury his father: and with him went up all the servants of Pharaoh, the elders of his house, and all the elders of the land of Egypt,
Genesis 50:8 And all the house of Joseph, and his brethren, and his father’s house: only their little ones, and their flocks, and their herds, they left in the land of Goshen.
Genesis 50:9 And there went up with him both chariots and horsemen: and it was a very great company.
Genesis 50:10 And they came to the threshingfloor of Atad, which [is] beyond Jordan, and there they mourned with a great and very sore lamentation: and he made a mourning for his father seven days.
Genesis 50:11 And when the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites, saw the mourning in the floor of Atad, they said, This [is] a grievous mourning to the Egyptians: wherefore the name of it was called Abelmizraim, which [is] beyond Jordan.
Genesis 50:12 And his sons did unto him according as he commanded them:
Genesis 50:13 For his sons carried him into the land of Canaan, and buried him in the cave of the field of Machpelah, which Abraham bought with the field for a possession of a buryingplace of Ephron the Hittite, before Mamre.
Genesis 50:14 And Joseph returned into Egypt, he, and his brethren, and all that went up with him to bury his father, after he had buried his father.
Genesis 50:15 And when Joseph’s brethren saw that their father was dead, they said, Joseph will peradventure hate us, and will certainly requite us all the evil which we did unto him.
Genesis 50:16 And they sent a messenger unto Joseph, saying, Thy father did command before he died, saying,
Genesis 50:17 So shall ye say unto Joseph, Forgive, I pray thee now, the trespass of thy brethren, and their sin; for they did unto thee evil: and now, we pray thee, forgive the trespass of the servants of the God of thy father. And Joseph wept when they spake unto him.
Genesis 50:18 And his brethren also went and fell down before his face; and they said, Behold, we [be] thy servants.
Genesis 50:19 And Joseph said unto them, Fear not: for [am] I in the place of God?
Genesis 50:20 But as for you, ye thought evil against me; [but] God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as [it is] this day, to save much people alive.
Genesis 50:21 Now therefore fear ye not: I will nourish you, and your little ones. And he comforted them, and spake kindly unto them.
Genesis 50:22 And Joseph dwelt in Egypt, he, and his father’s house: and Joseph lived an hundred and ten years.
Genesis 50:23 And Joseph saw Ephraim’s children of the third [generation]: the children also of Machir the son of Manasseh were brought up upon Joseph’s knees.
Genesis 50:24 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I die: and God will surely visit you, and bring you out of this land unto the land which he sware to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.
Genesis 50:25 And Joseph took an oath of the children of Israel, saying, God will surely visit you, and ye shall carry up my bones from hence.
Genesis 50:26 So Joseph died, [being] an hundred and ten years old: and they embalmed him, and he was put in a coffin in Egypt.
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Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/25/2023
Public Domain Use#19,602,579textThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by
L. Frank Baum
Contents
Introduction
1. The Cyclone
2. The Council with the Munchkins
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
4. The Road Through the Forest
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
6. The Cowardly Lion
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
10. The Guardian of the Gates
11. The Emerald City of Oz
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
13. The Rescue
14. The Winged Monkeys
15. The Discovery of Oz the Terrible
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
18. Away to the South
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
20. The Dainty China Country
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
22. The Country of the Quadlings
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
24. Home Again
Introduction
Folklore, legends, myths and fairy tales have followed childhood
through the ages, for every healthy youngster has a wholesome and
instinctive love for stories fantastic, marvelous and manifestly
unreal. The winged fairies of Grimm and Andersen have brought more
happiness to childish hearts than all other human creations.
Yet the old time fairy tale, having served for generations, may now be
classed as "historical" in the children's library; for the time has
come for a series of newer "wonder tales" in which the stereotyped
genie, dwarf and fairy are eliminated, together with all the horrible
and blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a
fearsome moral to each tale. Modern education includes morality;
therefore the modern child seeks only entertainment in its wonder tales
and gladly dispenses with all disagreeable incident.
Having this thought in mind, the story of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"
was written solely to please children of today. It aspires to being a
modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are retained and
the heartaches and nightmares are left out.
L. Frank Baum
Chicago, April, 1900.
THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ
1. The Cyclone
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle
Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their
house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon
many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one
room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for
the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry
and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in
another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a
small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family
could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to
crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the
middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark
hole.
When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see
nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a
house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of
the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a
gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was
not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until
they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house
had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed
it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.
When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun
and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her
eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks
and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never
smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt
Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream
and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice
reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder
that she could find anything to laugh at.
Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and
did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to
his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.
It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray
as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black
dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on
either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and
Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.
Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the
doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than
usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at
the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes.
From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry
and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the
coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the
south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the
grass coming from that direction also.
Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up.
"There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife. "I'll go look
after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and
horses were kept.
Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of
the danger close at hand.
"Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed. "Run for the cellar!"
Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and the girl
started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap
door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark
hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to follow her aunt.
When she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the
wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat
down suddenly upon the floor.
Then a strange thing happened.
The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the
air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.
The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the
exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is
generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of
the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top
of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles
away as easily as you could carry a feather.
It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy
found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around,
and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were
being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.
Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there,
barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to
see what would happen.
Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first
the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his
ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air
was keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole,
caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward
closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.
Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright;
but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about
her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she
would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours
passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved
to wait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she
crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and
Toto followed and lay down beside her.
In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind,
Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
2. The Council with the Munchkins
She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had
not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was,
the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and
Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally.
Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it
dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the
little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran
and opened the door.
The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes
growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.
The cyclone had set the house down very gently--for a cyclone--in the
midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of
greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious
fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with
rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes.
A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between
green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl
who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.
While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights,
she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had
ever seen. They were not as big as the grown folk she had always been
used to; but neither were they very small. In fact, they seemed about
as tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her age, although
they were, so far as looks go, many years older.
Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed. They wore
round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with
little bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved. The
hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat was white, and she
wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders. Over it were
sprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds. The
men were dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore
well-polished boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops. The men,
Dorothy thought, were about as old as Uncle Henry, for two of them had
beards. But the little woman was doubtless much older. Her face was
covered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked rather
stiffly.
When these people drew near the house where Dorothy was standing in the
doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to
come farther. But the little old woman walked up to Dorothy, made a
low bow and said, in a sweet voice:
"You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins.
We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the
East, and for setting our people free from bondage."
Dorothy listened to this speech with wonder. What could the little
woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she had
killed the Wicked Witch of the East? Dorothy was an innocent, harmless
little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home;
and she had never killed anything in all her life.
But the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said,
with hesitation, "You are very kind, but there must be some mistake. I
have not killed anything."
"Your house did, anyway," replied the little old woman, with a laugh,
"and that is the same thing. See!" she continued, pointing to the
corner of the house. "There are her two feet, still sticking out from
under a block of wood."
Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed, just
under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were
sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in
dismay. "The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?"
"There is nothing to be done," said the little woman calmly.
"But who was she?" asked Dorothy.
"She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I said," answered the little
woman. "She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years,
making them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free,
and are grateful to you for the favor."
"Who are the Munchkins?" inquired Dorothy.
"They are the people who live in this land of the East
where the Wicked Witch ruled."
"Are you a Munchkin?" asked Dorothy.
"No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the North.
When they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins sent a swift
messenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch of the North."
"Oh, gracious!" cried Dorothy. "Are you a real witch?"
"Yes, indeed," answered the little woman. "But I am a good witch, and
the people love me. I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who
ruled here, or I should have set the people free myself."
"But I thought all witches were wicked," said the girl, who was half
frightened at facing a real witch. "Oh, no, that is a great mistake.
There were only four witches in all the Land of Oz, and two of them,
those who live in the North and the South, are good witches. I know
this is true, for I am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken.
Those who dwelt in the East and the West were, indeed, wicked witches;
but now that you have killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch
in all the Land of Oz--the one who lives in the West."
"But," said Dorothy, after a moment's thought, "Aunt Em has told me
that the witches were all dead--years and years ago."
"Who is Aunt Em?" inquired the little old woman.
"She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from."
The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed
and her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and said, "I do not
know where Kansas is, for I have never heard that country mentioned
before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?"
"Oh, yes," replied Dorothy.
"Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I believe there
are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. But,
you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off
from all the rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and
wizards amongst us."
"Who are the wizards?" asked Dorothy.
"Oz himself is the Great Wizard," answered the Witch, sinking her voice
to a whisper. "He is more powerful than all the rest of us together.
He lives in the City of Emeralds."
Dorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the Munchkins,
who had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and pointed to the
corner of the house where the Wicked Witch had been lying.
"What is it?" asked the little old woman, and looked, and began to
laugh. The feet of the dead Witch had disappeared entirely, and
nothing was left but the silver shoes.
"She was so old," explained the Witch of the North, "that she dried up
quickly in the sun. That is the end of her. But the silver shoes are
yours, and you shall have them to wear." She reached down and picked up
the shoes, and after shaking the dust out of them handed them to
Dorothy.
"The Witch of the East was proud of those silver shoes," said one of
the Munchkins, "and there is some charm connected with them; but what
it is we never knew."
Dorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on the table.
Then she came out again to the Munchkins and said:
"I am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for I am sure they will
worry about me. Can you help me find my way?"
The Munchkins and the Witch first looked at one another, and then at
Dorothy, and then shook their heads.
"At the East, not far from here," said one, "there is a great desert,
and none could live to cross it."
"It is the same at the South," said another, "for I have been there and
seen it. The South is the country of the Quadlings."
"I am told," said the third man, "that it is the same at the West. And
that country, where the Winkies live, is ruled by the Wicked Witch of
the West, who would make you her slave if you passed her way."
"The North is my home," said the old lady, "and at its edge is the same
great desert that surrounds this Land of Oz. I'm afraid, my dear, you
will have to live with us."
Dorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all these
strange people. Her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted Munchkins,
for they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and began to weep
also. As for the little old woman, she took off her cap and balanced
the point on the end of her nose, while she counted "One, two, three"
in a solemn voice. At once the cap changed to a slate, on which was
written in big, white chalk marks:
"LET DOROTHY GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS"
The little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having read the
words on it, asked, "Is your name Dorothy, my dear?"
"Yes," answered the child, looking up and drying her tears.
"Then you must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps Oz will help you."
"Where is this city?" asked Dorothy.
"It is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by Oz, the
Great Wizard I told you of."
"Is he a good man?" inquired the girl anxiously.
"He is a good Wizard. Whether he is a man or not I cannot tell, for I
have never seen him."
"How can I get there?" asked Dorothy.
"You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that is
sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible. However, I will
use all the magic arts I know of to keep you from harm."
"Won't you go with me?" pleaded the girl, who had begun to look upon
the little old woman as her only friend.
"No, I cannot do that," she replied, "but I will give you my kiss, and
no one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by the Witch of
the North."
She came close to Dorothy and kissed her gently on the forehead. Where
her lips touched the girl they left a round, shining mark, as Dorothy
found out soon after.
"The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick," said the
Witch, "so you cannot miss it. When you get to Oz do not be afraid of
him, but tell your story and ask him to help you. Good-bye, my dear."
The three Munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant journey,
after which they walked away through the trees. The Witch gave Dorothy
a friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel three times, and
straightway disappeared, much to the surprise of little Toto, who
barked after her loudly enough when she had gone, because he had been
afraid even to growl while she stood by.
But Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear
in just that way, and was not surprised in the least.
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
When Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went to
the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter.
She gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the shelf she carried it
down to the little brook and filled it with clear, sparkling water.
Toto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the birds sitting
there. Dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious fruit hanging
from the branches that she gathered some of it, finding it just what
she wanted to help out her breakfast.
Then she went back to the house, and having helped herself and Toto to
a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready for
the journey to the City of Emeralds.
Dorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and was
hanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham, with checks of white
and blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with many washings,
it was still a pretty frock. The girl washed herself carefully,
dressed herself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink sunbonnet on
her head. She took a little basket and filled it with bread from the
cupboard, laying a white cloth over the top. Then she looked down at
her feet and noticed how old and worn her shoes were.
"They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto," she said. And
Toto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged his
tail to show he knew what she meant.
At that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that had
belonged to the Witch of the East.
"I wonder if they will fit me," she said to Toto. "They would be just
the thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out."
She took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones, which
fitted her as well as if they had been made for her.
Finally she picked up her basket.
"Come along, Toto," she said. "We will go to the Emerald City and ask
the Great Oz how to get back to Kansas again."
She closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the pocket
of her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly behind her, she
started on her journey.
There were several roads nearby, but it did not take her long to find
the one paved with yellow bricks. Within a short time she was walking
briskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes tinkling merrily on
the hard, yellow road-bed. The sun shone bright and the birds sang
sweetly, and Dorothy did not feel nearly so bad as you might think a
little girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her own
country and set down in the midst of a strange land.
She was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country
was about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the road,
painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and
vegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were good farmers and
able to raise large crops. Once in a while she would pass a house, and
the people came out to look at her and bow low as she went by; for
everyone knew she had been the means of destroying the Wicked Witch and
setting them free from bondage. The houses of the Munchkins were
odd-looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big dome for a roof.
All were painted blue, for in this country of the East blue was the
favorite color.
Toward evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and began to
wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather
larger than the rest. On the green lawn before it many men and women
were dancing. Five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible, and
the people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was
loaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other
good things to eat.
The people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to
pass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest
Munchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to
celebrate their freedom from the bondage of the Wicked Witch.
Dorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich Munchkin
himself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat upon a settee and watched
the people dance.
When Boq saw her silver shoes he said, "You must be a great sorceress."
"Why?" asked the girl.
"Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the Wicked Witch.
Besides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses
wear white."
"My dress is blue and white checked," said Dorothy, smoothing out the
wrinkles in it.
"It is kind of you to wear that," said Boq. "Blue is the color of the
Munchkins, and white is the witch color. So we know you are a friendly
witch."
Dorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed to
think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary
little girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange land.
When she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into the house,
where he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it. The sheets were made
of blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in them till morning, with
Toto curled up on the blue rug beside her.
She ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby, who played
with Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way that
greatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to all the people,
for they had never seen a dog before.
"How far is it to the Emerald City?" the girl asked.
"I do not know," answered Boq gravely, "for I have never been there.
It is better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they have business
with him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City, and it will take
you many days. The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must
pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of
your journey."
This worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the Great Oz
could help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to turn
back.
She bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of
yellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would
stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road
and sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not
far away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds
from the ripe corn.
Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the
Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes,
nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed
blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on his head,
and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded,
which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old
boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the
figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck
up its back.
While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the
Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her.
She thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the
scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its
head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence
and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked.
"Good day," said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.
"Did you speak?" asked the girl, in wonder.
"Certainly," answered the Scarecrow. "How do you do?"
"I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Dorothy politely. "How do you
do?"
"I'm not feeling well," said the Scarecrow, with a smile, "for it is
very tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows."
"Can't you get down?" asked Dorothy.
"No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away
the pole I shall be greatly obliged to you."
Dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole, for,
being stuffed with straw, it was quite light.
"Thank you very much," said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down on
the ground. "I feel like a new man."
Dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man
speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.
"Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and
yawned. "And where are you going?"
"My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the Emerald
City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas."
"Where is the Emerald City?" he inquired. "And who is Oz?"
"Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise.
"No, indeed. I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have
no brains at all," he answered sadly.
"Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Do you think," he asked, "if I go to the Emerald City with you, that
Oz would give me some brains?"
"I cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me, if you like.
If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you
are now."
"That is true," said the Scarecrow. "You see," he continued
confidentially, "I don't mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed,
because I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin
into me, it doesn't matter, for I can't feel it. But I do not want
people to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw
instead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything?"
"I understand how you feel," said the little girl, who was truly sorry
for him. "If you will come with me I'll ask Oz to do all he can for
you."
"Thank you," he answered gratefully.
They walked back to the road. Dorothy helped him over the fence, and
they started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City.
Toto did not like this addition to the party at first. He smelled
around the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of rats
in the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the
Scarecrow.
"Don't mind Toto," said Dorothy to her new friend. "He never bites."
"Oh, I'm not afraid," replied the Scarecrow. "He can't hurt the straw.
Do let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind it, for I can't
get tired. I'll tell you a secret," he continued, as he walked along.
"There is only one thing in the world I am afraid of."
"What is that?" asked Dorothy; "the Munchkin farmer who made you?"
"No," answered the Scarecrow; "it's a lighted match."
4. The Road Through the Forest
After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so
difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks,
which were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed, they were broken or
missing altogether, leaving holes that Toto jumped across and Dorothy
walked around. As for the Scarecrow, having no brains, he walked
straight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length
on the hard bricks. It never hurt him, however, and Dorothy would pick
him up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing
merrily at his own mishap.
The farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther
back. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther
they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became.
At noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and Dorothy
opened her basket and got out some bread. She offered a piece to the
Scarecrow, but he refused.
"I am never hungry," he said, "and it is a lucky thing I am not, for my
mouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so I could eat,
the straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the
shape of my head."
Dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on
eating her bread.
"Tell me something about yourself and the country you came from," said
the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him all
about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone
had carried her to this queer Land of Oz.
The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "I cannot understand why
you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry,
gray place you call Kansas."
"That is because you have no brains" answered the girl. "No matter how
dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would
rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful.
There is no place like home."
The Scarecrow sighed.
"Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads were
stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the
beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is
fortunate for Kansas that you have brains."
"Won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?" asked the child.
The Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered:
"My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was
only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that
time is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer made my head, one
of the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that I heard what
was going on. There was another Munchkin with him, and the first thing
I heard was the farmer saying, 'How do you like those ears?'
"'They aren't straight,'" answered the other.
"'Never mind,'" said the farmer. "'They are ears just the same,'"
which was true enough.
"'Now I'll make the eyes,'" said the farmer. So he painted my right
eye, and as soon as it was finished I found myself looking at him and
at everything around me with a great deal of curiosity, for this was my
first glimpse of the world.
"'That's a rather pretty eye,'" remarked the Munchkin who was watching
the farmer. "'Blue paint is just the color for eyes.'
"'I think I'll make the other a little bigger,'" said the farmer. And
when the second eye was done I could see much better than before. Then
he made my nose and my mouth. But I did not speak, because at that
time I didn't know what a mouth was for. I had the fun of watching
them make my body and my arms and legs; and when they fastened on my
head, at last, I felt very proud, for I thought I was just as good a
man as anyone.
"'This fellow will scare the crows fast enough,' said the farmer. 'He
looks just like a man.'
"'Why, he is a man,' said the other, and I quite agreed with him. The
farmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up on a
tall stick, where you found me. He and his friend soon after walked
away and left me alone.
"I did not like to be deserted this way. So I tried to walk after
them. But my feet would not touch the ground, and I was forced to stay
on that pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I had nothing to think
of, having been made such a little while before. Many crows and other
birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew
away again, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this pleased me and made me
feel that I was quite an important person. By and by an old crow flew
near me, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder
and said:
"'I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner.
Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.'
Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The
other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too,
so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me.
"I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow
after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, 'If you only had
brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a
better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having
in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.'
"After the crows had gone I thought this over, and decided I would try
hard to get some brains. By good luck you came along and pulled me off
the stake, and from what you say I am sure the Great Oz will give me
brains as soon as we get to the Emerald City."
"I hope so," said Dorothy earnestly, "since you seem anxious to have
them."
"Oh, yes; I am anxious," returned the Scarecrow. "It is such an
uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool."
"Well," said the girl, "let us go." And she handed the basket to the
Scarecrow.
There were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land was rough
and untilled. Toward evening they came to a great forest, where the
trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the
road of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the
branches shut out the daylight; but the travelers did not stop, and
went on into the forest.
"If this road goes in, it must come out," said the Scarecrow, "and as
the Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever
it leads us."
"Anyone would know that," said Dorothy.
"Certainly; that is why I know it," returned the Scarecrow. "If it
required brains to figure it out, I never should have said it."
After an hour or so the light faded away, and they found themselves
stumbling along in the darkness. Dorothy could not see at all, but
Toto could, for some dogs see very well in the dark; and the Scarecrow
declared he could see as well as by day. So she took hold of his arm
and managed to get along fairly well.
"If you see any house, or any place where we can pass the night," she
said, "you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable walking in the
dark."
Soon after the Scarecrow stopped.
"I see a little cottage at the right of us," he said, "built of logs
and branches. Shall we go there?"
"Yes, indeed," answered the child. "I am all tired out."
So the Scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached the
cottage, and Dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves in one
corner. She lay down at once, and with Toto beside her soon fell into
a sound sleep. The Scarecrow, who was never tired, stood up in another
corner and waited patiently until morning came.
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
When Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and Toto had
long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels. She sat up and
looked around her. There was the Scarecrow, still standing patiently in his corner,
waiting for her.
"We must go and search for water," she said to him.
"Why do you want water?" he asked.
"To wash my face clean after the dust of the road, and to drink, so the
dry bread will not stick in my throat."
"It must be inconvenient to be made of flesh," said the Scarecrow
thoughtfully, "for you must sleep, and eat and drink. However, you
have brains, and it is worth a lot of bother to be able to think
properly."
They left the cottage and walked through the trees until they found a
little spring of clear water, where Dorothy drank and bathed and ate
her breakfast. She saw there was not much bread left in the basket,
and the girl was thankful the Scarecrow did not have to eat anything,
for there was scarcely enough for herself and Toto for the day.
When she had finished her meal, and was about to go back to the road of
yellow brick, she was startled to hear a deep groan near by.
"What was that?" she asked timidly.
"I cannot imagine," replied the Scarecrow; "but we can go and see."
Just then another groan reached their ears, and the sound seemed to
come from behind them. They turned and walked through the forest a few
steps, when Dorothy discovered something shining in a ray of sunshine
that fell between the trees. She ran to the place and then stopped
short, with a little cry of surprise.
One of the big trees had been partly chopped through, and standing
beside it, with an uplifted axe in his hands, was a man made entirely
of tin. His head and arms and legs were jointed upon his body, but he
stood perfectly motionless, as if he could not stir at all.
Dorothy looked at him in amazement, and so did the Scarecrow, while
Toto barked sharply and made a snap at the tin legs, which hurt his
teeth.
"Did you groan?" asked Dorothy.
"Yes," answered the tin man, "I did. I've been groaning for more than
a year, and no one has ever heard me before or come to help me."
"What can I do for you?" she inquired softly, for she was moved by the
sad voice in which the man spoke.
"Get an oil-can and oil my joints," he answered. "They are rusted so
badly that I cannot move them at all; if I am well oiled I shall soon
be all right again. You will find an oil-can on a shelf in my cottage."
Dorothy at once ran back to the cottage and found the oil-can, and then
she returned and asked anxiously, "Where are your joints?"
"Oil my neck, first," replied the Tin Woodman. So she oiled it, and as
it was quite badly rusted the Scarecrow took hold of the tin head and
moved it gently from side to side until it worked freely, and then the
man could turn it himself.
"Now oil the joints in my arms," he said. And Dorothy oiled them and
the Scarecrow bent them carefully until they were quite free from rust
and as good as new.
The Tin Woodman gave a sigh of satisfaction and lowered his axe, which
he leaned against the tree.
"This is a great comfort," he said. "I have been holding that axe in
the air ever since I rusted, and I'm glad to be able to put it down at
last. Now, if you will oil the joints of my legs, I shall be all right
once more."
So they oiled his legs until he could move them freely; and he thanked
them again and again for his release, for he seemed a very polite
creature, and very grateful.
"I might have stood there always if you had not come along," he said;
"so you have certainly saved my life. How did you happen to be here?"
"We are on our way to the Emerald City to see the Great Oz," she
answered, "and we stopped at your cottage to pass the night."
"Why do you wish to see Oz?" he asked.
"I want him to send me back to Kansas, and the Scarecrow wants him to
put a few brains into his head," she replied.
The Tin Woodman appeared to think deeply for a moment. Then he said:
"Do you suppose Oz could give me a heart?"
"Why, I guess so," Dorothy answered. "It would be as easy as to give
the Scarecrow brains."
"True," the Tin Woodman returned. "So, if you will allow me to join
your party, I will also go to the Emerald City and ask Oz to help me."
"Come along," said the Scarecrow heartily, and Dorothy added that she
would be pleased to have his company. So the Tin Woodman shouldered
his axe and they all passed through the forest until they came to the
road that was paved with yellow brick.
The Tin Woodman had asked Dorothy to put the oil-can in her basket.
"For," he said, "if I should get caught in the rain, and rust again, I
would need the oil-can badly."
It was a bit of good luck to have their new comrade join the party, for
soon after they had begun their journey again they came to a place
where the trees and branches grew so thick over the road that the
travelers could not pass. But the Tin Woodman set to work with his axe
and chopped so well that soon he cleared a passage for the entire party.
Dorothy was thinking so earnestly as they walked along that she did not
notice when the Scarecrow stumbled into a hole and rolled over to the
side of the road. Indeed he was obliged to call to her to help him up
again.
"Why didn't you walk around the hole?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"I don't know enough," replied the Scarecrow cheerfully. "My head is
stuffed with straw, you know, and that is why I am going to Oz to ask
him for some brains."
"Oh, I see," said the Tin Woodman. "But, after all, brains are not the
best things in the world."
"Have you any?" inquired the Scarecrow.
"No, my head is quite empty," answered the Woodman. "But once I had
brains, and a heart also; so, having tried them both, I should much
rather have a heart."
"And why is that?" asked the Scarecrow.
"I will tell you my story, and then you will know."
So, while they were walking through the forest, the Tin Woodman told
the following story:
"I was born the son of a woodman who chopped down trees in the forest
and sold the wood for a living. When I grew up, I too became a
woodchopper, and after my father died I took care of my old mother as
long as she lived. Then I made up my mind that instead of living alone
I would marry, so that I might not become lonely.
"There was one of the Munchkin girls who was so beautiful that I soon
grew to love her with all my heart. She, on her part, promised to
marry me as soon as I could earn enough money to build a better house
for her; so I set to work harder than ever. But the girl lived with an
old woman who did not want her to marry anyone, for she was so lazy she
wished the girl to remain with her and do the cooking and the
housework. So the old woman went to the Wicked Witch of the East, and
promised her two sheep and a cow if she would prevent the marriage.
Thereupon the Wicked Witch enchanted my axe, and when I was chopping
away at my best one day, for I was anxious to get the new house and my
wife as soon as possible, the axe slipped all at once and cut off my
left leg.
"This at first seemed a great misfortune, for I knew a one-legged man
could not do very well as a wood-chopper. So I went to a tinsmith and
had him make me a new leg out of tin. The leg worked very well, once I
was used to it. But my action angered the Wicked Witch of the East,
for she had promised the old woman I should not marry the pretty
Munchkin girl. When I began chopping again, my axe slipped and cut off
my right leg. Again I went to the tinsmith, and again he made me a leg
out of tin. After this the enchanted axe cut off my arms, one after
the other; but, nothing daunted, I had them replaced with tin ones.
The Wicked Witch then made the axe slip and cut off my head, and at
first I thought that was the end of me. But the tinsmith happened to
come along, and he made me a new head out of tin.
"I thought I had beaten the Wicked Witch then, and I worked harder than
ever; but I little knew how cruel my enemy could be. She thought of a
new way to kill my love for the beautiful Munchkin maiden, and made my
axe slip again, so that it cut right through my body, splitting me into
two halves. Once more the tinsmith came to my help and made me a body
of tin, fastening my tin arms and legs and head to it, by means of
joints, so that I could move around as well as ever. But, alas! I had
now no heart, so that I lost all my love for the Munchkin girl, and did
not care whether I married her or not. I suppose she is still living
with the old woman, waiting for me to come after her.
"My body shone so brightly in the sun that I felt very proud of it and
it did not matter now if my axe slipped, for it could not cut me.
There was only one danger--that my joints would rust; but I kept an
oil-can in my cottage and took care to oil myself whenever I needed it.
However, there came a day when I forgot to do this, and, being caught
in a rainstorm, before I thought of the danger my joints had rusted,
and I was left to stand in the woods until you came to help me. It was
a terrible thing to undergo, but during the year I stood there I had
time to think that the greatest loss I had known was the loss of my
heart. While I was in love I was the happiest man on earth; but no one
can love who has not a heart, and so I am resolved to ask Oz to give me
one. If he does, I will go back to the Munchkin maiden and marry her."
Both Dorothy and the Scarecrow had been greatly interested in the story
of the Tin Woodman, and now they knew why he was so anxious to get a
new heart.
"All the same," said the Scarecrow, "I shall ask for brains instead of
a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had
one."
"I shall take the heart," returned the Tin Woodman; "for brains do not
make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world."
Dorothy did not say anything, for she was puzzled to know which of her
two friends was right, and she decided if she could only get back to
Kansas and Aunt Em, it did not matter so much whether the Woodman had
no brains and the Scarecrow no heart, or each got what he wanted.
What worried her most was that the bread was nearly gone, and another
meal for herself and Toto would empty the basket. To be sure, neither
the Woodman nor the Scarecrow ever ate anything, but she was not made
of tin nor straw, and could not live unless she was fed.
6. The Cowardly Lion
All this time Dorothy and her companions had been walking through the
thick woods. The road was still paved with yellow brick, but these
were much covered by dried branches and dead leaves from the trees, and
the walking was not at all good.
There were few birds in this part of the forest, for birds love the
open country where there is plenty of sunshine. But now and then there
came a deep growl from some wild animal hidden among the trees. These
sounds made the little girl's heart beat fast, for she did not know
what made them; but Toto knew, and he walked close to Dorothy's side,
and did not even bark in return.
"How long will it be," the child asked of the Tin Woodman, "before we
are out of the forest?"
"I cannot tell," was the answer, "for I have never been to the Emerald
City. But my father went there once, when I was a boy, and he said it
was a long journey through a dangerous country, although nearer to the
city where Oz dwells the country is beautiful. But I am not afraid so
long as I have my oil-can, and nothing can hurt the Scarecrow, while
you bear upon your forehead the mark of the Good Witch's kiss, and that
will protect you from harm."
"But Toto!" said the girl anxiously. "What will protect him?"
"We must protect him ourselves if he is in danger," replied the Tin
Woodman.
Just as he spoke there came from the forest a terrible roar, and the
next moment a great Lion bounded into the road. With one blow of his
paw he sent the Scarecrow spinning over and over to the edge of the
road, and then he struck at the Tin Woodman with his sharp claws. But,
to the Lion's surprise, he could make no impression on the tin,
although the Woodman fell over in the road and lay still.
Little Toto, now that he had an enemy to face, ran barking toward the
Lion, and the great beast had opened his mouth to bite the dog, when
Dorothy, fearing Toto would be killed, and heedless of danger, rushed
forward and slapped the Lion upon his nose as hard as she could, while
she cried out:
"Don't you dare to bite Toto! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a
big beast like you, to bite a poor little dog!"
"I didn't bite him," said the Lion, as he rubbed his nose with his paw
where Dorothy had hit it.
"No, but you tried to," she retorted. "You are nothing but a big
coward."
"I know it," said the Lion, hanging his head in shame. "I've always
known it. But how can I help it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. To think of your striking a stuffed man, like
the poor Scarecrow!"
"Is he stuffed?" asked the Lion in surprise, as he watched her pick up
the Scarecrow and set him upon his feet, while she patted him into
shape again.
"Of course he's stuffed," replied Dorothy, who was still angry.
"That's why he went over so easily," remarked the Lion. "It astonished
me to see him whirl around so. Is the other one stuffed also?"
"No," said Dorothy, "he's made of tin." And she helped the Woodman up
again.
"That's why he nearly blunted my claws," said the Lion. "When they
scratched against the tin it made a cold shiver run down my back. What
is that little animal you are so tender of?"
"He is my dog, Toto," answered Dorothy.
"Is he made of tin, or stuffed?" asked the Lion.
"Neither. He's a--a--a meat dog," said the girl.
"Oh! He's a curious animal and seems remarkably small, now that I look
at him. No one would think of biting such a little thing, except a
coward like me," continued the Lion sadly.
"What makes you a coward?" asked Dorothy, looking at the great beast in
wonder, for he was as big as a small horse.
"It's a mystery," replied the Lion. "I suppose I was born that way.
All the other animals in the forest naturally expect me to be brave,
for the Lion is everywhere thought to be the King of Beasts. I learned
that if I roared very loudly every living thing was frightened and got
out of my way. Whenever I've met a man I've been awfully scared; but I
just roared at him, and he has always run away as fast as he could go.
If the elephants and the tigers and the bears had ever tried to fight
me, I should have run myself--I'm such a coward; but just as soon as
they hear me roar they all try to get away from me, and of course I let
them go."
"But that isn't right. The King of Beasts shouldn't be a coward," said
the Scarecrow.
"I know it," returned the Lion, wiping a tear from his eye with the tip
of his tail. "It is my great sorrow, and makes my life very unhappy.
But whenever there is danger, my heart begins to beat fast."
"Perhaps you have heart disease," said the Tin Woodman.
"It may be," said the Lion.
"If you have," continued the Tin Woodman, "you ought to be glad, for it
proves you have a heart. For my part, I have no heart; so I cannot
have heart disease."
"Perhaps," said the Lion thoughtfully, "if I had no heart I should not
be a coward."
"Have you brains?" asked the Scarecrow.
"I suppose so. I've never looked to see," replied the Lion.
"I am going to the Great Oz to ask him to give me some," remarked the
Scarecrow, "for my head is stuffed with straw."
"And I am going to ask him to give me a heart," said the Woodman.
"And I am going to ask him to send Toto and me back to Kansas," added
Dorothy.
"Do you think Oz could give me courage?" asked the Cowardly Lion.
"Just as easily as he could give me brains," said the Scarecrow.
"Or give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"Or send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"Then, if you don't mind, I'll go with you," said the Lion, "for my
life is simply unbearable without a bit of courage."
"You will be very welcome," answered Dorothy, "for you will help to
keep away the other wild beasts. It seems to me they must be more
cowardly than you are if they allow you to scare them so easily."
"They really are," said the Lion, "but that doesn't make me any braver,
and as long as I know myself to be a coward I shall be unhappy."
So once more the little company set off upon the journey, the Lion
walking with stately strides at Dorothy's side. Toto did not approve of
this new comrade at first, for he could not forget how nearly he had
been crushed between the Lion's great jaws. But after a time he became
more at ease, and presently Toto and the Cowardly Lion had grown to be
good friends.
During the rest of that day there was no other adventure to mar the
peace of their journey. Once, indeed, the Tin Woodman stepped upon a
beetle that was crawling along the road, and killed the poor little
thing. This made the Tin Woodman very unhappy, for he was always
careful not to hurt any living creature; and as he walked along he wept
several tears of sorrow and regret. These tears ran slowly down his
face and over the hinges of his jaw, and there they rusted. When
Dorothy presently asked him a question the Tin Woodman could not open
his mouth, for his jaws were tightly rusted together. He became
greatly frightened at this and made many motions to Dorothy to relieve
him, but she could not understand. The Lion was also puzzled to know
what was wrong. But the Scarecrow seized the oil-can from Dorothy's
basket and oiled the Woodman's jaws, so that after a few moments he
could talk as well as before.
"This will serve me a lesson," said he, "to look where I step. For if
I should kill another bug or beetle I should surely cry again, and
crying rusts my jaws so that I cannot speak."
Thereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road, and
when he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as not to
harm it. The Tin Woodman knew very well he had no heart, and therefore
he took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything.
"You people with hearts," he said, "have something to guide you, and
need never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very
careful. When Oz gives me a heart of course I needn't mind so much."
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
They were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the
forest, for there were no houses near. The tree made a good, thick
covering to protect them from the dew, and the Tin Woodman chopped a
great pile of wood with his axe and Dorothy built a splendid fire that
warmed her and made her feel less lonely. She and Toto ate the last of
their bread, and now she did not know what they would do for breakfast.
"If you wish," said the Lion, "I will go into the forest and kill a
deer for you. You can roast it by the fire, since your tastes are so
peculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you will have a very
good breakfast."
"Don't! Please don't," begged the Tin Woodman. "I should certainly
weep if you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would rust again."
But the Lion went away into the forest and found his own supper, and no
one ever knew what it was, for he didn't mention it. And the Scarecrow
found a tree full of nuts and filled Dorothy's basket with them, so
that she would not be hungry for a long time. She thought this was
very kind and thoughtful of the Scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at
the awkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts. His
padded hands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped
almost as many as he put in the basket. But the Scarecrow did not mind
how long it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep
away from the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and
burn him up. So he kept a good distance away from the flames, and only
came near to cover Dorothy with dry leaves when she lay down to sleep.
These kept her very snug and warm, and she slept soundly until morning.
When it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling
brook, and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City.
This was to be an eventful day for the travelers. They had hardly been
walking an hour when they saw before them a great ditch that crossed
the road and divided the forest as far as they could see on either
side. It was a very wide ditch, and when they crept up to the edge and
looked into it they could see it was also very deep, and there were
many big, jagged rocks at the bottom. The sides were so steep that
none of them could climb down, and for a moment it seemed that their
journey must end.
"What shall we do?" asked Dorothy despairingly.
"I haven't the faintest idea," said the Tin Woodman, and the Lion shook
his shaggy mane and looked thoughtful.
But the Scarecrow said, "We cannot fly, that is certain. Neither can
we climb down into this great ditch. Therefore, if we cannot jump over
it, we must stop where we are."
"I think I could jump over it," said the Cowardly Lion, after measuring
the distance carefully in his mind.
"Then we are all right," answered the Scarecrow, "for you can carry us
all over on your back, one at a time."
"Well, I'll try it," said the Lion. "Who will go first?"
"I will," declared the Scarecrow, "for, if you found that you could not
jump over the gulf, Dorothy would be killed, or the Tin Woodman badly
dented on the rocks below. But if I am on your back it will not matter
so much, for the fall would not hurt me at all."
"I am terribly afraid of falling, myself," said the Cowardly Lion, "but
I suppose there is nothing to do but try it. So get on my back and we
will make the attempt."
The Scarecrow sat upon the Lion's back, and the big beast walked to the
edge of the gulf and crouched down.
"Why don't you run and jump?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Because that isn't the way we Lions do these things," he replied.
Then giving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely
on the other side. They were all greatly pleased to see how easily he
did it, and after the Scarecrow had got down from his back the Lion
sprang across the ditch again.
Dorothy thought she would go next; so she took Toto in her arms and
climbed on the Lion's back, holding tightly to his mane with one hand.
The next moment it seemed as if she were flying through the air; and
then, before she had time to think about it, she was safe on the other
side. The Lion went back a third time and got the Tin Woodman, and
then they all sat down for a few moments to give the beast a chance to
rest, for his great leaps had made his breath short, and he panted like
a big dog that has been running too long.
They found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked dark and
gloomy. After the Lion had rested they started along the road of
yellow brick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if ever they
would come to the end of the woods and reach the bright sunshine again.
To add to their discomfort, they soon heard strange noises in the
depths of the forest, and the Lion whispered to them that it was in
this part of the country that the Kalidahs lived.
"What are the Kalidahs?" asked the girl.
"They are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads like
tigers," replied the Lion, "and with claws so long and sharp that they
could tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto. I'm terribly
afraid of the Kalidahs."
"I'm not surprised that you are," returned Dorothy. "They must be
dreadful beasts."
The Lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another gulf
across the road. But this one was so broad and deep that the Lion knew
at once he could not leap across it.
So they sat down to consider what they should do, and after serious
thought the Scarecrow said:
"Here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch. If the Tin Woodman
can chop it down, so that it will fall to the other side, we can walk
across it easily."
"That is a first-rate idea," said the Lion. "One would almost suspect
you had brains in your head, instead of straw."
The Woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that the tree
was soon chopped nearly through. Then the Lion put his strong front
legs against the tree and pushed with all his might, and slowly the big
tree tipped and fell with a crash across the ditch, with its top
branches on the other side.
They had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl
made them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them
two great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers.
"They are the Kalidahs!" said the Cowardly Lion, beginning to tremble.
"Quick!" cried the Scarecrow. "Let us cross over."
So Dorothy went first, holding Toto in her arms, the Tin Woodman
followed, and the Scarecrow came next. The Lion, although he was
certainly afraid, turned to face the Kalidahs, and then he gave so loud
and terrible a roar that Dorothy screamed and the Scarecrow fell over
backward, while even the fierce beasts stopped short and looked at him
in surprise.
But, seeing they were bigger than the Lion, and remembering that there
were two of them and only one of him, the Kalidahs again rushed
forward, and the Lion crossed over the tree and turned to see what they
would do next. Without stopping an instant the fierce beasts also
began to cross the tree. And the Lion said to Dorothy:
"We are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with their sharp
claws. But stand close behind me, and I will fight them as long as I
am alive."
"Wait a minute!" called the Scarecrow. He had been thinking what was
best to be done, and now he asked the Woodman to chop away the end of
the tree that rested on their side of the ditch. The Tin Woodman began
to use his axe at once, and, just as the two Kalidahs were nearly
across, the tree fell with a crash into the gulf, carrying the ugly,
snarling brutes with it, and both were dashed to pieces on the sharp
rocks at the bottom.
"Well," said the Cowardly Lion, drawing a long breath of relief, "I see
we are going to live a little while longer, and I am glad of it, for it
must be a very uncomfortable thing not to be alive. Those creatures
frightened me so badly that my heart is beating yet."
"Ah," said the Tin Woodman sadly, "I wish I had a heart to beat."
This adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to get out of
the forest, and they walked so fast that Dorothy became tired, and had
to ride on the Lion's back. To their great joy the trees became
thinner the farther they advanced, and in the afternoon they suddenly
came upon a broad river, flowing swiftly just before them. On the
other side of the water they could see the road of yellow brick running
through a beautiful country, with green meadows dotted with bright
flowers and all the road bordered with trees hanging full of delicious
fruits. They were greatly pleased to see this delightful country
before them.
"How shall we cross the river?" asked Dorothy.
"That is easily done," replied the Scarecrow. "The Tin Woodman must
build us a raft, so we can float to the other side."
So the Woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees to make
a raft, and while he was busy at this the Scarecrow found on the
riverbank a tree full of fine fruit. This pleased Dorothy, who had
eaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal of the ripe
fruit.
But it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious and
untiring as the Tin Woodman, and when night came the work was not done.
So they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until
the morning; and Dorothy dreamed of the Emerald City, and of the good
Wizard Oz, who would soon send her back to her own home again.
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and
full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and
plums from the trees beside the river. Behind them was the dark forest
they had passed safely through, although they had suffered many
discouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that
seemed to beckon them on to the Emerald City.
To be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this beautiful land.
But the raft was nearly done, and after the Tin Woodman had cut a few
more logs and fastened them together with wooden pins, they were ready
to start. Dorothy sat down in the middle of the raft and held Toto in
her arms. When the Cowardly Lion stepped upon the raft it tipped
badly, for he was big and heavy; but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
stood upon the other end to steady it, and they had long poles in their
hands to push the raft through the water.
They got along quite well at first, but when they reached the middle of
the river the swift current swept the raft downstream, farther and
farther away from the road of yellow brick. And the water grew so deep
that the long poles would not touch the bottom.
"This is bad," said the Tin Woodman, "for if we cannot get to the land
we shall be carried into the country of the Wicked Witch of the West,
and she will enchant us and make us her slaves."
"And then I should get no brains," said the Scarecrow.
"And I should get no courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"And I should get no heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"And I should never get back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"We must certainly get to the Emerald City if we can," the Scarecrow
continued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole that it stuck fast in
the mud at the bottom of the river. Then, before he could pull it out
again--or let go--the raft was swept away, and the poor Scarecrow was left
clinging to the pole in the middle of the river.
"Good-bye!" he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave
him. Indeed, the Tin Woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered
that he might rust, and so dried his tears on Dorothy's apron.
Of course this was a bad thing for the Scarecrow.
"I am now worse off than when I first met Dorothy," he thought. "Then,
I was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where I could make-believe scare
the crows, at any rate. But surely there is no use for a Scarecrow
stuck on a pole in the middle of a river. I am afraid I shall never
have any brains, after all!"
Down the stream the raft floated, and the poor Scarecrow was left far
behind. Then the Lion said:
"Something must be done to save us. I think I can swim to the shore
and pull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to the tip of my
tail."
So he sprang into the water, and the Tin Woodman caught fast hold of
his tail. Then the Lion began to swim with all his might toward the
shore. It was hard work, although he was so big; but by and by they
were drawn out of the current, and then Dorothy took the Tin Woodman's
long pole and helped push the raft to the land.
They were all tired out when they reached the shore at last and stepped
off upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew that the stream had
carried them a long way past the road of yellow brick that led to the
Emerald City.
"What shall we do now?" asked the Tin Woodman, as the Lion lay down on
the grass to let the sun dry him.
"We must get back to the road, in some way," said Dorothy.
"The best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we come to the
road again," remarked the Lion.
So, when they were rested, Dorothy picked up her basket and they
started along the grassy bank, to the road from which the river had
carried them. It was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and
fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry
for the poor Scarecrow, they could have been very happy.
They walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping once to
pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman cried out:
"Look!"
Then they all looked at the river and saw the Scarecrow perched upon
his pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad.
"What can we do to save him?" asked Dorothy.
The Lion and the Woodman both shook their heads, for they did not know.
So they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at the Scarecrow
until a Stork flew by, who, upon seeing them, stopped to rest at the
water's edge.
"Who are you and where are you going?" asked the Stork.
"I am Dorothy," answered the girl, "and these are my friends, the Tin
Woodman and the Cowardly Lion; and we are going to the Emerald City."
"This isn't the road," said the Stork, as she twisted her long neck and
looked sharply at the queer party.
"I know it," returned Dorothy, "but we have lost the Scarecrow, and are
wondering how we shall get him again."
"Where is he?" asked the Stork.
"Over there in the river," answered the little girl.
"If he wasn't so big and heavy I would get him for you," remarked the
Stork.
"He isn't heavy a bit," said Dorothy eagerly, "for he is stuffed with
straw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall thank you ever
and ever so much."
"Well, I'll try," said the Stork, "but if I find he is too heavy to
carry I shall have to drop him in the river again."
So the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she came to
where the Scarecrow was perched upon his pole. Then the Stork with her
great claws grabbed the Scarecrow by the arm and carried him up into
the air and back to the bank, where Dorothy and the Lion and the Tin
Woodman and Toto were sitting.
When the Scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he was so
happy that he hugged them all, even the Lion and Toto; and as they
walked along he sang "Tol-de-ri-de-oh!" at every step, he felt so gay.
"I was afraid I should have to stay in the river forever," he said,
"but the kind Stork saved me, and if I ever get any brains I shall find
the Stork again and do her some kindness in return."
"That's all right," said the Stork, who was flying along beside them.
"I always like to help anyone in trouble. But I must go now, for my
babies are waiting in the nest for me. I hope you will find the
Emerald City and that Oz will help you."
"Thank you," replied Dorothy, and then the kind Stork flew into the air
and was soon out of sight.
They walked along listening to the singing of the brightly colored
birds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became so thick that
the ground was carpeted with them. There were big yellow and white and
blue and purple blossoms, besides great clusters of scarlet poppies,
which were so brilliant in color they almost dazzled Dorothy's eyes.
"Aren't they beautiful?" the girl asked, as she breathed in the spicy
scent of the bright flowers.
"I suppose so," answered the Scarecrow. "When I have brains, I shall
probably like them better."
"If I only had a heart, I should love them," added the Tin Woodman.
"I always did like flowers," said the Lion. "They seem so helpless
and frail. But there are none in the forest so bright as these."
They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer
and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the
midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when
there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that
anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried
away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But
Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red
flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy
and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.
But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.
"We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,"
he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until
Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and
she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.
"What shall we do?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"If we leave her here she will die," said the Lion. "The smell of the
flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open,
and the dog is asleep already."
It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not
troubled by the scent of the flowers.
"Run fast," said the Scarecrow to the Lion, "and get out of this deadly
flower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us,
but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried."
So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go.
In a moment he was out of sight.
"Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her," said the Scarecrow.
So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy's lap, and then they
made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms
and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.
On and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly
flowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed the bend
of the river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion, lying fast
asleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong for the huge
beast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short distance
from the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in
beautiful green fields before them.
"We can do nothing for him," said the Tin Woodman, sadly; "for he is
much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever,
and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last."
"I'm sorry," said the Scarecrow. "The Lion was a very good comrade for
one so cowardly. But let us go on."
They carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far
enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the
poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass
and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
"We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now," remarked the
Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, "for we have come nearly as far
as the river carried us away."
The Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and
turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange
beast come bounding over the grass toward them. It was, indeed, a
great yellow Wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be chasing
something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was
wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed
like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman saw that running
before the beast was a little gray field mouse, and although he had no
heart he knew it was wrong for the Wildcat to try to kill such a
pretty, harmless creature.
So the Woodman raised his axe, and as the Wildcat ran by he gave it a
quick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body, and it
rolled over at his feet in two pieces.
The field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short;
and coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice:
"Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life."
"Don't speak of it, I beg of you," replied the Woodman. "I have no
heart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a
friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse."
"Only a mouse!" cried the little animal, indignantly. "Why, I am a
Queen--the Queen of all the Field Mice!"
"Oh, indeed," said the Woodman, making a bow.
"Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in
saving my life," added the Queen.
At that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their
little legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they
exclaimed:
"Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage
to escape the great Wildcat?" They all bowed so low to the little
Queen that they almost stood upon their heads.
"This funny tin man," she answered, "killed the Wildcat and saved my
life. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest
wish."
"We will!" cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they
scampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and
seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped
right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase
mice when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it.
But the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight,
while he called to the mice, "Come back! Come back! Toto shall not
hurt you."
At this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from underneath a
clump of grass and asked, in a timid voice, "Are you sure he will not
bite us?"
"I will not let him," said the Woodman; "so do not be afraid."
One by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again,
although he tried to get out of the Woodman's arms, and would have
bitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one
of the biggest mice spoke.
"Is there anything we can do," it asked, "to repay you for saving the
life of our Queen?"
"Nothing that I know of," answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow, who
had been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed
with straw, said, quickly, "Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the
Cowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed."
"A Lion!" cried the little Queen. "Why, he would eat us all up."
"Oh, no," declared the Scarecrow; "this Lion is a coward."
"Really?" asked the Mouse.
"He says so himself," answered the Scarecrow, "and he would never hurt
anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I promise
that he shall treat you all with kindness."
"Very well," said the Queen, "we trust you. But what shall we do?"
"Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to
obey you?"
"Oh, yes; there are thousands," she replied.
"Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each
one bring a long piece of string."
The Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at
once and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they ran
away in every direction as fast as possible.
"Now," said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, "you must go to those
trees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the Lion."
So the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon
made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all
the leaves and branches. He fastened it together with wooden pegs and
made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree trunk. So fast
and so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the
truck was all ready for them.
They came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big
mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a
piece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke
from her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished to
find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing
around and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about
everything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said:
"Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen."
Dorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a curtsy, after which she
became quite friendly with the little girl.
The Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the
truck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was
tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck. Of
course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who
were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed, they were
able to pull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to
the place where the Lion lay asleep.
After a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed
to get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people
the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies
too long they also would fall asleep.
At first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir
the heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed
from behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out
of the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet,
fresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers.
Dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving
her companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big Lion she
was glad he had been rescued.
Then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away
through the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last
to leave.
"If ever you need us again," she said, "come out into the field and
call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy
held Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her.
After this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and
the Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she
ate for her dinner.
10. The Guardian of the Gate
It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain
among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance;
but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad
to find himself still alive.
"I ran as fast as I could," he said, sitting down and yawning, "but the
flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?"
Then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved
him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said:
"I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little
things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as
mice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what
shall we do now?"
"We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again," said
Dorothy, "and then we can keep on to the Emerald City."
So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again,
they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through
the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road
of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where the
Great Oz dwelt.
The road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was
beautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far
behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades.
Once more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were
painted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer
evidently lived, that also was painted green. They passed by several
of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the
doors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no
one came near them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of
which they were very much afraid. The people were all dressed in
clothing of a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like
those of the Munchkins.
"This must be the Land of Oz," said Dorothy, "and we are surely getting
near the Emerald City."
"Yes," answered the Scarecrow. "Everything is green here, while in the
country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the people
do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins, and I'm afraid we shall
be unable to find a place to pass the night."
"I should like something to eat besides fruit," said the girl, "and I'm
sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and talk to
the people."
So, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, Dorothy walked boldly up
to the door and knocked.
A woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said, "What do you
want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?"
"We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us," answered
Dorothy; "and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you
for the world."
"Is he tame?" asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.
"Oh, yes," said the girl, "and he is a great coward, too. He will be
more afraid of you than you are of him."
"Well," said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep
at the Lion, "if that is the case you may come in, and I will give you
some supper and a place to sleep."
So they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two
children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the
couch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a
company, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked:
"Where are you all going?"
"To the Emerald City," said Dorothy, "to see the Great Oz."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the man. "Are you sure that Oz will see you?"
"Why not?" she replied.
"Why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence. I
have been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and
wonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz,
nor do I know of any living person who has seen him."
"Does he never go out?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Never. He sits day after day in the great Throne Room of his Palace,
and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face."
"What is he like?" asked the girl.
"That is hard to tell," said the man thoughtfully. "You see, Oz is a
Great Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he
looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say
he looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a
brownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real Oz
is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell."
"That is very strange," said Dorothy, "but we must try, in some way, to
see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing."
"Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?" asked the man.
"I want him to give me some brains," said the Scarecrow eagerly.
"Oh, Oz could do that easily enough," declared the man. "He has more
brains than he needs."
"And I want him to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"That will not trouble him," continued the man, "for Oz has a large
collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes."
"And I want him to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his Throne Room," said the man,
"which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running
over. He will be glad to give you some."
"And I want him to send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"Where is Kansas?" asked the man, with surprise.
"I don't know," replied Dorothy sorrowfully, "but it is my home, and
I'm sure it's somewhere."
"Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find
Kansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be a
hard task; for the Great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and he
usually has his own way. But what do YOU want?" he continued, speaking
to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not
speak.
The woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered
around the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of
scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal.
The Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it
was made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of
everything, and was glad to get a good supper again.
The woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside
her, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be
disturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and
kept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep.
The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way,
and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them.
"That must be the Emerald City," said Dorothy.
As they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it
seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it
was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the
City. It was high and thick and of a bright green color.
In front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big
gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even
the painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy.
There was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and
heard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly
open, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched
room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds.
Before them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins.
He was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his
skin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box.
When he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked, "What do you wish
in the Emerald City?"
"We came here to see the Great Oz," said Dorothy.
The man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it
over.
"It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz," he said,
shaking his head in perplexity. "He is powerful and terrible, and if
you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of
the Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant."
"But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one," replied the
Scarecrow; "it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good
Wizard."
"So he is," said the green man, "and he rules the Emerald City wisely
and well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from
curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his
face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see the
Great Oz I must take you to his Palace. But first you must put on the
spectacles."
"Why?" asked Dorothy.
"Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the
Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City must
wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz so
ordered it when the City was first built, and I have the only key that
will unlock them."
He opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with
spectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses in
them. The Guardian of the Gates found a pair that would just fit
Dorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands
fastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they
were locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the
Guardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy
could not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not wish
to be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing.
Then the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin
Woodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked fast
with the key.
Then the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them he
was ready to show them to the Palace. Taking a big golden key from a
peg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all followed him
through the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.
11. The Wonderful City of Oz
Even with eyes protected by the green spectacles, Dorothy and her
friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful City.
The streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble
and studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds. They walked over a
pavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined
together were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the
brightness of the sun. The window panes were of green glass; even the
sky above the City had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green.
There were many people--men, women, and children--walking about, and
these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins. They
looked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering
eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when
they saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them. Many shops stood in the
street, and Dorothy saw that everything in them was green. Green candy
and green pop corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green
hats, and green clothes of all sorts. At one place a man was selling
green lemonade, and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that
they paid for it with green pennies.
There seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried
things around in little green carts, which they pushed before them.
Everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous.
The Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until they came
to a big building, exactly in the middle of the City, which was the
Palace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier before the door,
dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard.
"Here are strangers," said the Guardian of the Gates to him, "and they
demand to see the Great Oz."
"Step inside," answered the soldier, "and I will carry your message to
him."
So they passed through the Palace Gates and were led into a big room
with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds. The
soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering
this room, and when they were seated he said politely:
"Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of the
Throne Room and tell Oz you are here."
They had to wait a long time before the soldier returned. When, at
last, he came back, Dorothy asked:
"Have you seen Oz?"
"Oh, no," returned the soldier; "I have never seen him. But I spoke to
him as he sat behind his screen and gave him your message. He said he
will grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must
enter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day.
Therefore, as you must remain in the Palace for several days, I will
have you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your
journey."
"Thank you," replied the girl; "that is very kind of Oz."
The soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl,
dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely
green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she
said, "Follow me and I will show you your room."
So Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and taking the
dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up
three flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the
Palace. It was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft
comfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet
counterpane. There was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that
shot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a
beautifully carved green marble basin. Beautiful green flowers stood
in the windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books.
When Dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer
green pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny.
In a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and
velvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly.
"Make yourself perfectly at home," said the green girl, "and if you
wish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send for you tomorrow
morning."
She left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she also led
to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant
part of the Palace. Of course this politeness was wasted on the
Scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood
stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning.
It would not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so
he remained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its
web in a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most
wonderful rooms in the world. The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from
force of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not
being able to sleep, he passed the night moving his joints up and down
to make sure they kept in good working order. The Lion would have
preferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being
shut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so
he sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred
himself asleep in a minute.
The next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch
Dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns, made of
green brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a
green ribbon around Toto's neck, and they started for the Throne Room
of the Great Oz.
First they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen
of the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These people had nothing
to do but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the
Throne Room every morning, although they were never permitted to see
Oz. As Dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them
whispered:
"Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible?"
"Of course," answered the girl, "if he will see me."
"Oh, he will see you," said the soldier who had taken her message to
the Wizard, "although he does not like to have people ask to see him.
Indeed, at first he was angry and said I should send you back where you
came from. Then he asked me what you looked like, and when I mentioned
your silver shoes he was very much interested. At last I told him
about the mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to
his presence."
Just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy, "That is the
signal. You must go into the Throne Room alone."
She opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and found
herself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with a high
arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with
large emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof was a
great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a
wonderful manner.
But what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green marble
that stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a chair and
sparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the center of the chair
was an enormous Head, without a body to support it or any arms or legs
whatever. There was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and a nose
and mouth, and was much bigger than the head of the biggest giant.
As Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned slowly
and looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth moved, and
Dorothy heard a voice say:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
It was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big
Head; so she took courage and answered:
"I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help."
The eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute. Then said the
voice:
"Where did you get the silver shoes?"
"I got them from the Wicked Witch of the East, when my house fell on
her and killed her," she replied.
"Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?" continued the voice.
"That is where the Good Witch of the North kissed me when she bade me
good-bye and sent me to you," said the girl.
Again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the
truth. Then Oz asked, "What do you wish me to do?"
"Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are," she
answered earnestly. "I don't like your country, although it is so
beautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over my
being away so long."
The eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and
down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see
every part of the room. And at last they looked at Dorothy again.
"Why should I do this for you?" asked Oz.
"Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard
and I am only a little girl."
"But you were strong enough to kill the Wicked Witch of the East," said
Oz.
"That just happened," returned Dorothy simply; "I could not help it."
"Well," said the Head, "I will give you my answer. You have no right
to expect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something for me
in return. In this country everyone must pay for everything he gets.
If you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do
something for me first. Help me and I will help you."
"What must I do?" asked the girl.
"Kill the Wicked Witch of the West," answered Oz.
"But I cannot!" exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised.
"You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes, which
bear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left in all
this land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send you back to
Kansas--but not before."
The little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the
eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the Great Oz
felt that she could help him if she would.
"I never killed anything, willingly," she sobbed. "Even if I wanted
to, how could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great and
Terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?"
"I do not know," said the Head; "but that is my answer, and until the
Wicked Witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt again. Remember
that the Witch is Wicked--tremendously Wicked--and ought to be killed.
Now go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task."
Sorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where the Lion
and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to hear what Oz had
said to her. "There is no hope for me," she said sadly, "for Oz will
not send me home until I have killed the Wicked Witch of the West; and
that I can never do."
Her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so Dorothy
went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.
The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the
Scarecrow and said:
"Come with me, for Oz has sent for you."
So the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great Throne
Room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely Lady.
She was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green
locks a crown of jewels. Growing from her shoulders were wings,
gorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest
breath of air reached them.
When the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would
let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly,
and said:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
Now the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had
told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely.
"I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have no
brains, and I come to you praying that you will put brains in my head
instead of straw, so that I may become as much a man as any other in
your dominions."
"Why should I do this for you?" asked the Lady.
"Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me,"
answered the Scarecrow.
"I never grant favors without some return," said Oz; "but this much I
will promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of the West, I
will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you
will be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz."
"I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch," said the Scarecrow, in
surprise.
"So I did. I don't care who kills her. But until she is dead I will
not grant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again until you have
earned the brains you so greatly desire."
The Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what
Oz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the Great Wizard
was not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely Lady.
"All the same," said the Scarecrow, "she needs a heart as much as the
Tin Woodman."
On the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Tin
Woodman and said:
"Oz has sent for you. Follow me."
So the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne Room. He
did not know whether he would find Oz a lovely Lady or a Head, but he
hoped it would be the lovely Lady. "For," he said to himself, "if it
is the head, I am sure I shall not be given a heart, since a head has
no heart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me. But if it is the
lovely Lady I shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves
said to be kindly hearted."
But when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw neither the
Head nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a most terrible Beast.
It was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly
strong enough to hold its weight. The Beast had a head like that of a
rhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face. There were five
long arms growing out of its body, and it also had five long, slim
legs. Thick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more
dreadful-looking monster could not be imagined. It was fortunate the
Tin Woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud
and fast from terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all
afraid, although he was much disappointed.
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," spoke the Beast, in a voice that was
one great roar. "Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
"I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart, and
cannot love. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as other men
are."
"Why should I do this?" demanded the Beast.
"Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request," answered the
Woodman.
Oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly: "If you indeed desire a
heart, you must earn it."
"How?" asked the Woodman.
"Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West," replied the Beast.
"When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then give you the
biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the Land of Oz."
So the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and
tell them of the terrible Beast he had seen. They all wondered greatly
at the many forms the Great Wizard could take upon himself, and the
Lion said:
"If he is a Beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my loudest, and so
frighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if he is the lovely
Lady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my
bidding. And if he is the great Head, he will be at my mercy; for I
will roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us
what we desire. So be of good cheer, my friends, for all will yet be
well."
The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the Lion to
the great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz.
The Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to
his surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce and
glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought was
that Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when he
tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his
whiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door.
Then a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these were the
words it spoke:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
And the Lion answered, "I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. I
came to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may
become the King of Beasts, as men call me."
"Why should I give you courage?" demanded Oz.
"Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to
grant my request," answered the Lion.
The Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said, "Bring
me proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will give you
courage. But as long as the Witch lives, you must remain a coward."
The Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and
while he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became so
furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room. He was
glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible
interview with the Wizard.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy sadly.
"There is only one thing we can do," returned the Lion, "and that is to
go to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked Witch, and destroy
her."
"But suppose we cannot?" said the girl.
"Then I shall never have courage," declared the Lion.
"And I shall never have brains," added the Scarecrow.
"And I shall never have a heart," spoke the Tin Woodman.
"And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry," said Dorothy,
beginning to cry.
"Be careful!" cried the green girl. "The tears will fall on your green
silk gown and spot it."
So Dorothy dried her eyes and said, "I suppose we must try it; but I am
sure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again."
"I will go with you; but I'm too much of a coward to kill the Witch,"
said the Lion.
"I will go too," declared the Scarecrow; "but I shall not be of much
help to you, I am such a fool."
"I haven't the heart to harm even a Witch," remarked the Tin Woodman;
"but if you go I certainly shall go with you."
Therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning,
and the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his
joints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw
and Dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better. The
green girl, who was very kind to them, filled Dorothy's basket with
good things to eat, and fastened a little bell around Toto's neck with
a green ribbon.
They went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when
they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the
back yard of the Palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a
green egg.
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
The soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the
Emerald City until they reached the room where the Guardian of the
Gates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back
in his great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends.
"Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked Dorothy.
"There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "No one ever
wishes to go that way."
"How, then, are we to find her?" inquired the girl.
"That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in
the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her
slaves."
"Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her."
"Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates. "No one has
ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves
of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and
fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where
the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her."
They thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the West,
walking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies
and buttercups. Dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put
on in the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer
green, but pure white. The ribbon around Toto's neck had also lost its
green color and was as white as Dorothy's dress.
The Emerald City was soon left far behind. As they advanced the ground
became rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor houses in this
country of the West, and the ground was untilled.
In the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there were no
trees to offer them shade; so that before night Dorothy and Toto and
the Lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and fell asleep, with
the Woodman and the Scarecrow keeping watch.
Now the Wicked Witch of the West had but one eye, yet that was as
powerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere. So, as she sat in
the door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw Dorothy
lying asleep, with her friends all about her. They were a long
distance off, but the Wicked Witch was angry to find them in her
country; so she blew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck.
At once there came running to her from all directions a pack of great
wolves. They had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth.
"Go to those people," said the Witch, "and tear them to pieces."
"Are you not going to make them your slaves?" asked the leader of the
wolves.
"No," she answered, "one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and
another a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into
small pieces."
"Very well," said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed
by the others.
It was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and heard
the wolves coming.
"This is my fight," said the Woodman, "so get behind me and I will meet
them as they come."
He seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of
the wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf's
head from its body, so that it immediately died. As soon as he could
raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp
edge of the Tin Woodman's weapon. There were forty wolves, and forty
times a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap
before the Woodman.
Then he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said, "It
was a good fight, friend."
They waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little girl was
quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the
Tin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for saving them and sat down
to breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey.
Now this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her castle
and looked out with her one eye that could see far off. She saw all
her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her
country. This made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver
whistle twice.
Straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough
to darken the sky.
And the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow, "Fly at once to the
strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces."
The wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her
companions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.
But the Scarecrow said, "This is my battle, so lie down beside me and
you will not be harmed."
So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up
and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were
frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare
to come any nearer. But the King Crow said:
"It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out."
The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and
twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and
the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty
times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead
beside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they
went upon their journey.
When the Wicked Witch looked out again and saw all her crows lying in a
heap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three times upon her
silver whistle.
Forthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a swarm of
black bees came flying toward her.
"Go to the strangers and sting them to death!" commanded the Witch, and
the bees turned and flew rapidly until they came to where Dorothy and
her friends were walking. But the Woodman had seen them coming, and
the Scarecrow had decided what to do.
"Take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the dog and
the Lion," he said to the Woodman, "and the bees cannot sting them."
This the Woodman did, and as Dorothy lay close beside the Lion and held
Toto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely.
The bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so they flew
at him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting
the Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when their stings are
broken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick
about the Woodman, like little heaps of fine coal.
Then Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin Woodman
put the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was as good as
ever. So they started upon their journey once more.
The Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little
heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and
gnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were
the Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the
strangers and destroy them.
The Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were
told. So they marched away until they came near to Dorothy. Then the
Lion gave a great roar and sprang towards them, and the poor Winkies
were so frightened that they ran back as fast as they could.
When they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them well with a
strap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to
think what she should do next. She could not understand how all her
plans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful
Witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to
act.
There was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of diamonds and
rubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm. Whoever owned
it could call three times upon the Winged Monkeys, who would obey any
order they were given. But no person could command these strange
creatures more than three times. Twice already the Wicked Witch had
used the charm of the Cap. Once was when she had made the Winkies her
slaves, and set herself to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys
had helped her do this. The second time was when she had fought
against the Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the
West. The Winged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once
more could she use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not like
to do so until all her other powers were exhausted. But now that her
fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and
her slaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion, she saw there was
only one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends.
So the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and placed it
upon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly:
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!"
Next she stood upon her right foot and said:
"Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!"
After this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice:
"Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"
Now the charm began to work. The sky was darkened, and a low rumbling
sound was heard in the air. There was a rushing of many wings, a great
chattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the dark sky to show
the Wicked Witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys, each with a pair of
immense and powerful wings on his shoulders.
One, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader. He flew
close to the Witch and said, "You have called us for the third and last
time. What do you command?"
"Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except
the Lion," said the Wicked Witch. "Bring that beast to me, for I have
a mind to harness him like a horse, and make him work."
"Your commands shall be obeyed," said the leader. Then, with a great
deal of chattering and noise, the Winged Monkeys flew away to the place
where Dorothy and her friends were walking.
Some of the Monkeys seized the Tin Woodman and carried him through the
air until they were over a country thickly covered with sharp rocks.
Here they dropped the poor Woodman, who fell a great distance to the
rocks, where he lay so battered and dented that he could neither move
nor groan.
Others of the Monkeys caught the Scarecrow, and with their long fingers
pulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head. They made his hat
and boots and clothes into a small bundle and threw it into the top
branches of a tall tree.
The remaining Monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around the Lion and
wound many coils about his body and head and legs, until he was unable
to bite or scratch or struggle in any way. Then they lifted him up and
flew away with him to the Witch's castle, where he was placed in a
small yard with a high iron fence around it, so that he could not
escape.
But Dorothy they did not harm at all. She stood, with Toto in her
arms, watching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it would soon
be her turn. The leader of the Winged Monkeys flew up to her, his
long, hairy arms stretched out and his ugly face grinning terribly; but
he saw the mark of the Good Witch's kiss upon her forehead and stopped
short, motioning the others not to touch her.
"We dare not harm this little girl," he said to them, "for she is
protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of
Evil. All we can do is to carry her to the castle of the Wicked Witch
and leave her there."
So, carefully and gently, they lifted Dorothy in their arms and carried
her swiftly through the air until they came to the castle, where they
set her down upon the front doorstep. Then the leader said to the
Witch:
"We have obeyed you as far as we were able. The Tin Woodman and the
Scarecrow are destroyed, and the Lion is tied up in your yard. The
little girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms.
Your power over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again."
Then all the Winged Monkeys, with much laughing and chattering and
noise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight.
The Wicked Witch was both surprised and worried when she saw the mark
on Dorothy's forehead, for she knew well that neither the Winged
Monkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way. She looked
down at Dorothy's feet, and seeing the Silver Shoes, began to tremble
with fear, for she knew what a powerful charm belonged to them. At
first the Witch was tempted to run away from Dorothy; but she happened
to look into the child's eyes and saw how simple the soul behind them
was, and that the little girl did not know of the wonderful power the
Silver Shoes gave her. So the Wicked Witch laughed to herself, and
thought, "I can still make her my slave, for she does not know how to
use her power." Then she said to Dorothy, harshly and severely:
"Come with me; and see that you mind everything I tell you, for if you
do not I will make an end of you, as I did of the Tin Woodman and the
Scarecrow."
Dorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in her castle
until they came to the kitchen, where the Witch bade her clean the pots
and kettles and sweep the floor and keep the fire fed with wood.
Dorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as hard as
she could; for she was glad the Wicked Witch had decided not to kill
her.
With Dorothy hard at work, the Witch thought she would go into the
courtyard and harness the Cowardly Lion like a horse; it would amuse
her, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she wished to
go to drive. But as she opened the gate the Lion gave a loud roar and
bounded at her so fiercely that the Witch was afraid, and ran out and
shut the gate again.
"If I cannot harness you," said the Witch to the Lion, speaking through
the bars of the gate, "I can starve you. You shall have nothing to eat
until you do as I wish."
So after that she took no food to the imprisoned Lion; but every day
she came to the gate at noon and asked, "Are you ready to be harnessed
like a horse?"
And the Lion would answer, "No. If you come in this yard, I will bite
you."
The reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was that
every night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him food from
the cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of
straw, and Dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft,
shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some
way to escape. But they could find no way to get out of the castle,
for it was constantly guarded by the yellow Winkies, who were the
slaves of the Wicked Witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told
them.
The girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch
threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in
her hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike Dorothy, because
of the mark upon her forehead. The child did not know this, and was
full of fear for herself and Toto. Once the Witch struck Toto a blow
with her umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg
in return. The Witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was
so wicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before.
Dorothy's life became very sad as she grew to understand that it would
be harder than ever to get back to Kansas and Aunt Em again. Sometimes
she would cry bitterly for hours, with Toto sitting at her feet and
looking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry he was for
his little mistress. Toto did not really care whether he was in Kansas
or the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him; but he knew the
little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.
Now the Wicked Witch had a great longing to have for her own the Silver
Shoes which the girl always wore. Her bees and her crows and her
wolves were lying in heaps and drying up, and she had used up all the
power of the Golden Cap; but if she could only get hold of the Silver
Shoes, they would give her more power than all the other things she had
lost. She watched Dorothy carefully, to see if she ever took off her
shoes, thinking she might steal them. But the child was so proud of
her pretty shoes that she never took them off except at night and when
she took her bath. The Witch was too much afraid of the dark to dare
go in Dorothy's room at night to take the shoes, and her dread of water
was greater than her fear of the dark, so she never came near when
Dorothy was bathing. Indeed, the old Witch never touched water, nor
ever let water touch her in any way.
But the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of a
trick that would give her what she wanted. She placed a bar of iron in
the middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the
iron invisible to human eyes. So that when Dorothy walked across the
floor she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at
full length. She was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver
Shoes came off; and before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched
it away and put it on her own skinny foot.
The wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick, for
as long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of their
charm, and Dorothy could not use it against her, even had she known how
to do so.
The little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes, grew
angry, and said to the Witch, "Give me back my shoe!"
"I will not," retorted the Witch, "for it is now my shoe, and not
yours."
"You are a wicked creature!" cried Dorothy. "You have no right to take
my shoe from me."
"I shall keep it, just the same," said the Witch, laughing at her, "and
someday I shall get the other one from you, too."
This made Dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket of water
that stood near and dashed it over the Witch, wetting her from head to
foot.
Instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as
Dorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall
away.
"See what you have done!" she screamed. "In a minute I shall melt
away."
"I'm very sorry, indeed," said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to see
the Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes.
"Didn't you know water would be the end of me?" asked the Witch, in a
wailing, despairing voice.
"Of course not," answered Dorothy. "How should I?"
"Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will have the
castle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought
a little girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked
deeds. Look out--here I go!"
With these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass
and began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor. Seeing
that she had really melted away to nothing, Dorothy drew another bucket
of water and threw it over the mess. She then swept it all out the
door. After picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left
of the old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on
her foot again. Then, being at last free to do as she chose, she ran
out to the courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West
had come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange
land.
13. The Rescue
The Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked Witch had
been melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once unlocked the gate
of his prison and set him free. They went in together to the castle,
where Dorothy's first act was to call all the Winkies together and tell
them that they were no longer slaves.
There was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they had been
made to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch, who had
always treated them with great cruelty. They kept this day as a
holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and
dancing.
"If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only with us,"
said the Lion, "I should be quite happy."
"Don't you suppose we could rescue them?" asked the girl anxiously.
"We can try," answered the Lion.
So they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would help to
rescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would be delighted
to do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them free from
bondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked as if they
knew the most, and they all started away. They traveled that day and
part of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the Tin
Woodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him, but the
blade was rusted and the handle broken off short.
The Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to
the Yellow Castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the
sad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking sober and sorry.
When they reached the castle Dorothy said to the Winkies:
"Are any of your people tinsmiths?"
"Oh, yes. Some of us are very good tinsmiths," they told her.
"Then bring them to me," she said. And when the tinsmiths came,
bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired, "Can you
straighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him back into
shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?"
The tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then answered that
they thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever. So
they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and
worked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and
bending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body
and head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he was straightened out into
his old form, and his joints worked as well as ever. To be sure, there
were several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as
the Woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all.
When, at last, he walked into Dorothy's room and thanked her for
rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and Dorothy
had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his
joints would not be rusted. At the same time her own tears fell thick
and fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears
did not need to be wiped away. As for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so
often with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was
obliged to go out into the courtyard and hold it in the sun till it
dried.
"If we only had the Scarecrow with us again," said the Tin Woodman,
when Dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened, "I
should be quite happy."
"We must try to find him," said the girl.
So she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and
part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of
which the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow's clothes.
It was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could
climb it; but the Woodman said at once, "I'll chop it down, and then we
can get the Scarecrow's clothes."
Now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman himself,
another of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of
solid gold and fitted it to the Woodman's axe, instead of the old
broken handle. Others polished the blade until all the rust was
removed and it glistened like burnished silver.
As soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a short
time the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the Scarecrow's clothes
fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground.
Dorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to the
castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and behold!
here was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over
again for saving him.
Now that they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a few happy
days at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything they needed to
make them comfortable.
But one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said, "We must go back to
Oz, and claim his promise."
"Yes," said the Woodman, "at last I shall get my heart."
"And I shall get my brains," added the Scarecrow joyfully.
"And I shall get my courage," said the Lion thoughtfully.
"And I shall get back to Kansas," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands.
"Oh, let us start for the Emerald City tomorrow!"
This they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies together
and bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have them go, and
they had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they begged him to stay
and rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West. Finding they were
determined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion each a golden
collar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet studded with
diamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick,
to keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they offered a
silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels.
Every one of the travelers made the Winkies a pretty speech in return,
and all shook hands with them until their arms ached.
Dorothy went to the Witch's cupboard to fill her basket with food for
the journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried it on her own
head and found that it fitted her exactly. She did not know anything
about the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so
she made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket.
Then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the Emerald
City; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to
carry with them.
14. The Winged Monkeys
You will remember there was no road--not even a pathway--between the
castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four
travelers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so
sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to
find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow
daisies than it was being carried. They knew, of course, they must go
straight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right
way. But at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know
which was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were
lost in the great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night
the moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the sweet
smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning--all but the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman.
The next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if
they were quite sure which way they were going.
"If we walk far enough," said Dorothy, "I am sure we shall sometime
come to some place."
But day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but
the scarlet fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit.
"We have surely lost our way," he said, "and unless we find it again in
time to reach the Emerald City, I shall never get my brains."
"Nor I my heart," declared the Tin Woodman. "It seems to me I can
scarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a very long
journey."
"You see," said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper, "I haven't the
courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all."
Then Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked at her
companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto found that
for the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly
that flew past his head. So he put out his tongue and panted and
looked at Dorothy as if to ask what they should do next.
"Suppose we call the field mice," she suggested. "They could probably
tell us the way to the Emerald City."
"To be sure they could," cried the Scarecrow. "Why didn't we think of
that before?"
Dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck
since the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a few minutes they
heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small gray mice came
running up to her. Among them was the Queen herself, who asked, in her
squeaky little voice:
"What can I do for my friends?"
"We have lost our way," said Dorothy. "Can you tell us where the
Emerald City is?"
"Certainly," answered the Queen; "but it is a great way off, for you
have had it at your backs all this time." Then she noticed Dorothy's
Golden Cap, and said, "Why don't you use the charm of the Cap, and call
the Winged Monkeys to you? They will carry you to the City of Oz in
less than an hour."
"I didn't know there was a charm," answered Dorothy, in surprise.
"What is it?"
"It is written inside the Golden Cap," replied the Queen of the Mice.
"But if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we must run away, for
they are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us."
"Won't they hurt me?" asked the girl anxiously.
"Oh, no. They must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!" And she
scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her.
Dorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written upon
the lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the
directions carefully and put the Cap upon her head.
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" she said, standing on her left foot.
"What did you say?" asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what she was
doing.
"Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Dorothy went on, standing this time on her
right foot.
"Hello!" replied the Tin Woodman calmly.
"Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!" said Dorothy, who was now standing on both feet.
This ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering
and flapping of wings, as the band of Winged Monkeys flew up to them.
The King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked, "What is your command?"
"We wish to go to the Emerald City," said the child, "and we have lost
our way."
"We will carry you," replied the King, and no sooner had he spoken than
two of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her.
Others took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and the Lion, and one little
Monkey seized Toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to
bite him.
The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at first, for
they remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had treated them before;
but they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air
quite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and
woods far below them.
Dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest Monkeys,
one of them the King himself. They had made a chair of their hands and
were careful not to hurt her.
"Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?" she asked.
"That is a long story," answered the King, with a winged laugh; "but as
we have a long journey before us, I will pass the time by telling you
about it, if you wish."
"I shall be glad to hear it," she replied.
"Once," began the leader, "we were a free people, living happily in the
great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and
doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps some
of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull
the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing
nuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were careless and
happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day. This was
many years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule over this
land.
"There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess, who
was also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help the
people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good. Her name
was Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great
blocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that
she could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much
too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise. At last,
however, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his
years. Gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she
would make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used
all her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any
woman could wish. When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called,
was said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly
beauty was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to
make everything ready for the wedding.
"My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys which
lived in the forest near Gayelette's palace, and the old fellow loved a
joke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding, my
grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking
beside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and
purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could
do. At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in
their arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then
dropped him into the water.
"'Swim out, my fine fellow,' cried my grandfather, 'and see if the
water has spotted your clothes.' Quelala was much too wise not to
swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune. He
laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore.
But when Gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and
velvet all ruined by the river.
"The princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it. She had
all the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that
their wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had
treated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my grandfather pleaded
hard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in the river with their wings
tied, and Quelala said a kind word for them also; so that Gayelette
finally spared them, on condition that the Winged Monkeys should ever
after do three times the bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This
Cap had been made for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to
have cost the princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and
all the other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how
it happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the
Golden Cap, whosoever he may be."
"And what became of them?" asked Dorothy, who had been greatly
interested in the story.
"Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap," replied the Monkey,
"he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his bride could not
bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he
had married her and ordered us always to keep where she could never
again set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we were glad to do, for we
were all afraid of her.
"This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into the
hands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the Winkies,
and afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the West. Now the
Golden Cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your
wishes upon us."
As the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down and saw the
green, shining walls of the Emerald City before them. She wondered at
the rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the journey was over.
The strange creatures set the travelers down carefully before the gate
of the City, the King bowed low to Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away,
followed by all his band.
"That was a good ride," said the little girl.
"Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles," replied the Lion. "How
lucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap!"
15. The Discovery of Oz, the Terrible
The four travelers walked up to the great gate of Emerald City and rang
the bell. After ringing several times, it was opened by the same
Guardian of the Gates they had met before.
"What! are you back again?" he asked, in surprise.
"Do you not see us?" answered the Scarecrow.
"But I thought you had gone to visit the Wicked Witch of the West."
"We did visit her," said the Scarecrow.
"And she let you go again?" asked the man, in wonder.
"She could not help it, for she is melted," explained the Scarecrow.
"Melted! Well, that is good news, indeed," said the man. "Who melted
her?"
"It was Dorothy," said the Lion gravely.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the man, and he bowed very low indeed before
her.
Then he led them into his little room and locked the spectacles from
the great box on all their eyes, just as he had done before. Afterward
they passed on through the gate into the Emerald City. When the people
heard from the Guardian of the Gates that Dorothy had melted the Wicked
Witch of the West, they all gathered around the travelers and followed
them in a great crowd to the Palace of Oz.
The soldier with the green whiskers was still on guard before the door,
but he let them in at once, and they were again met by the beautiful
green girl, who showed each of them to their old rooms at once, so they
might rest until the Great Oz was ready to receive them.
The soldier had the news carried straight to Oz that Dorothy and the
other travelers had come back again, after destroying the Wicked Witch;
but Oz made no reply. They thought the Great Wizard would send for
them at once, but he did not. They had no word from him the next day,
nor the next, nor the next. The waiting was tiresome and wearing, and
at last they grew vexed that Oz should treat them in so poor a fashion,
after sending them to undergo hardships and slavery. So the Scarecrow
at last asked the green girl to take another message to Oz, saying if
he did not let them in to see him at once they would call the Winged
Monkeys to help them, and find out whether he kept his promises or not.
When the Wizard was given this message he was so frightened that he
sent word for them to come to the Throne Room at four minutes after
nine o'clock the next morning. He had once met the Winged Monkeys in
the Land of the West, and he did not wish to meet them again.
The four travelers passed a sleepless night, each thinking of the gift
Oz had promised to bestow on him. Dorothy fell asleep only once, and
then she dreamed she was in Kansas, where Aunt Em was telling her how
glad she was to have her little girl at home again.
Promptly at nine o'clock the next morning the green-whiskered soldier
came to them, and four minutes later they all went into the Throne Room
of the Great Oz.
Of course each one of them expected to see the Wizard in the shape he
had taken before, and all were greatly surprised when they looked about
and saw no one at all in the room. They kept close to the door and
closer to one another, for the stillness of the empty room was more
dreadful than any of the forms they had seen Oz take.
Presently they heard a solemn Voice, that seemed to come from somewhere
near the top of the great dome, and it said:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Why do you seek me?"
They looked again in every part of the room, and then, seeing no one,
Dorothy asked, "Where are you?"
"I am everywhere," answered the Voice, "but to the eyes of common
mortals I am invisible. I will now seat myself upon my throne, that
you may converse with me." Indeed, the Voice seemed just then to come
straight from the throne itself; so they walked toward it and stood in
a row while Dorothy said:
"We have come to claim our promise, O Oz."
"What promise?" asked Oz.
"You promised to send me back to Kansas when the Wicked Witch was
destroyed," said the girl.
"And you promised to give me brains," said the Scarecrow.
"And you promised to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"And you promised to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"Is the Wicked Witch really destroyed?" asked the Voice, and Dorothy
thought it trembled a little.
"Yes," she answered, "I melted her with a bucket of water."
"Dear me," said the Voice, "how sudden! Well, come to me tomorrow, for
I must have time to think it over."
"You've had plenty of time already," said the Tin Woodman angrily.
"We shan't wait a day longer," said the Scarecrow.
"You must keep your promises to us!" exclaimed Dorothy.
The Lion thought it might be as well to frighten the Wizard, so he gave
a large, loud roar, which was so fierce and dreadful that Toto jumped
away from him in alarm and tipped over the screen that stood in a
corner. As it fell with a crash they looked that way, and the next
moment all of them were filled with wonder. For they saw, standing in
just the spot the screen had hidden, a little old man, with a bald head
and a wrinkled face, who seemed to be as much surprised as they were.
The Tin Woodman, raising his axe, rushed toward the little man and
cried out, "Who are you?"
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," said the little man, in a trembling
voice. "But don't strike me--please don't--and I'll do anything you
want me to."
Our friends looked at him in surprise and dismay.
"I thought Oz was a great Head," said Dorothy.
"And I thought Oz was a lovely Lady," said the Scarecrow.
"And I thought Oz was a terrible Beast," said the Tin Woodman.
"And I thought Oz was a Ball of Fire," exclaimed the Lion.
"No, you are all wrong," said the little man meekly. "I have been
making believe."
"Making believe!" cried Dorothy. "Are you not a Great Wizard?"
"Hush, my dear," he said. "Don't speak so loud, or you will be
overheard--and I should be ruined. I'm supposed to be a Great Wizard."
"And aren't you?" she asked.
"Not a bit of it, my dear; I'm just a common man."
"You're more than that," said the Scarecrow, in a grieved tone; "you're
a humbug."
"Exactly so!" declared the little man, rubbing his hands together as if
it pleased him. "I am a humbug."
"But this is terrible," said the Tin Woodman. "How shall I ever get my
heart?"
"Or I my courage?" asked the Lion.
"Or I my brains?" wailed the Scarecrow, wiping the tears from his eyes
with his coat sleeve.
"My dear friends," said Oz, "I pray you not to speak of these little
things. Think of me, and the terrible trouble I'm in at being found
out."
"Doesn't anyone else know you're a humbug?" asked Dorothy.
"No one knows it but you four--and myself," replied Oz. "I have fooled
everyone so long that I thought I should never be found out. It was a
great mistake my ever letting you into the Throne Room. Usually I will
not see even my subjects, and so they believe I am something terrible."
"But, I don't understand," said Dorothy, in bewilderment. "How was it
that you appeared to me as a great Head?"
"That was one of my tricks," answered Oz. "Step this way, please, and
I will tell you all about it."
He led the way to a small chamber in the rear of the Throne Room, and
they all followed him. He pointed to one corner, in which lay the
great Head, made out of many thicknesses of paper, and with a carefully
painted face.
"This I hung from the ceiling by a wire," said Oz. "I stood behind the
screen and pulled a thread, to make the eyes move and the mouth open."
"But how about the voice?" she inquired.
"Oh, I am a ventriloquist," said the little man. "I can throw the
sound of my voice wherever I wish, so that you thought it was coming
out of the Head. Here are the other things I used to deceive you." He
showed the Scarecrow the dress and the mask he had worn when he seemed
to be the lovely Lady. And the Tin Woodman saw that his terrible Beast
was nothing but a lot of skins, sewn together, with slats to keep their
sides out. As for the Ball of Fire, the false Wizard had hung that
also from the ceiling. It was really a ball of cotton, but when oil
was poured upon it the ball burned fiercely.
"Really," said the Scarecrow, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself for
being such a humbug."
"I am--I certainly am," answered the little man sorrowfully; "but it
was the only thing I could do. Sit down, please, there are plenty of
chairs; and I will tell you my story."
So they sat down and listened while he told the following tale.
"I was born in Omaha--"
"Why, that isn't very far from Kansas!" cried Dorothy.
"No, but it's farther from here," he said, shaking his head at her
sadly. "When I grew up I became a ventriloquist, and at that I was
very well trained by a great master. I can imitate any kind of a bird
or beast." Here he mewed so like a kitten that Toto pricked up his
ears and looked everywhere to see where she was. "After a time,"
continued Oz, "I tired of that, and became a balloonist."
"What is that?" asked Dorothy.
"A man who goes up in a balloon on circus day, so as to draw a crowd of
people together and get them to pay to see the circus," he explained.
"Oh," she said, "I know."
"Well, one day I went up in a balloon and the ropes got twisted, so
that I couldn't come down again. It went way up above the clouds, so
far that a current of air struck it and carried it many, many miles
away. For a day and a night I traveled through the air, and on the
morning of the second day I awoke and found the balloon floating over a
strange and beautiful country.
"It came down gradually, and I was not hurt a bit. But I found myself
in the midst of a strange people, who, seeing me come from the clouds,
thought I was a great Wizard. Of course I let them think so, because
they were afraid of me, and promised to do anything I wished them to.
"Just to amuse myself, and keep the good people busy, I ordered them to
build this City, and my Palace; and they did it all willingly and well.
Then I thought, as the country was so green and beautiful, I would call
it the Emerald City; and to make the name fit better I put green
spectacles on all the people, so that everything they saw was green."
"But isn't everything here green?" asked Dorothy.
"No more than in any other city," replied Oz; "but when you wear green
spectacles, why of course everything you see looks green to you. The
Emerald City was built a great many years ago, for I was a young man
when the balloon brought me here, and I am a very old man now. But my
people have worn green glasses on their eyes so long that most of them
think it really is an Emerald City, and it certainly is a beautiful
place, abounding in jewels and precious metals, and every good thing
that is needed to make one happy. I have been good to the people, and
they like me; but ever since this Palace was built, I have shut myself
up and would not see any of them.
"One of my greatest fears was the Witches, for while I had no magical
powers at all I soon found out that the Witches were really able to do
wonderful things. There were four of them in this country, and they
ruled the people who live in the North and South and East and West.
Fortunately, the Witches of the North and South were good, and I knew
they would do me no harm; but the Witches of the East and West were
terribly wicked, and had they not thought I was more powerful than they
themselves, they would surely have destroyed me. As it was, I lived in
deadly fear of them for many years; so you can imagine how pleased I
was when I heard your house had fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East.
When you came to me, I was willing to promise anything if you would
only do away with the other Witch; but, now that you have melted her, I
am ashamed to say that I cannot keep my promises."
"I think you are a very bad man," said Dorothy.
"Oh, no, my dear; I'm really a very good man, but I'm a very bad
Wizard, I must admit."
"Can't you give me brains?" asked the Scarecrow.
"You don't need them. You are learning something every day. A baby
has brains, but it doesn't know much. Experience is the only thing
that brings knowledge, and the longer you are on earth the more
experience you are sure to get."
"That may all be true," said the Scarecrow, "but I shall be very
unhappy unless you give me brains."
The false Wizard looked at him carefully.
"Well," he said with a sigh, "I'm not much of a magician, as I said;
but if you will come to me tomorrow morning, I will stuff your head
with brains. I cannot tell you how to use them, however; you must find
that out for yourself."
"Oh, thank you--thank you!" cried the Scarecrow. "I'll find a way to
use them, never fear!"
"But how about my courage?" asked the Lion anxiously.
"You have plenty of courage, I am sure," answered Oz. "All you need is
confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid
when it faces danger. The True courage is in facing danger when you
are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty."
"Perhaps I have, but I'm scared just the same," said the Lion. "I
shall really be very unhappy unless you give me the sort of courage
that makes one forget he is afraid."
"Very well, I will give you that sort of courage tomorrow," replied Oz.
"How about my heart?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"Why, as for that," answered Oz, "I think you are wrong to want a
heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in
luck not to have a heart."
"That must be a matter of opinion," said the Tin Woodman. "For my
part, I will bear all the unhappiness without a murmur, if you will
give me the heart."
"Very well," answered Oz meekly. "Come to me tomorrow and you shall
have a heart. I have played Wizard for so many years that I may as
well continue the part a little longer."
"And now," said Dorothy, "how am I to get back to Kansas?"
"We shall have to think about that," replied the little man. "Give me
two or three days to consider the matter and I'll try to find a way to
carry you over the desert. In the meantime you shall all be treated as
my guests, and while you live in the Palace my people will wait upon
you and obey your slightest wish. There is only one thing I ask in
return for my help--such as it is. You must keep my secret and tell no
one I am a humbug."
They agreed to say nothing of what they had learned, and went back to
their rooms in high spirits. Even Dorothy had hope that "The Great and
Terrible Humbug," as she called him, would find a way to send her back
to Kansas, and if he did she was willing to forgive him everything.
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
Next morning the Scarecrow said to his friends:
"Congratulate me. I am going to Oz to get my brains at last. When I
return I shall be as other men are."
"I have always liked you as you were," said Dorothy simply.
"It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow," he replied. "But surely you
will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain
is going to turn out." Then he said good-bye to them all in a cheerful
voice and went to the Throne Room, where he rapped upon the door.
"Come in," said Oz.
The Scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by the
window, engaged in deep thought.
"I have come for my brains," remarked the Scarecrow, a little uneasily.
"Oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please," replied Oz. "You must
excuse me for taking your head off, but I shall have to do it in order
to put your brains in their proper place."
"That's all right," said the Scarecrow. "You are quite welcome to take
my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on
again."
So the Wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw. Then he
entered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which he mixed
with a great many pins and needles. Having shaken them together
thoroughly, he filled the top of the Scarecrow's head with the mixture
and stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold it in place.
When he had fastened the Scarecrow's head on his body again he said to
him, "Hereafter you will be a great man, for I have given you a lot of
bran-new brains."
The Scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his
greatest wish, and having thanked Oz warmly he went back to his friends.
Dorothy looked at him curiously. His head was quite bulged out at the
top with brains.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I feel wise indeed," he answered earnestly. "When I get used to my
brains I shall know everything."
"Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?" asked the
Tin Woodman.
"That is proof that he is sharp," remarked the Lion.
"Well, I must go to Oz and get my heart," said the Woodman. So he
walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.
"Come in," called Oz, and the Woodman entered and said, "I have come
for my heart."
"Very well," answered the little man. "But I shall have to cut a hole
in your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place. I hope it
won't hurt you."
"Oh, no," answered the Woodman. "I shall not feel it at all."
So Oz brought a pair of tinsmith's shears and cut a small, square hole
in the left side of the Tin Woodman's breast. Then, going to a chest
of drawers, he took out a pretty heart, made entirely of silk and
stuffed with sawdust.
"Isn't it a beauty?" he asked.
"It is, indeed!" replied the Woodman, who was greatly pleased. "But is
it a kind heart?"
"Oh, very!" answered Oz. He put the heart in the Woodman's breast and
then replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly together where it
had been cut.
"There," said he; "now you have a heart that any man might be proud of.
I'm sorry I had to put a patch on your breast, but it really couldn't
be helped."
"Never mind the patch," exclaimed the happy Woodman. "I am very
grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness."
"Don't speak of it," replied Oz.
Then the Tin Woodman went back to his friends, who wished him every joy
on account of his good fortune.
The Lion now walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.
"Come in," said Oz.
"I have come for my courage," announced the Lion, entering the room.
"Very well," answered the little man; "I will get it for you."
He went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took down a
square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a green-gold
dish, beautifully carved. Placing this before the Cowardly Lion, who
sniffed at it as if he did not like it, the Wizard said:
"Drink."
"What is it?" asked the Lion.
"Well," answered Oz, "if it were inside of you, it would be courage.
You know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this
really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore
I advise you to drink it as soon as possible."
The Lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty.
"How do you feel now?" asked Oz.
"Full of courage," replied the Lion, who went joyfully back to his
friends to tell them of his good fortune.
Oz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion exactly what they thought
they wanted. "How can I help being a humbug," he said, "when all these
people make me do things that everybody knows can't be done? It was
easy to make the Scarecrow and the Lion and the Woodman happy, because
they imagined I could do anything. But it will take more than
imagination to carry Dorothy back to Kansas, and I'm sure I don't know
how it can be done."
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
For three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad days for
the little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and
contented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in
his head; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one
could understand them but himself. When the Tin Woodman walked about
he felt his heart rattling around in his breast; and he told Dorothy he
had discovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the one he
had owned when he was made of flesh. The Lion declared he was afraid
of nothing on earth, and would gladly face an army or a dozen of the
fierce Kalidahs.
Thus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy, who longed
more than ever to get back to Kansas.
On the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when she
entered the Throne Room he greeted her pleasantly:
"Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you out of this
country."
"And back to Kansas?" she asked eagerly.
"Well, I'm not sure about Kansas," said Oz, "for I haven't the faintest
notion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to cross the
desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home."
"How can I cross the desert?" she inquired.
"Well, I'll tell you what I think," said the little man. "You see,
when I came to this country it was in a balloon. You also came through
the air, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe the best way to get
across the desert will be through the air. Now, it is quite beyond my
powers to make a cyclone; but I've been thinking the matter over, and I
believe I can make a balloon."
"How?" asked Dorothy.
"A balloon," said Oz, "is made of silk, which is coated with glue to
keep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace, so it will be
no trouble to make the balloon. But in all this country there is no
gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float."
"If it won't float," remarked Dorothy, "it will be of no use to us."
"True," answered Oz. "But there is another way to make it float, which
is to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn't as good as gas, for if the
air should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert, and we
should be lost."
"We!" exclaimed the girl. "Are you going with me?"
"Yes, of course," replied Oz. "I am tired of being such a humbug. If
I should go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a
Wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.
So I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome.
I'd much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again."
"I shall be glad to have your company," said Dorothy.
"Thank you," he answered. "Now, if you will help me sew the silk
together, we will begin to work on our balloon."
So Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the strips
of silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together. First
there was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and
then a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon
in different shades of the color about them. It took three days to sew
all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of
green silk more than twenty feet long.
Then Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it
airtight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready.
"But we must have a basket to ride in," he said. So he sent the
soldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he
fastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon.
When it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was going to
make a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds. The
news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the
wonderful sight.
Oz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace, and the
people gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman had chopped
a big pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and Oz held the
bottom of the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from
it would be caught in the silken bag. Gradually the balloon swelled
out and rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the
ground.
Then Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice:
"I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the Scarecrow
will rule over you. I command you to obey him as you would me."
The balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to
the ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much
lighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise into
the sky.
"Come, Dorothy!" cried the Wizard. "Hurry up, or the balloon will fly
away."
"I can't find Toto anywhere," replied Dorothy, who did not wish to
leave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd to bark at a
kitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked him up and ran
towards the balloon.
She was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his hands to
help her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes, and the balloon
rose into the air without her.
"Come back!" she screamed. "I want to go, too!"
"I can't come back, my dear," called Oz from the basket. "Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to where
the Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment farther and
farther into the sky.
And that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard,
though he may have reached Omaha safely, and be there now, for all we
know. But the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another:
"Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this
beautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise
Scarecrow to rule over us."
Still, for many days they grieved over the loss of the Wonderful
Wizard, and would not be comforted.
18. Away to the South
Dorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home to Kansas
again; but when she thought it all over she was glad she had not gone
up in a balloon. And she also felt sorry at losing Oz, and so did her
companions.
The Tin Woodman came to her and said:
"Truly I should be ungrateful if I failed to mourn for the man who gave
me my lovely heart. I should like to cry a little because Oz is gone,
if you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that I shall not rust."
"With pleasure," she answered, and brought a towel at once. Then the
Tin Woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the tears
carefully and wiped them away with the towel. When he had finished, he
thanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with his jeweled
oil-can, to guard against mishap.
The Scarecrow was now the ruler of the Emerald City, and although he
was not a Wizard the people were proud of him. "For," they said,
"there is not another city in all the world that is ruled by a stuffed
man." And, so far as they knew, they were quite right.
The morning after the balloon had gone up with Oz, the four travelers
met in the Throne Room and talked matters over. The Scarecrow sat in
the big throne and the others stood respectfully before him.
"We are not so unlucky," said the new ruler, "for this Palace and the
Emerald City belong to us, and we can do just as we please. When I
remember that a short time ago I was up on a pole in a farmer's
cornfield, and that now I am the ruler of this beautiful City, I am
quite satisfied with my lot."
"I also," said the Tin Woodman, "am well-pleased with my new heart;
and, really, that was the only thing I wished in all the world."
"For my part, I am content in knowing I am as brave as any beast that
ever lived, if not braver," said the Lion modestly.
"If Dorothy would only be contented to live in the Emerald City,"
continued the Scarecrow, "we might all be happy together."
"But I don't want to live here," cried Dorothy. "I want to go to
Kansas, and live with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry."
"Well, then, what can be done?" inquired the Woodman.
The Scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the pins
and needles began to stick out of his brains. Finally he said:
"Why not call the Winged Monkeys, and ask them to carry you over the
desert?"
"I never thought of that!" said Dorothy joyfully. "It's just the
thing. I'll go at once for the Golden Cap."
When she brought it into the Throne Room she spoke the magic words, and
soon the band of Winged Monkeys flew in through the open window and
stood beside her.
"This is the second time you have called us," said the Monkey King,
bowing before the little girl. "What do you wish?"
"I want you to fly with me to Kansas," said Dorothy.
But the Monkey King shook his head.
"That cannot be done," he said. "We belong to this country alone, and
cannot leave it. There has never been a Winged Monkey in Kansas yet,
and I suppose there never will be, for they don't belong there. We
shall be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross
the desert. Good-bye."
And with another bow, the Monkey King spread his wings and flew away
through the window, followed by all his band.
Dorothy was ready to cry with disappointment. "I have wasted the charm
of the Golden Cap to no purpose," she said, "for the Winged Monkeys
cannot help me."
"It is certainly too bad!" said the tender-hearted Woodman.
The Scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so horribly
that Dorothy feared it would burst.
"Let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers," he said, "and ask
his advice."
So the soldier was summoned and entered the Throne Room timidly, for
while Oz was alive he never was allowed to come farther than the door.
"This little girl," said the Scarecrow to the soldier, "wishes to cross
the desert. How can she do so?"
"I cannot tell," answered the soldier, "for nobody has ever crossed the
desert, unless it is Oz himself."
"Is there no one who can help me?" asked Dorothy earnestly.
"Glinda might," he suggested.
"Who is Glinda?" inquired the Scarecrow.
"The Witch of the South. She is the most powerful of all the Witches,
and rules over the Quadlings. Besides, her castle stands on the edge
of the desert, so she may know a way to cross it."
"Glinda is a Good Witch, isn't she?" asked the child.
"The Quadlings think she is good," said the soldier, "and she is kind
to everyone. I have heard that Glinda is a beautiful woman, who knows
how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived."
"How can I get to her castle?" asked Dorothy.
"The road is straight to the South," he answered, "but it is said to be
full of dangers to travelers. There are wild beasts in the woods, and
a race of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country.
For this reason none of the Quadlings ever come to the Emerald City."
The soldier then left them and the Scarecrow said:
"It seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing Dorothy can do is
to travel to the Land of the South and ask Glinda to help her. For, of
course, if Dorothy stays here she will never get back to Kansas."
"You must have been thinking again," remarked the Tin Woodman.
"I have," said the Scarecrow.
"I shall go with Dorothy," declared the Lion, "for I am tired of your
city and long for the woods and the country again. I am really a wild
beast, you know. Besides, Dorothy will need someone to protect her."
"That is true," agreed the Woodman. "My axe may be of service to her;
so I also will go with her to the Land of the South."
"When shall we start?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Are you going?" they asked, in surprise.
"Certainly. If it wasn't for Dorothy I should never have had brains.
She lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the
Emerald City. So my good luck is all due to her, and I shall never
leave her until she starts back to Kansas for good and all."
"Thank you," said Dorothy gratefully. "You are all very kind to me.
But I should like to start as soon as possible."
"We shall go tomorrow morning," returned the Scarecrow. "So now let us
all get ready, for it will be a long journey."
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
The next morning Dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye, and
they all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers, who had
walked with them as far as the gate. When the Guardian of the Gate saw
them again he wondered greatly that they could leave the beautiful City
to get into new trouble. But he at once unlocked their spectacles,
which he put back into the green box, and gave them many good wishes to
carry with them.
"You are now our ruler," he said to the Scarecrow; "so you must come
back to us as soon as possible."
"I certainly shall if I am able," the Scarecrow replied; "but I must
help Dorothy to get home, first."
As Dorothy bade the good-natured Guardian a last farewell she said:
"I have been very kindly treated in your lovely City, and everyone has
been good to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am."
"Don't try, my dear," he answered. "We should like to keep you with
us, but if it is your wish to return to Kansas, I hope you will find a
way." He then opened the gate of the outer wall, and they walked forth
and started upon their journey.
The sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces toward the
Land of the South. They were all in the best of spirits, and laughed
and chatted together. Dorothy was once more filled with the hope of
getting home, and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were glad to be of
use to her. As for the Lion, he sniffed the fresh air with delight and
whisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at being in the country
again, while Toto ran around them and chased the moths and butterflies,
barking merrily all the time.
"City life does not agree with me at all," remarked the Lion, as they
walked along at a brisk pace. "I have lost much flesh since I lived
there, and now I am anxious for a chance to show the other beasts how
courageous I have grown."
They now turned and took a last look at the Emerald City. All they
could see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the green walls, and
high up above everything the spires and dome of the Palace of Oz.
"Oz was not such a bad Wizard, after all," said the Tin Woodman, as he
felt his heart rattling around in his breast.
"He knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too," said the
Scarecrow.
"If Oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me," added the
Lion, "he would have been a brave man."
Dorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he
had done his best, so she forgave him. As he said, he was a good man,
even if he was a bad Wizard.
The first day's journey was through the green fields and bright flowers
that stretched about the Emerald City on every side. They slept that
night on the grass, with nothing but the stars over them; and they
rested very well indeed.
In the morning they traveled on until they came to a thick wood. There
was no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the right and
left as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not dare change
the direction of their journey for fear of getting lost. So they
looked for the place where it would be easiest to get into the forest.
The Scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big tree with
such wide-spreading branches that there was room for the party to pass
underneath. So he walked forward to the tree, but just as he came
under the first branches they bent down and twined around him, and the
next minute he was raised from the ground and flung headlong among his
fellow travelers.
This did not hurt the Scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he looked
rather dizzy when Dorothy picked him up.
"Here is another space between the trees," called the Lion.
"Let me try it first," said the Scarecrow, "for it doesn't hurt me to
get thrown about." He walked up to another tree, as he spoke, but its
branches immediately seized him and tossed him back again.
"This is strange," exclaimed Dorothy. "What shall we do?"
"The trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us, and stop our
journey," remarked the Lion.
"I believe I will try it myself," said the Woodman, and shouldering his
axe, he marched up to the first tree that had handled the Scarecrow so
roughly. When a big branch bent down to seize him the Woodman chopped
at it so fiercely that he cut it in two. At once the tree began
shaking all its branches as if in pain, and the Tin Woodman passed
safely under it.
"Come on!" he shouted to the others. "Be quick!" They all ran forward
and passed under the tree without injury, except Toto, who was caught
by a small branch and shaken until he howled. But the Woodman promptly
chopped off the branch and set the little dog free.
The other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back, so they
made up their minds that only the first row of trees could bend down
their branches, and that probably these were the policemen of the
forest, and given this wonderful power in order to keep strangers out
of it.
The four travelers walked with ease through the trees until they came
to the farther edge of the wood. Then, to their surprise, they found
before them a high wall which seemed to be made of white china. It was
smooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy.
"I will make a ladder," said the Tin Woodman, "for we certainly must
climb over the wall."
20. The Dainty China Country
While the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the
forest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk.
The Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay beside him.
The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him:
"I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of."
"Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the
Woodman. "When we have climbed over it, we shall know what is on the
other side."
After a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but the Tin
Woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose. The
Scarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that the
ladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he
was so awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him
from falling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the
Scarecrow said, "Oh, my!"
"Go on," exclaimed Dorothy.
So the Scarecrow climbed farther up and sat down on the top of the
wall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried, "Oh, my!" just as the
Scarecrow had done.
Then Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy made him
be still.
The Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came last; but
both of them cried, "Oh, my!" as soon as they looked over the wall.
When they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall, they looked
down and saw a strange sight.
Before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and
shining and white as the bottom of a big platter. Scattered around
were many houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest
colors. These houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching
only as high as Dorothy's waist. There were also pretty little barns,
with china fences around them; and many cows and sheep and horses and
pigs and chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups.
But the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer
country. There were milkmaids and shepherdesses, with brightly colored
bodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most
gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in
knee breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and
golden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jeweled crowns upon
their heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns
in ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall,
pointed caps. And, strangest of all, these people were all made of
china, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of
them was no higher than Dorothy's knee.
No one did so much as look at the travelers at first, except one little
purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and
barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again.
"How shall we get down?" asked Dorothy.
They found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the
Scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that
the hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they took pains
not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet. When all were
safely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body was quite
flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again.
"We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side,"
said Dorothy, "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except
due South."
They began walking through the country of the china people, and the
first thing they came to was a china milkmaid milking a china cow. As
they drew near, the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool,
the pail, and even the milkmaid herself, and all fell on the china
ground with a great clatter.
Dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg off, and
that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor
milkmaid had a nick in her left elbow.
"There!" cried the milkmaid angrily. "See what you have done! My cow
has broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender's shop and have
it glued on again. What do you mean by coming here and frightening my
cow?"
"I'm very sorry," returned Dorothy. "Please forgive us."
But the pretty milkmaid was much too vexed to make any answer. She
picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping
on three legs. As she left them the milkmaid cast many reproachful
glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked
elbow close to her side.
Dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap.
"We must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted Woodman, "or we
may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it."
A little farther on Dorothy met a most beautifully dressed young
Princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run
away.
Dorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her. But
the china girl cried out:
"Don't chase me! Don't chase me!"
She had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped and said,
"Why not?"
"Because," answered the Princess, also stopping, a safe distance away,
"if I run I may fall down and break myself."
"But could you not be mended?" asked the girl.
"Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know,"
replied the Princess.
"I suppose not," said Dorothy.
"Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns," continued the china lady,
"who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has broken himself so
often that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn't look at all
pretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for yourself."
Indeed, a jolly little clown came walking toward them, and Dorothy
could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and
green he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way
and showing plainly that he had been mended in many places.
The Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his
cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily, he said:
"My lady fair,
Why do you stare
At poor old Mr. Joker?
You're quite as stiff
And prim as if
You'd eaten up a poker!"
"Be quiet, sir!" said the Princess. "Can't you see these are
strangers, and should be treated with respect?"
"Well, that's respect, I expect," declared the Clown, and immediately
stood upon his head.
"Don't mind Mr. Joker," said the Princess to Dorothy. "He is
considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish."
"Oh, I don't mind him a bit," said Dorothy. "But you are so
beautiful," she continued, "that I am sure I could love you dearly.
Won't you let me carry you back to Kansas, and stand you on Aunt Em's
mantel? I could carry you in my basket."
"That would make me very unhappy," answered the china Princess. "You
see, here in our country we live contentedly, and can talk and move
around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our joints
at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty. Of
course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantels and
cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter
here in our own country."
"I would not make you unhappy for all the world!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"So I'll just say good-bye."
"Good-bye," replied the Princess.
They walked carefully through the china country. The little animals
and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers
would break them, and after an hour or so the travelers reached the
other side of the country and came to another china wall.
It was not so high as the first, however, and by standing upon the
Lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the Lion
gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he
jumped, he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to
pieces.
"That was too bad," said Dorothy, "but really I think we were lucky in
not doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow's leg and a
church. They are all so brittle!"
"They are, indeed," said the Scarecrow, "and I am thankful I am made of
straw and cannot be easily damaged. There are worse things in the
world than being a Scarecrow."
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
After climbing down from the china wall the travelers found themselves
in a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and covered with
tall, rank grass. It was difficult to walk without falling into muddy
holes, for the grass was so thick that it hid them from sight.
However, by carefully picking their way, they got safely along until
they reached solid ground. But here the country seemed wilder than
ever, and after a long and tiresome walk through the underbrush they
entered another forest, where the trees were bigger and older than any
they had ever seen.
"This forest is perfectly delightful," declared the Lion, looking
around him with joy. "Never have I seen a more beautiful place."
"It seems gloomy," said the Scarecrow.
"Not a bit of it," answered the Lion. "I should like to live here all
my life. See how soft the dried leaves are under your feet and how
rich and green the moss is that clings to these old trees. Surely no
wild beast could wish a pleasanter home."
"Perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now," said Dorothy.
"I suppose there are," returned the Lion, "but I do not see any of them
about."
They walked through the forest until it became too dark to go any
farther. Dorothy and Toto and the Lion lay down to sleep, while the
Woodman and the Scarecrow kept watch over them as usual.
When morning came, they started again. Before they had gone far they
heard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals. Toto
whimpered a little, but none of the others was frightened, and they
kept along the well-trodden path until they came to an opening in the
wood, in which were gathered hundreds of beasts of every variety.
There were tigers and elephants and bears and wolves and foxes and all
the others in the natural history, and for a moment Dorothy was afraid.
But the Lion explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he
judged by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble.
As he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at once the
great assemblage hushed as if by magic. The biggest of the tigers came
up to the Lion and bowed, saying:
"Welcome, O King of Beasts! You have come in good time to fight our
enemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest once more."
"What is your trouble?" asked the Lion quietly.
"We are all threatened," answered the tiger, "by a fierce enemy which
has lately come into this forest. It is a most tremendous monster,
like a great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and legs as long
as a tree trunk. It has eight of these long legs, and as the monster
crawls through the forest he seizes an animal with a leg and drags it
to his mouth, where he eats it as a spider does a fly. Not one of us
is safe while this fierce creature is alive, and we had called a
meeting to decide how to take care of ourselves when you came among us."
The Lion thought for a moment.
"Are there any other lions in this forest?" he asked.
"No; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all. And,
besides, they were none of them nearly so large and brave as you."
"If I put an end to your enemy, will you bow down to me and obey me as
King of the Forest?" inquired the Lion.
"We will do that gladly," returned the tiger; and all the other beasts
roared with a mighty roar: "We will!"
"Where is this great spider of yours now?" asked the Lion.
"Yonder, among the oak trees," said the tiger, pointing with his
forefoot.
"Take good care of these friends of mine," said the Lion, "and I will
go at once to fight the monster."
He bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do battle
with the enemy.
The great spider was lying asleep when the Lion found him, and it
looked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust. Its legs
were quite as long as the tiger had said, and its body covered with
coarse black hair. It had a great mouth, with a row of sharp teeth a
foot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy body by a neck as
slender as a wasp's waist. This gave the Lion a hint of the best way
to attack the creature, and as he knew it was easier to fight it asleep
than awake, he gave a great spring and landed directly upon the
monster's back. Then, with one blow of his heavy paw, all armed with
sharp claws, he knocked the spider's head from its body. Jumping down,
he watched it until the long legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was
quite dead.
The Lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the forest were
waiting for him and said proudly:
"You need fear your enemy no longer."
Then the beasts bowed down to the Lion as their King, and he promised
to come back and rule over them as soon as Dorothy was safely on her
way to Kansas.
22. The Country of the Quadlings
The four travelers passed through the rest of the forest in safety, and
when they came out from its gloom saw before them a steep hill, covered
from top to bottom with great pieces of rock.
"That will be a hard climb," said the Scarecrow, "but we must get over
the hill, nevertheless."
So he led the way and the others followed. They had nearly reached the
first rock when they heard a rough voice cry out, "Keep back!"
"Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow.
Then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said, "This
hill belongs to us, and we don't allow anyone to cross it."
"But we must cross it," said the Scarecrow. "We're going to the
country of the Quadlings."
"But you shall not!" replied the voice, and there stepped from behind
the rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen.
He was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was flat at the
top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. But he had no arms
at all, and, seeing this, the Scarecrow did not fear that so helpless a
creature could prevent them from climbing the hill. So he said, "I'm
sorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether
you like it or not," and he walked boldly forward.
As quick as lightning the man's head shot forward and his neck
stretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck the
Scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the
hill. Almost as quickly as it came the head went back to the body, and
the man laughed harshly as he said, "It isn't as easy as you think!"
A chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and Dorothy
saw hundreds of the armless Hammer-Heads upon the hillside, one behind
every rock.
The Lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the Scarecrow's
mishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder, he dashed up
the hill.
Again a head shot swiftly out, and the great Lion went rolling down the
hill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball.
Dorothy ran down and helped the Scarecrow to his feet, and the Lion
came up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said, "It is
useless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can withstand them."
"What can we do, then?" she asked.
"Call the Winged Monkeys," suggested the Tin Woodman. "You have still
the right to command them once more."
"Very well," she answered, and putting on the Golden Cap she uttered
the magic words. The Monkeys were as prompt as ever, and in a few
moments the entire band stood before her.
"What are your commands?" inquired the King of the Monkeys, bowing low.
"Carry us over the hill to the country of the Quadlings," answered the
girl.
"It shall be done," said the King, and at once the Winged Monkeys
caught the four travelers and Toto up in their arms and flew away with
them. As they passed over the hill the Hammer-Heads yelled with
vexation, and shot their heads high in the air, but they could not
reach the Winged Monkeys, which carried Dorothy and her comrades safely
over the hill and set them down in the beautiful country of the
Quadlings.
"This is the last time you can summon us," said the leader to Dorothy;
"so good-bye and good luck to you."
"Good-bye, and thank you very much," returned the girl; and the Monkeys
rose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling.
The country of the Quadlings seemed rich and happy. There was field
upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between,
and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them. The fences
and houses and bridges were all painted bright red, just as they had
been painted yellow in the country of the Winkies and blue in the
country of the Munchkins. The Quadlings themselves, who were short and
fat and looked chubby and good-natured, were dressed all in red, which
showed bright against the green grass and the yellowing grain.
The Monkeys had set them down near a farmhouse, and the four travelers
walked up to it and knocked at the door. It was opened by the farmer's
wife, and when Dorothy asked for something to eat the woman gave them
all a good dinner, with three kinds of cake and four kinds of cookies,
and a bowl of milk for Toto.
"How far is it to the Castle of Glinda?" asked the child.
"It is not a great way," answered the farmer's wife. "Take the road to
the South and you will soon reach it."
Thanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the fields
and across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a very
beautiful Castle. Before the gates were three young girls, dressed in
handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as Dorothy
approached, one of them said to her:
"Why have you come to the South Country?"
"To see the Good Witch who rules here," she answered. "Will you take
me to her?"
"Let me have your name, and I will ask Glinda if she will receive you."
They told who they were, and the girl soldier went into the Castle.
After a few moments she came back to say that Dorothy and the others
were to be admitted at once.
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of
the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the
Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself
into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his
joints.
When they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl
into a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies.
She was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was a rich
red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her
dress was pure white but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly
upon the little girl.
"What can I do for you, my child?" she asked.
Dorothy told the Witch all her story: how the cyclone had brought her
to the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions, and of the
wonderful adventures they had met with.
"My greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt
Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that
will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this
year than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it."
Glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving
little girl.
"Bless your dear heart," she said, "I am sure I can tell you of a way
to get back to Kansas." Then she added, "But, if I do, you must give
me the Golden Cap."
"Willingly!" exclaimed Dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to me now, and
when you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys three times."
"And I think I shall need their service just those three times,"
answered Glinda, smiling.
Dorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to the
Scarecrow, "What will you do when Dorothy has left us?"
"I will return to the Emerald City," he replied, "for Oz has made me
its ruler and the people like me. The only thing that worries me is
how to cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads."
"By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys to carry
you to the gates of the Emerald City," said Glinda, "for it would be a
shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler."
"Am I really wonderful?" asked the Scarecrow.
"You are unusual," replied Glinda.
Turning to the Tin Woodman, she asked, "What will become of you when
Dorothy leaves this country?"
He leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said, "The Winkies
were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the Wicked
Witch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I could get back again to
the Country of the West, I should like nothing better than to rule over
them forever."
"My second command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda "will be that
they carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your brain may not
be so large to look at as those of the Scarecrow, but you are really
brighter than he is--when you are well polished--and I am sure you will
rule the Winkies wisely and well."
Then the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked, "When Dorothy
has returned to her own home, what will become of you?"
"Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads," he answered, "lies a grand old
forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their King. If
I could only get back to this forest, I would pass my life very happily
there."
"My third command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "shall be to
carry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers of the
Golden Cap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys, that he and his
band may thereafter be free for evermore."
The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good
Witch earnestly for her kindness; and Dorothy exclaimed:
"You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have not yet
told me how to get back to Kansas."
"Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert," replied Glinda.
"If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em
the very first day you came to this country."
"But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!" cried the
Scarecrow. "I might have passed my whole life in the farmer's
cornfield."
"And I should not have had my lovely heart," said the Tin Woodman. "I
might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world."
"And I should have lived a coward forever," declared the Lion, "and no
beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me."
"This is all true," said Dorothy, "and I am glad I was of use to these
good friends. But now that each of them has had what he most desired,
and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule besides, I think I should
like to go back to Kansas."
"The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And
one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to
any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in
the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together
three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go."
"If that is so," said the child joyfully, "I will ask them to carry me
back to Kansas at once."
She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him, patting his
big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in
a way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed
body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face,
and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her
loving comrades.
Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little
girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she
had shown to her friends and herself.
Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last
good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times,
saying:
"Take me home to Aunt Em!"
Instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she
could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears.
The Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly
that she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where
she was.
At length, however, she sat up and looked about her.
"Good gracious!" she cried.
For she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just before her
was the new farmhouse Uncle Henry built after the cyclone had carried
away the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the cows in the barnyard,
and Toto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn,
barking furiously.
Dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet. For the
Silver Shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were
lost forever in the desert.
24. Home Again
Aunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she
looked up and saw Dorothy running toward her.
"My darling child!" she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and
covering her face with kisses. "Where in the world did you come from?"
"From the Land of Oz," said Dorothy gravely. "And here is Toto, too.
And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be at home again!"
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Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,602,578textDeclaration of Independence
In Congress, July 4, 1776
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.
He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.
Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
Georgia
Button Gwinnett
Lyman Hall
George Walton
North Carolina
William Hooper
Joseph Hewes
John Penn
South Carolina
Edward Rutledge
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Thomas Lynch, Jr.
Arthur Middleton
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John Hancock
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Samuel Chase
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Virginia
George Wythe
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Robert Morris
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William Floyd
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Matthew Thornton
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,601,429textTHE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH
by William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personae
DUNCAN, King of Scotland
MACBETH, Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, a general in the King's
army
LADY MACBETH, his wife
MACDUFF, Thane of Fife, a nobleman of Scotland
LADY MACDUFF, his wife
MALCOLM, elder son of Duncan
DONALBAIN, younger son of Duncan
BANQUO, Thane of Lochaber, a general in the King's army
FLEANCE, his son
LENNOX, nobleman of Scotland
ROSS, nobleman of Scotland
MENTEITH nobleman of Scotland
ANGUS, nobleman of Scotland
CAITHNESS, nobleman of Scotland
SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces
YOUNG SIWARD, his son
SEYTON, attendant to Macbeth
HECATE, Queen of the Witches
The Three Witches
Boy, Son of Macduff
Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth
An English Doctor
A Scottish Doctor
A Sergeant
A Porter
An Old Man
The Ghost of Banquo and other Apparitions
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murtherers, Attendants,
and Messengers
<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
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SCENE: Scotland and England
ACT I. SCENE I.
A desert place. Thunder and lightning.
Enter three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun.
FIRST WITCH. Where the place?
SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath.
THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth.
FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin.
ALL. Paddock calls. Anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A camp near Forres. Alarum within.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants,
meeting a bleeding Sergeant.
DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report,
As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt
The newest state.
MALCOLM. This is the sergeant
Who like a good and hardy soldier fought
'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!
Say to the King the knowledge of the broil
As thou didst leave it.
SERGEANT. Doubtful it stood,
As two spent swimmers that do cling together
And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald-
Worthy to be a rebel, for to that
The multiplying villainies of nature
Do swarm upon him -from the Western Isles
Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied;
And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,
Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak;
For brave Macbeth -well he deserves that name-
Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish'd steel,
Which smoked with bloody execution,
Like Valor's minion carved out his passage
Till he faced the slave,
Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,
Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,
And fix'd his head upon our battlements.
DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! Worthy gentleman!
SERGEANT. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection
Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,
So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come
Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark.
No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd,
Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels,
But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage,
With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men,
Began a fresh assault.
DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this
Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo.?
SERGEANT. Yes,
As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.
If I say sooth, I must report they were
As cannons overcharged with double cracks,
So they
Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe.
Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,
Or memorize another Golgotha,
I cannot tell-
But I am faint; my gashes cry for help.
DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;
They smack of honor both. Go get him surgeons.
Exit Sergeant, attended.
Who comes here?
Enter Ross.
MALCOLM The worthy Thane of Ross.
LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look
That seems to speak things strange.
ROSS. God save the King!
DUNCAN. Whence camest thou, worthy Thane?
ROSS. From Fife, great King,
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky
And fan our people cold.
Norway himself, with terrible numbers,
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict,
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm,
Curbing his lavish spirit; and, to conclude,
The victory fell on us.
DUNCAN. Great happiness!
ROSS. That now
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition;
Nor would we deign him burial of his men
Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's Inch,
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death,
And with his former title greet Macbeth.
ROSS. I'll see it done.
DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A heath. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister?
SECOND WITCH. Killing swine.
THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou?
FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd. "Give me," quoth I.
"Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master the Tiger;
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.
SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind.
FIRST WITCH. Thou'rt kind.
THIRD WITCH. And I another.
FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other,
And the very ports they blow,
All the quarters that they know
I' the shipman's card.
I will drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid;
He shall live a man forbid.
Weary se'nnights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine;
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-toss'd.
Look what I have.
SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me.
FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb,
Wreck'd as homeward he did come. Drum within.
THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come.
ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about,
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
And thrice again, to make up nine.
Peace! The charm's wound up.
Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips. You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
MACBETH. Speak, if you can. What are you?
FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!
THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter!
BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace and great prediction
Of noble having and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not.
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not,
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear
Your favors nor your hate.
FIRST WITCH. Hail!
SECOND WITCH. Hail!
THIRD WITCH. Hail!
FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier.
THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none.
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more.
By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and to be King
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence, or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.
Witches vanish.
BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles as the water has,
And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd?
MACBETH. Into the air, and what seem'd corporal melted
As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd!
BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH. Your children shall be kings.
BANQUO. You shall be King.
MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too. Went it not so?
BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here?
Enter Ross and Angus.
ROSS. The King hath happily received, Macbeth,
The news of thy success; and when he reads
Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight,
His wonders and his praises do contend
Which should be thine or his. Silenced with that,
In viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day,
He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make,
Strange images of death. As thick as hail
Came post with post, and every one did bear
Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense,
And pour'd them down before him.
ANGUS. We are sent
To give thee, from our royal master, thanks;
Only to herald thee into his sight,
Not pay thee.
ROSS. And for an earnest of a greater honor,
He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor.
In which addition, hail, most worthy Thane,
For it is thine.
BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true?
MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives. Why do you dress me
In borrow'd robes?
ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet,
But under heavy judgement bears that life
Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined
With those of Norway, or did line the rebel
With hidden help and vantage, or that with both
He labor'd in his country's wreck, I know not;
But treasons capital, confess'd and proved,
Have overthrown him.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor!
The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus] Thanks for your
pains.
[Aside to Banquo] Do you not hope your children shall be
kings,
When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me
Promised no less to them?
BANQUO. [Aside to Macbeth.] That, trusted home,
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,
Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange;
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence-
Cousins, a word, I pray you.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme-I thank you, gentlemen.
[Aside.] This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature? Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is
But what is not.
BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt.
MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me King, why, chance may
crown me
Without my stir.
BANQUO. New honors come upon him,
Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould
But with the aid of use.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.
MACBETH. Give me your favor; my dull brain was wrought
With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are register'd where every day I turn
The leaf to read them. Let us toward the King.
Think upon what hath chanced, and at more time,
The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak
Our free hearts each to other.
BANQUO. Very gladly.
MACBETH. Till then, enough. Come, friends. Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Forres. The palace.
Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and
Attendants.
DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not
Those in commission yet return'd?
MALCOLM. My liege,
They are not yet come back. But I have spoke
With one that saw him die, who did report
That very frankly he confess'd his treasons,
Implored your Highness' pardon, and set forth
A deep repentance. Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it; he died
As one that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the dearest thing he owed
As 'twere a careless trifle.
DUNCAN. There's no art
To find the mind's construction in the face:
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.
Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.
O worthiest cousin!
The sin of my ingratitude even now
Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before,
That swiftest wing of recompense is slow
To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! Only I have left to say,
More is thy due than more than all can pay.
MACBETH. The service and the loyalty lowe,
In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness' part
Is to receive our duties, and our duties
Are to your throne and state, children and servants,
Which do but what they should, by doing everything
Safe toward your love and honor.
DUNCAN. Welcome hither.
I have begun to plant thee, and will labor
To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
That hast no less deserved, nor must be known
No less to have done so; let me infold thee
And hold thee to my heart.
BANQUO. There if I grow,
The harvest is your own.
DUNCAN. My plenteous joys,
Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves
In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes,
And you whose places are the nearest, know
We will establish our estate upon
Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter
The Prince of Cumberland; which honor must
Not unaccompanied invest him only,
But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine
On all deservers. From hence to Inverness,
And bind us further to you.
MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not used for you.
I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful
The hearing of my wife with your approach;
So humbly take my leave.
DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor!
MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap,
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. Exit.
DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant,
And in his commendations I am fed;
It is a banquet to me. Let's after him,
Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome.
It is a peerless kinsman. Flourish. Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Inverness. Macbeth's castle.
Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.
LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success, and I have
learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than
mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them
further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished.
Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from
the
King, who all-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title,
before, these weird sisters saluted me and referred me to the
coming on of time with 'Hail, King that shalt be!' This have
I
thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of
greatness,
that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being
ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy
heart,
and farewell."
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature.
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'ldst have, great Glamis,
That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do
Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,
And chastise with the valor of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.
Enter a Messenger.
What is your tidings?
MESSENGER. The King comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it!
Is not thy master with him? who, were't so,
Would have inform'd for preparation.
MESSENGER. So please you, it is true; our Thane is coming.
One of my fellows had the speed of him,
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.
LADY MACBETH. Give him tending;
He brings great news. Exit Messenger.
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, your murthering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, "Hold, hold!"
Enter Macbeth.
Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.
MACBETH. My dearest love,
Duncan comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence?
MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes.
LADY MACBETH. O, never
Shall sun that morrow see!
Your face, my Thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it. He that's coming
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night's great business into my dispatch,
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
MACBETH. We will speak further.
LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear;
To alter favor ever is to fear.
Leave all the rest to me. Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Before Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross,
Angus,
and Attendants.
DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
BANQUO. This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle;
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
The air is delicate.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
DUNCAN. See, see, our honor'd hostess!
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble,
Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you
How you shall bid God 'ield us for your pains,
And thank us for your trouble.
LADY MACBETH. All our service
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business to contend
Against those honors deep and broad wherewith
Your Majesty loads our house. For those of old,
And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We rest your hermits.
DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose
To be his purveyor; but he rides well,
And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess,
We are your guest tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,
To make their audit at your Highness' pleasure,
Still to return your own.
DUNCAN. Give me your hand;
Conduct me to mine host. We love him highly,
And shall continue our graces towards him.
By your leave, hostess. Exeunt.
SCENE VII
Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches.
Enter a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service, who
pass over
the stage. Then enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly. If the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch,
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all -here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgement here, that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which being taught return
To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murtherer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued against
The deep damnation of his taking-off,
And pity, like a naked new-born babe
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
How now, what news?
LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd. Why have you left the
chamber?
MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me?
LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has?
MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business:
He hath honor'd me of late, and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people,
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Not cast aside so soon.
LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk
Wherein you dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valor
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would"
Like the poor cat i' the adage?
MACBETH. Prithee, peace!
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.
LADY MACBETH. What beast wast then
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both.
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you. I have given suck and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me-
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums
And dash'd the brains out had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.
MACBETH. If we should fail?
LADY MACBETH. We fail?
But screw your courage to the sticking-place
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep-
Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him- his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince
That memory, the warder of the brain,
Shall be a fume and the receipt of reason
A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
The unguarded Duncan? What not put upon
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?
MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only,
For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males. Will it not be received,
When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,
That they have done't?
LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other,
As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar
Upon his death?
MACBETH. I am settled and bend up
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show:
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Exeunt.
<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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ACT II. SCENE I.
Inverness. Court of Macbeth's castle.
Enter Banquo and Fleance, bearing a torch before him.
BANQUO. How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve.
FLEANCE. I take't 'tis later, sir.
BANQUO. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven,
Their candles are all out. Take thee that too.
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose!
Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.
Give me my sword.
Who's there?
MACBETH. A friend.
BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King's abed.
He hath been in unusual pleasure and
Sent forth great largess to your offices.
This diamond he greets your wife withal,
By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up
In measureless content.
MACBETH. Being unprepared,
Our will became the servant to defect,
Which else should free have wrought.
BANQUO. All's well.
I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:
To you they have show'd some truth.
MACBETH. I think not of them;
Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,
We would spend it in some words upon that business,
If you would grant the time.
BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure.
MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,
It shall make honor for you.
BANQUO. So I lose none
In seeking to augment it, but still keep
My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,
I shall be counsel'd.
MACBETH. Good repose the while.
BANQUO. Thanks, sir, the like to you.
Exeunt Banquo. and Fleance.
MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Exit Servant.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murther,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
A bell rings.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit.
SCENE II.
The same.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me
bold;
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugg'd their
possets
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.
MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there' what, ho!
LADY MACBETH. Alack, I am afraid they have awaked
And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done't.
Enter Macbeth,
My husband!
MACBETH. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?
LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?
MACBETH. When?
LADY MACBETH. Now.
MACBETH. As I descended?
LADY MACBETH. Ay.
MACBETH. Hark!
Who lies i' the second chamber?
LADY MACBETH. Donalbain.
MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looks on his hands.
LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
MACBETH. There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried,
"Murther!"
That they did wake each other. I stood and heard them,
But they did say their prayers and address'd them
Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH. There are two lodged together.
MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen" the other,
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen,"
When they did say, "God bless us!"
LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply.
MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.
LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murther sleep" -the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravel'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast-
LADY MACBETH. What do you mean?
MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house;
"Glamis hath murther'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more."
LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy Thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things. Go, get some water
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there. Go carry them, and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
MACBETH. I'll go no more.
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.
LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt. Exit. Knocking within.
MACBETH. Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
Re-enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking
At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber.
A little water clears us of this deed.
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.] Hark, more
knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us
And show us to be watchers. Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.
Knocking within.
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The same.
Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of Hell
Gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking within.]
Knock, knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub?
Here's
a farmer that hanged himself on th' expectation of plenty.
Come
in time! Have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat fort.
[Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in th' other
devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator that could swear
in
both the scales against either scale, who committed treason
enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. O,
come in, equivocator. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock!
Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for
stealing out of a French hose. Come in, tailor; here you may
roast your goose. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Never at
quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell.
I'll
devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some
of
all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting
bonfire. [Knocking within.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember
the
porter.
Opens the gate.
Enter Macduff and Lennox.
MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
That you do lie so late?
PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and
drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke?
PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery,
sir,
it provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it
takes
away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be
an
equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it
sets
him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him and
disheartens
him; makes him stand to and not stand to; in conclusion,
equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves
him.
MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat on me; but
requited
him for his lie, and, I think, being too strong for him,
though
he took up my legs sometime, yet I made shift to cast him.
MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?
Enter Macbeth.
Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes.
LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir.
MACBETH. morrow, both.
MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
MACBETH. Not yet.
MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him;
I have almost slipp'd the hour.
MACBETH. I'll bring you to him.
MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you,
But yet 'tis one.
MACBETH. The labor we delight in physics pain.
This is the door.
MACDUFF I'll make so bold to call,
For 'tis my limited service. Exit.
LENNOX. Goes the King hence today?
MACBETH. He does; he did appoint so.
LENNOX. The night has been unruly. Where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death,
And prophesying with accents terrible
Of dire combustion and confused events
New hatch'd to the woeful time. The obscure bird
Clamor'd the livelong night. Some say the earth
Was feverous and did shake.
MACBETH. 'Twas a rough fight.
LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.
Re-enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart
Cannot conceive nor name thee.
MACBETH. LENNOX. What's the matter?
MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
Most sacrilegious murther hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple and stole thence
The life o' the building.
MACBETH. What is't you say? the life?
LENNOX. Mean you his Majesty?
MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak;
See, and then speak yourselves.
Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.
Awake, awake!
Ring the alarum bell. Murther and treason!
Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm, awake!
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on death itself! Up, up, and see
The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo!
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites
To countenance this horror! Ring the bell. Bell rings.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. What's the business,
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!
MACDUFF. O gentle lady,
'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak:
The repetition in a woman's ear
Would murther as it fell.
Enter Banquo.
O Banquo, Banquo!
Our royal master's murther'd.
LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas!
What, in our house?
BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere.
Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself,
And say it is not so.
Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.
MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance,
I had lived a blessed time, for from this instant
There's nothing serious in mortality.
All is but toys; renown and grace is dead,
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.
Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.
DONALBAIN. What is amiss?
MACBETH. You are, and do not know't.
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood
Is stopped, the very source of it is stopp'd.
MACDUFF. Your royal father's murther'd.
MALCOLM. O, by whom?
LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't.
Their hands and faces were all badged with blood;
So were their daggers, which unwiped we found
Upon their pillows.
They stared, and were distracted; no man's life
Was to be trusted with them.
MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.
MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so?
MACBETH. Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
The expedition of my violent love
Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin laced with his golden blood,
And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature
For ruin's wasteful entrance; there, the murtherers,
Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers
Unmannerly breech'd with gore. Who could refrain,
That had a heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make 's love known?
LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho!
MACDUFF. Look to the lady.
MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Why do we hold our tongues,
That most may claim this argument for ours?
DONALBAIN. [Aside to Malcolm.] What should be spoken here,
where
our fate,
Hid in an auger hole, may rush and seize us?
Let's away,
Our tears are not yet brew'd.
MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Nor our strong sorrow
Upon the foot of motion.
BANQUO. Look to the lady.
Lady Macbeth is carried out.
And when we have our naked frailties hid,
That suffer in exposure, let us meet
And question this most bloody piece of work
To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us.
In the great hand of God I stand, and thence
Against the undivulged pretense I fight
Of treasonous malice.
MACDUFF. And so do I.
ALL. So all.
MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness
And meet i' the hall together.
ALL. Well contented.
Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.
MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them.
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office
Which the false man does easy. I'll to England.
DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune
Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are
There's daggers in men's smiles; the near in blood,
The nearer bloody.
MALCOLM. This murtherous shaft that's shot
Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse;
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,
But shift away. There's warrant in that theft
Which steals itself when there's no mercy left.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Outside Macbeth's castle.
Enter Ross with an Old Man.
OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
Within the volume of which time I have seen
Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings.
ROSS. Ah, good father,
Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man's act,
Threaten his bloody stage. By the clock 'tis day,
And yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp.
Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame,
That darkness does the face of earth entomb,
When living light should kiss it?
OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural,
Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last
A falcon towering in her pride of place
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.
ROSS. And Duncan's horses-a thing most strange and certain-
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make
War with mankind.
OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other.
ROSS. They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes
That look'd upon't.
Enter Macduff.
Here comes the good Macduff.
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF. Why, see you not?
ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS. Alas, the day!
What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF. They were suborn'd:
Malcolm and Donalbain, the King's two sons,
Are stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them
Suspicion of the deed.
ROSS. 'Gainst nature still!
Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up
Thine own life's means! Then 'tis most like
The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.
MACDUFF. He is already named, and gone to Scone
To be invested.
ROSS. Where is Duncan's body?
MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill,
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors
And guardian of their bones.
ROSS. Will you to Scone?
MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife.
ROSS. Well, I will thither.
MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there.
Adieu,
Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!
ROSS. Farewell, father.
OLD MAN. God's benison go with you and with those
That would make good of bad and friends of foes!
Exeunt.
<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITY
WITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>
ACT III. SCENE I.
Forres. The palace.
Enter Banquo.
BANQUO. Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
As the weird women promised, and I fear
Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said
It should not stand in thy posterity,
But that myself should be the root and father
Of many kings. If there come truth from them
(As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine)
Why, by the verities on thee made good,
May they not be my oracles as well
And set me up in hope? But hush, no more.
Sennet sounds. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth
as Queen, Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.
MACBETH. Here's our chief guest.
LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten,
It had been as a gap in our great feast
And all thing unbecoming.
MACBETH. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir,
And I'll request your presence.
BANQUO. Let your Highness
Command upon me, to the which my duties
Are with a most indissoluble tie
Forever knit.
MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH. We should have else desired your good advice,
Which still hath been both grave and prosperous
In this day's council; but we'll take tomorrow.
Is't far you ride'!
BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time
'Twixt this and supper. Go not my horse the better,
I must become a borrower of the night
For a dark hour or twain.
MACBETH. Fail not our feast.
BANQUO. My lord, I will not.
MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd
In England and in Ireland, not confessing
Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers
With strange invention. But of that tomorrow,
When therewithal we shall have cause of state
Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse; adieu,
Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. Our time does call upon 's.
MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot,
And so I do commend you to their backs.
Farewell. Exit Banquo.
Let every man be master of his time
Till seven at night; to make society
The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself
Till supper time alone. While then, God be with you!
Exeunt all but Macbeth and an Attendant.
Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men
Our pleasure?
ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate.
MACBETH. Bring them before us. Exit Attendant.
To be thus is nothing,
But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo.
Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature
Reigns that which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,
He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor
To act in safety. There is none but he
Whose being I do fear; and under him
My genius is rebuked, as it is said
Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters
When first they put the name of King upon me
And bade them speak to him; then prophet-like
They hail'd him father to a line of kings.
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding. If't be so,
For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind,
For them the gracious Duncan have I murther'd,
Put rancors in the vessel of my peace
Only for them, and mine eternal jewel
Given to the common enemy of man,
To make them kings -the seed of Banquo kings!
Rather than so, come, Fate, into the list,
And champion me to the utterance! Who's there?
Re-enter Attendant, with two Murtherers.
Now go to the door, and stay there till we call.
Exit Attendant.
Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
FIRST MURTHERER. It was, so please your Highness.
MACBETH. Well then, now
Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know
That it was he in the times past which held you
So under fortune, which you thought had been
Our innocent self? This I made good to you
In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you:
How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments,
Who wrought with them, and all things else that might
To half a soul and to a notion crazed
Say, "Thus did Banquo."
FIRST MURTHERER. You made it known to us.
MACBETH. I did so, and went further, which is now
Our point of second meeting. Do you find
Your patience so predominant in your nature,
That you can let this go? Are you so gospel'd,
To pray for this good man and for his issue,
Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave
And beggar'd yours forever?
FIRST MURTHERER. We are men, my liege.
MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men,
As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, waterrugs, and demi-wolves are clept
All by the name of dogs. The valued file
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
The housekeeper, the hunter, every one
According to the gift which bounteous nature
Hath in him closed, whereby he does receive
Particular addition, from the bill
That writes them all alike; and so of men.
Now if you have a station in the file,
Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it,
And I will put that business in your bosoms
Whose execution takes your enemy off,
Grapples you to the heart and love of us,
Who wear our health but sickly in his life,
Which in his death were perfect.
SECOND MURTHERER. I am one, my liege,
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have so incensed that I am reckless what
I do to spite the world.
FIRST MURTHERER. And I another
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it or be rid on't.
MACBETH. Both of you
Know Banquo was your enemy.
BOTH MURTHERERS. True, my lord.
MACBETH. So is he mine, and in such bloody distance
That every minute of his being thrusts
Against my near'st of life; and though I could
With barefaced power sweep him from my sight
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine,
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall
Who I myself struck down. And thence it is
That I to your assistance do make love,
Masking the business from the common eye
For sundry weighty reasons.
SECOND MURTHERER. We shall, my lord,
Perform what you command us.
FIRST MURTHERER. Though our lives-
MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at
most
I will advise you where to plant yourselves,
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
The moment on't; fort must be done tonight
And something from the palace (always thought
That I require a clearness); and with him-
To leave no rubs nor botches in the work-
Fleance his son, that keeps him company,
Whose absence is no less material to me
Than is his father's, must embrace the fate
Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart;
I'll come to you anon.
BOTH MURTHERERS. We are resolved, my lord.
MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight. Abide within.
Exeunt Murtherers.
It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul's flight,
If it find heaven, must find it out tonight. Exit.
SCENE II.
The palace.
Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.
LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court?
SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Say to the King I would attend his leisure
For a few words.
SERVANT. Madam, I will. Exit.
LADY MACBETH. Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content.
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Enter Macbeth.
How now, my lord? Why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making,
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard. What's done is done.
MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it.
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.
LADY MACBETH. Come on,
Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight.
MACBETH. So shall I, love, and so, I pray, be you.
Let your remembrance apply to Banquo;
Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue:
Unsafe the while, that we
Must lave our honors in these flattering streams,
And make our faces vizards to our hearts,
Disguising what they are.
LADY MACBETH. You must leave this.
MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know'st that Banquo and his Fleance lives.
LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne.
MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable.
Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons
The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.
LADY MACBETH. What's to be done?
MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,
And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond
Which keeps me pale! Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood;
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Thou marvel'st at my words, but hold thee still:
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
So, prithee, go with me. Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A park near the palace.
Enter three Murtherers.
FIRST MURTHERER. But who did bid thee join with us?
THIRD MURTHERER. Macbeth.
SECOND MURTHERER. He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers
Our offices and what we have to do
To the direction just.
FIRST MURTHERER. Then stand with us.
The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day;
Now spurs the lated traveler apace
To gain the timely inn, and near approaches
The subject of our watch.
THIRD MURTHERER. Hark! I hear horses.
BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho!
SECOND MURTHERER. Then 'tis he; the rest
That are within the note of expectation
Already are i' the court.
FIRST MURTHERER. His horses go about.
THIRD MURTHERER. Almost a mile, but he does usually-
So all men do -from hence to the palace gate
Make it their walk.
SECOND MURTHERER. A light, a light!
Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.
THIRD MURTHERER. 'Tis he.
FIRST MURTHERER. Stand to't.
BANQUO. It will be rain tonight.
FIRST MURTHERER. Let it come down.
They set upon Banquo.
BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!
Thou mayst revenge. O slave! Dies. Fleance escapes.
THIRD MURTHERER. Who did strike out the light?
FIRST MURTHERER. Wast not the way?
THIRD MURTHERER. There's but one down; the son is fled.
SECOND MURTHERER. We have lost
Best half of our affair.
FIRST MURTHERER. Well, let's away and say how much is done.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A Hall in the palace. A banquet prepared.
Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.
MACBETH. You know your own degrees; sit down. At first
And last the hearty welcome.
LORDS. Thanks to your Majesty.
MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society
And play the humble host.
Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time
We will require her welcome.
LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends,
For my heart speaks they are welcome.
Enter first Murtherer to the door.
MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.
Both sides are even; here I'll sit i' the midst.
Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure
The table round. [Approaches the door.] There's blood upon
thy
face.
MURTHERER. 'Tis Banquo's then.
MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within.
Is he dispatch'd?
MURTHERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats! Yet he's good
That did the like for Fleance. If thou didst it,
Thou art the nonpareil.
MURTHERER. Most royal sir,
Fleance is 'scaped.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Then comes my fit again. I had else been
perfect,
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock,
As broad and general as the casing air;
But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears -But Banquo's safe?
MURTHERER. Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched gashes on his head,
The least a death to nature.
MACBETH. Thanks for that.
There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled
Hath nature that in time will venom breed,
No teeth for the present. Get thee gone. Tomorrow
We'll hear ourselves again.
Exit Murtherer.
LADY MACBETH. My royal lord,
You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold
That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis amaking,
'Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home;
From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony;
Meeting were bare without it.
MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!
Now good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both!
LENNOX. May't please your Highness sit.
The Ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place.
MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd,
Were the graced person of our Banquo present,
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness
Than pity for mischance!
ROSS. His absence, sir,
Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your Highness
To grace us with your royal company?
MACBETH. The table's full.
LENNOX. Here is a place reserved, sir.
MACBETH. Where?
LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your Highness?
MACBETH. Which of you have done this?
LORDS. What, my good lord?
MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it; never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is well.
LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends; my lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep seat.
The fit is momentary; upon a thought
He will again be well. If much you note him,
You shall offend him and extend his passion.
Feed, and regard him not-Are you a man?
MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.
LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fear;
This is the air-drawn dagger which you said
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts,
Impostors to true fear, would well become
A woman's story at a winter's fire,
Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.
MACBETH. Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you?
Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.
If charnel houses and our graves must send
Those that we bury back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites. Exit Ghost.
LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly?
MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him.
LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame!
MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murthers have been perform'd
Too terrible for the ear. The time has been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murthers on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murther is.
LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord,
Your noble friends do lack you.
MACBETH. I do forget.
Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends.
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all;
Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine, fill full.
I drink to the general joy o' the whole table,
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss.
Would he were here! To all and him we thirst,
And all to all.
LORDS. Our duties and the pledge.
Re-enter Ghost.
MACBETH. Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.
LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers,
But as a thing of custom. 'Tis no other,
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
MACBETH. What man dare, I dare.
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble. Or be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword.
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence! Exit Ghost.
Why, so, being gone,
I am a man again. Pray you sit still.
LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good
meeting,
With most admired disorder.
MACBETH. Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder? You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe
When now I think you can behold such sights
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks
When mine is blanch'd with fear.
ROSS. What sights, my lord?
LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;
Question enrages him. At once, good night.
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.
LENNOX. Good night, and better health
Attend his Majesty!
LADY MACBETH. A kind good night to all!
Exeunt all but Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.
MACBETH. will have blood; they say blood will have blood.
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak;
Augures and understood relations have
By maggot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret'st man of blood. What is the night?
LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person
At our great bidding?
LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir?
MACBETH. I hear it by the way, but I will send.
There's not a one of them but in his house
I keep a servant feed. I will tomorrow,
And betimes I will, to the weird sisters.
More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good
All causes shall give way. I am in blood
Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Strange things I have in head that will to hand,
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.
LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use.
We are yet but young in deed. Exeunt.
SCENE V.
A heath. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.
FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? You look angerly.
HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are,
Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth
In riddles and affairs of death,
And I, the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never call'd to bear my part,
Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now. Get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i' the morning. Thither he
Will come to know his destiny.
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms and everything beside.
I am for the air; this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal and a fatal end.
Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground.
And that distill'd by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites
As by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion.
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear.
And you all know security
Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
Music and a song within,
"Come away, come away."
Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. Exit.
FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again.
Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Forres. The palace.
Enter Lennox and another Lord.
LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts,
Which can interpret farther; only I say
Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
Was pitied of Macbeth; marry, he was dead.
And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd,
For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late.
Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain
To kill their gracious father? Damned fact!
How it did grieve Macbeth! Did he not straight,
In pious rage, the two delinquents tear
That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep?
Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too,
For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive
To hear the men deny't. So that, I say,
He has borne all things well; and I do think
That, had he Duncan's sons under his key-
As, an't please heaven, he shall not -they should find
What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance.
But, peace! For from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd
His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear,
Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
Where he bestows himself?
LORD. The son of Duncan,
From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth,
Lives in the English court and is received
Of the most pious Edward with such grace
That the malevolence of fortune nothing
Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff
Is gone to pray the holy King, upon his aid
To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward;
That by the help of these, with Him above
To ratify the work, we may again
Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights,
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives,
Do faithful homage, and receive free honors-
All which we pine for now. And this report
Hath so exasperate the King that he
Prepares for some attempt of war.
LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff?
LORD. He did, and with an absolute "Sir, not I,"
The cloudy messenger turns me his back,
And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time
That clogs me with this answer."
LENNOX. And that well might
Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance
His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel
Fly to the court of England and unfold
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing
May soon return to this our suffering country
Under a hand accursed!
LORD. I'll send my prayers with him.
Exeunt.
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ACT IV. SCENE I.
A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
SECOND WITCH. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.
THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries, "'Tis time, 'tis time."
FIRST WITCH. Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab.
Add thereto a tiger's chawdron,
For the ingredients of our cawdron.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Enter Hecate to the other three Witches.
HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains,
And everyone shall share i' the gains.
And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.
Music and a song, "Black spirits."
Hecate retires.
SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?
What is't you do?
ALL. A deed without a name.
MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess
(Howeer you come to know it) answer me:
Though you untie the winds and let them fight
Against the churches, though the yesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up,
Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down,
Though castles topple on their warders' heads,
Though palaces and pyramids do slope
Their heads to their foundations, though the treasure
Of nature's germaines tumble all together
Even till destruction sicken, answer me
To what I ask you.
FIRST WITCH. Speak.
SECOND WITCH. Demand.
THIRD WITCH. We'll answer.
FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths,
Or from our masters'?
MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em.
FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood that hath eaten
Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten
From the murtherer's gibbet throw
Into the flame.
ALL. Come, high or low;
Thyself and office deftly show!
Thunder. First Apparition: an armed Head.
MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power-
FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought:
Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
FIRST APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff,
Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.
Descends.
MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;
Thou hast harp'd my fear aright. But one word more-
FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded. Here's another,
More potent than the first.
Thunder. Second Apparition: a bloody Child.
SECOND APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee.
SECOND APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to
scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth. Descends.
MACBETH. Then live, Macduff. What need I fear of thee?
But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live,
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder.
Thunder. Third Apparition: a Child crowned,
with a tree in his hand.
What is this,
That rises like the issue of a king,
And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty?
ALL. Listen, but speak not to't.
THIRD APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are.
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him. Descends.
MACBETH. That will never be.
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good!
Rebellion's head, rise never till the Wood
Of Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art
Can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever
Reign in this kingdom?
ALL. Seek to know no more.
MACBETH. I will be satisfied! Deny me this,
And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.
Why sinks that cauldron, and what noise is this?
Hautboys.
FIRST WITCH. Show!
SECOND WITCH. Show!
THIRD. WITCH. Show!
ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart!
A show of eight Kings, the last with a glass in his hand;
Banquo's Ghost following.
MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo Down!
Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs. And thy hair,
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first.
A third is like the former. Filthy hags!
Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes!
What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet! A seventh! I'll see no more!
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass
Which shows me many more; and some I see
That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry.
Horrible sight! Now I see 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his. What, is this so?
FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so. But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights.
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round,
That this great King may kindly say
Our duties did his welcome pay.
Music. The Witches dance and
then vanish with Hecate.
MACBETH. are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour
Stand ay accursed in the calendar!
Come in, without there!
Enter Lennox.
LENNOX. What's your Grace's will?
MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters?
LENNOX. No, my lord.
MACBETH. Came they not by you?
LENNOX. No indeed, my lord.
MACBETH. Infected be the 'air whereon they ride,
And damn'd all those that trust them! I did hear
The galloping of horse. Who wast came by?
LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word
Macduff is fled to England.
MACBETH. Fled to England?
LENNOX. Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits.
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook
Unless the deed go with it. From this moment
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand. And even now,
To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:
The castle of Macduff I will surprise,
Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o' the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.
But no more sights! -Where are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are. Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Fife. Macduff's castle.
Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.
LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land?
ROSS. You must have patience, madam.
LADY MACDUFF. He had none;
His flight was madness. When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.
ROSS. You know not
Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.
LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom? To leave his wife, to leave his babes,
His mansion, and his titles, in a place
From whence himself does fly? He loves us not;
He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
All is the fear and nothing is the love;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason.
ROSS. My dearest coz,
I pray you, school yourself. But for your husband,
He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows
The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further;
But cruel are the times when we are traitors
And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumor
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear,
But float upon a wild and violent sea
Each way and move. I take my leave of you;
Shall not be long but I'll be here again.
Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward
To what they were before. My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!
LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.
ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace and your discomfort.
I take my leave at once. Exit.
LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead.
And what will you do now? How will you live?
SON. As birds do, Mother.
LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies?
SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they.
LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! Thou'ldst never fear the net nor lime,
The pitfall nor the gin.
SON. Why should I, Mother? Poor birds they are not set for.
My father is not dead, for all your saying.
LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead. How wilt thou do for father?
SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.
SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.
LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit, and yet, i'
faith,
With wit enough for thee.
SON. Was my father a traitor, Mother?
LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was.
SON. What is a traitor?
LADY MACDUFF. Why one that swears and lies.
SON. And be all traitors that do so?
LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor and must be
hanged.
SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?
LADY MACDUFF. Everyone.
SON. Who must hang them?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men.
SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars
and
swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.
LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt
thou do
for a father?
SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him; if you would not, it
were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.
LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,
Though in your state of honor I am perfect.
I doubt some danger does approach you nearly.
If you will take a homely man's advice,
Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.
To fright you thus, methinks I am too savage;
To do worse to you were fell cruelty,
Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!
I dare abide no longer. Exit.
LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly?
I have done no harm. But I remember now
I am in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable, to do good sometime
Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas,
Do I put up that womanly defense,
To say I have done no harm -What are these faces?
Enter Murtherers.
FIRST MURTHERER. Where is your husband?
LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified
Where such as thou mayst find him.
FIRST MURTHERER. He's a traitor.
SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear'd villain!
FIRST MURTHERER. What, you egg!
Stabs him.
Young fry of treachery!
SON. He has kill'd me, Mother.
Run away, I pray you! Dies.
Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murther!"
Exeunt Murtherers, following her.
SCENE III.
England. Before the King's palace.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
MACDUFF. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men
Bestride our downfall'n birthdom. Each new morn
New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolor.
MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wall;
What know, believe; and what I can redress,
As I shall find the time to friend, I will.
What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
Was once thought honest. You have loved him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but something
You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb
To appease an angry god.
MACDUFF. I am not treacherous.
MALCOLM. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon;
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so.
MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes.
MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left you wife and child,
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking? I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonors,
But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare not check thee. Wear thou thy wrongs;
The title is affeer'd. Fare thee well, lord.
I would not be the villain that thou think'st
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp
And the rich East to boot.
MALCOLM. Be not offended;
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds. I think withal
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here from gracious England have I offer
Of goodly thousands. But for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before,
More suffer and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.
MACDUFF. What should he be?
MALCOLM. It is myself I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state
Esteem him as a lamb, being compared
With my confineless harms.
MACDUFF. Not in the legions
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd
In evils to top Macbeth.
MALCOLM. I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin
That has a name. But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids could not fill up
The cestern of my lust, and my desire
All continent impediments would o'erbear
That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth
Than such an one to reign.
MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours. You may
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclined.
MALCOLM. With this there grows
In my most ill-composed affection such
A stanchless avarice that, were I King,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands,
Desire his jewels and this other's house,
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more, that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
MACDUFF. This avarice
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will
Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other graces weigh'd.
MALCOLM. But I have none. The king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them, but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland!
MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
I am as I have spoken.
MACDUFF. Fit to govern?
No, not to live. O nation miserable!
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accursed
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!
These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself
Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast,
Thy hope ends here!
MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts
To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath sought to win me
Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous haste. But God above
Deal between thee and me! For even now
I put myself to thy direction and
Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman, never was forsworn,
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my faith, would not betray
The devil to his fellow, and delight
No less in truth than life. My first false speaking
Was this upon myself. What I am truly
Is thine and my poor country's to command.
Whither indeed, before thy here-approach,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men
Already at a point, was setting forth.
Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
'Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter a Doctor.
MALCOLM. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you?
DOCTOR. Ay, sir, there are a crew of wretched souls
That stay his cure. Their malady convinces
The great assay of art, but at his touch,
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They presently amend.
MALCOLM. I thank you, Doctor. Exit Doctor.
MACDUFF. What's the disease he means?
MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil:
A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often, since my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven,
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,
All swol'n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks
Put on with holy prayers; and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,
And sundry blessings hang about his throne
That speak him full of grace.
Enter Ross.
MACDUFF. See, who comes here?
MALCOLM. My countryman, but yet I know him not.
MACDUFF. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither.
MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove
The means that makes us strangers!
ROSS. Sir, amen.
MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did?
ROSS. Alas, poor country,
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave. Where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy. The dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd for who, and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying or ere they sicken.
MACDUFF. O, relation
Too nice, and yet too true!
MALCOLM. What's the newest grief?
ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Each minute teems a new one.
MACDUFF. How does my wife?
ROSS. Why, well.
MACDUFF. And all my children?
ROSS. Well too.
MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
ROSS. No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.
MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech. How goest?
ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor
Of many worthy fellows that were out,
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power afoot.
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.
MALCOLM. Be't their comfort
We are coming thither. Gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;
An older and a better soldier none
That Christendom gives out.
ROSS. Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.
MACDUFF. What concern they?
The general cause? Or is it a fee-grief
Due to some single breast?
ROSS. No mind that's honest
But in it shares some woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone.
MACDUFF. If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue forever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound
That ever yet they heard.
MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it.
ROSS. Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes
Savagely slaughter'd. To relate the manner
Were, on the quarry of these murther'd deer,
To add the death of you.
MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!
What, man! Neer pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
MACDUFF. My children too?
ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.
MACDUFF. And I must be from thence!
My wife kill'd too?
ROSS. I have said.
MALCOLM. Be comforted.
Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.
MACDUFF. He has no children. All my pretty ones?
Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?
MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man.
MACDUFF. I shall do so,
But I must also feel it as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were
That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!
MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes
And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens,
Cut short all intermission; front to front
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
MALCOLM. This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the King; our power is ready,
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may,
The night is long that never finds the day. Exeunt.
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ACT V. SCENE I.
Dunsinane. Anteroom in the castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentlewoman.
DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no
truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
GENTLEWOMAN. Since his Majesty went into the field, have seen
her
rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her
closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it,
afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this
while
in a most fast sleep.
DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the
benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this
slumbery
agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances,
what, at any time, have you heard her say?
GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her.
DOCTOR. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should.
GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor anyone, having no witness to
confirm my speech.
Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper.
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise, and, upon my
life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
DOCTOR. How came she by that light?
GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her. She has light by her
continually; 'tis her command.
DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open.
GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut.
DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.
GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a
quarter of
an hour.
LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot.
DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks! I will set down what comes from her,
to
satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One- two -why then
'tis
time to do't. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier,
and
afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call
our
power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to
have
had so much blood in him?
DOCTOR. Do you mark that?
LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?
What,
will these hands neer be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no
more
o' that. You mar all with this starting.
DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
that.
Heaven knows what she has known.
LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still. All the
perfumes
of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!
DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the
dignity of the whole body.
DOCTOR. Well, well, well-
GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir.
DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known
those
which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in
their
beds.
LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look not
so
pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come
out
on's grave.
DOCTOR. Even so?
LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate.
Come,
come, come, come, give me your hand.What's done cannot be
undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed.
Exit.
DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed?
GENTLEWOMAN. Directly.
DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her. So good night.
My mind she has mated and amazed my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.
GENTLEWOMAN. Good night, good doctor.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The country near Dunsinane. Drum and colors.
Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.
MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,
His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff.
Revenges burn in them, for their dear causes
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm
Excite the mortified man.
ANGUS. Near Birnam Wood
Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.
CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not; I have a file
Of all the gentry. There is Seward's son
And many unrough youths that even now
Protest their first of manhood.
MENTEITH. What does the tyrant?
CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.
Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him,
Do call it valiant fury; but, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule.
ANGUS. Now does he feel
His secret murthers sticking on his hands,
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
MENTEITH. Who then shall blame
His pester'd senses to recoil and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself for being there?
CAITHNESS. Well, march we on
To give obedience where 'tis truly owed.
Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,
And with him pour we, in our country's purge,
Each drop of us.
LENNOX. Or so much as it needs
To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.
Make we our march towards Birnam. Exeunt marching.
SCENE III.
Dunsinane. A room in the castle.
Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.
MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all!
Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:
"Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman
Shall e'er have power upon thee." Then fly, false Thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures!
The mind I sway by and the heart I bear
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!
Where got'st thou that goose look?
SERVANT. There is ten thousand-
MACBETH. Geese, villain?
SERVANT. Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul! Those linen cheeks of thine
Are counselors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
SERVANT. The English force, so please you.
MACBETH. Take thy face hence. Exit Servant.
Seyton-I am sick at heart,
When I behold- Seyton, I say!- This push
Will cheer me ever or disseat me now.
I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not.
Seyton!
Enter Seyton.
SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH. What news more?
SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH. I'll fight, 'til from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
Give me my armor.
SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet.
MACBETH. I'll put it on.
Send out more horses, skirr the country round,
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armor.
How does your patient, doctor?
DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
MACBETH. Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
DOCTOR. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff.
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.
Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again. Pull't off, I say.
What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug
Would scour these English hence? Hearst thou of them?
DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord, your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.
MACBETH. Bring it after me.
I will not be afraid of death and bane
Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane.
DOCTOR. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here. Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Country near Birnam Wood. Drum and colors.
Enter Malcolm, old Seward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith,
Caithness,
Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.
MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand
That chambers will be safe.
MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing.
SIWARD. What wood is this before us?
MENTEITH. The Wood of Birnam.
MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough,
And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, and make discovery
Err in report of us.
SOLDIERS. It shall be done.
SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant
Keeps still in Dunsinane and will endure
Our setting down before't.
MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope;
For where there is advantage to be given,
Both more and less have given him the revolt,
And none serve with him but constrained things
Whose hearts are absent too.
MACDUFF. Let our just censures
Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious soldiership.
SIWARD. The time approaches
That will with due decision make us know
What we shall say we have and what we owe.
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate.
Towards which advance the war.
Exeunt Marching.
SCENE V.
Dunsinane. Within the castle.
Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum and colors.
MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still, "They come!" Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.
Were they not forced with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home.
A cry of women within.
What is that noise?
SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. Exit.
MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in't. I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.
Re-enter Seyton.
Wherefore was that cry?
SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Enter a Messenger.
Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.
MESSENGER. Gracious my lord,
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.
MACBETH. Well, say, sir.
MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The Wood began to move.
MACBETH. Liar and slave!
MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so.
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.
MACBETH. If thou speak'st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee; if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.
I pull in resolution and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam Wood
Do come to Dunsinane," and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!
If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.
I 'gin to be aweary of the sun
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum bell! Blow, wind! Come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back. Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Dunsinane. Before the castle.
Enter Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, and their Army, with boughs.
Drum and colors.
MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leavy screens throw down,
And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle,
Shall with my cousin, your right noble son,
Lead our first battle. Worthy Macduff and we
Shall take upon 's what else remains to do,
According to our order.
SIWARD. Fare you well.
Do we but find the tyrant's power tonight,
Let us be beaten if we cannot fight.
MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak, give them all breath,
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Dunsinane. Before the castle. Alarums.
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,
But bear-like I must fight the course. What's he
That was not born of woman? Such a one
Am I to fear, or none.
Enter young Siward.
YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name?
MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.
YOUNG SIWARD. No, though thou call'st thyself a hotter name
Than any is in hell.
MACBETH. My name's Macbeth.
YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title
More hateful to mine ear.
MACBETH. No, nor more fearful.
YOUNG SIWARD O Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword
I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
They fight, and young Seward is slain.
MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.
But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,
Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. Exit.
Alarums. Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face!
If thou best slain and with no stroke of mine,
My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.
I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms
Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth,
Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge,
I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;
By this great clatter, one of greatest note
Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune!
And more I beg not. Exit. Alarums.
Enter Malcolm and old Siward.
SIWARD. This way, my lord; the castle's gently render'd.
The tyrant's people on both sides do fight,
The noble Thanes do bravely in the war,
The day almost itself professes yours,
And little is to do.
MALCOLM. We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle.
Exeunt. Alarum.
SCENE VIII.
Another part of the field.
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool and die
On mine own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. Turn, hell hound, turn!
MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee.
But get thee back, my soul is too much charged
With blood of thine already.
MACDUFF. I have no words.
My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out! They fight.
MACBETH. Thou losest labor.
As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air
With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed.
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.
MACDUFF. Despair thy charm,
And let the angel whom thou still hast served
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.
MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believed
That patter with us in a double sense,
That keep the word of promise to our ear
And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee.
MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time.
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,
"Here may you see the tyrant."
MACBETH. I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
And to be baited with the rabble's curse.
Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou opposed, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!"
Exeunt fighting. Alarums.
SCENE IX.
Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old
Siward, Ross,
the other Thanes, and Soldiers.
MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.
SIWARD. Some must go off, and yet, by these I see,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt.
He only lived but till he was a man,
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.
SIWARD. Then he is dead?
ROSS. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measured by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
SIWARD. Had he his hurts before?
ROSS. Ay, on the front.
SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death.
And so his knell is knoll'd.
MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
SIWARD. He's worth no more:
They say he parted well and paid his score,
And so God be with him! Here comes newer comfort.
Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.
MACDUFF. Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold where stands
The usurper's cursed head. The time is free.
I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl
That speak my salutation in their minds,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine-
Hail, King of Scotland!
ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! Flourish.
MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time
Before we reckon with your several loves
And make us even with you. My Thanes and kinsmen,
Henceforth be Earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honor named. What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,
As calling home our exiled friends abroad
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny,
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,
Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
Took off her life; this, and what needful else
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace
We will perform in measure, time, and place.
So thanks to all at once and to each one,
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.
Flourish. Exeunt.
-THE END-
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,601,428textTHE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 1787
We the people of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,
establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence,
promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves
and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the
United States of America.
Article 1
Section 1. All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a
Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and
House of Representatives.
Section 2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members
chosen every second Year by the People of the several States,
and the electors in each State shall have the qualifications requisite
for electors of the most numerous branch of the State legislature.
No Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to the
Age of twenty five Years, and been seven Years a citizen of the United States,
and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State in which
he shall be chosen.
Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among
the several States which may be included within this Union,
according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined
by adding to the whole number of free Persons, including those
bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed,
three fifths of all other Persons. The actual Enumeration shall be made
within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the
United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years,
in such Manner as they shall by law Direct. The number of
Representatives shall not exceed one for every thirty Thousand,
but each State shall have at least one Representative;
and until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshire
shall be entitled to chuse three, Massachusetts eight, Rhode Island
and Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six,
New Jersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six,
Virginia ten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three.
When vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, the Executive
Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill such Vacancies.
The House of Representatives shall chuse their Speaker and other Officers;
and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment.
Section 3. The Senate of the United States shall be composed of
two Senators from each State, chosen by the legislature thereof,
for six Years; and each Senator shall have one Vote.
Immediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the first Election,
they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes. The Seats of
the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at the expiration of the
second Year, of the second Class at the expiration of the fourth Year,
and of the third Class at the expiration of the sixth Year, so that one third
may be chosen every second Year; and if vacancies happen by Resignation,
or otherwise, during the recess of the Legislature of any State,
the Executive thereof may make temporary Appointments until the
next meeting of the Legislature, which shall then fill such Vacancies.
No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of
thirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States,
and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State
for which he shall be chosen.
The Vice-President of the United States shall be President of the Senate,
but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided.
The Senate shall choose their other Officers, and also a President
pro tempore, in the Absence of the Vice-President, or when he shall
exercise the Office of President of the United States.
The Senate shall have the sole Power to try all Impeachments.
When sitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation.
When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice
shall preside: And no Person shall be convicted without the Concurrence
of two thirds of the Members present.
Judgment in cases of Impeachment shall not extend further than to removal
from Office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of honor,
Trust or Profit under the United States: but the Party convicted shall
nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and
Punishment, according to Law.
Section 4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for Senators and
Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by the Legislature thereof;
but the Congress may at any time by Law make or alter such Regulations,
except as to the Places of chusing Senators.
The Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year,
and such Meeting shall be on the first Monday in December,
unless they shall by law appoint a different Day.
Section 5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections,
Returns and Qualifications of its own Members, and a
Majority of each shall constitute a Quorum to do Business;
but a smaller Number may adjourn from day to day,
and may be authorized to compel the Attendance of absent Members,
in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each House may provide.
Each house may determine the Rules of its Proceedings,
punish its Members for disorderly Behavior, and, with the
Concurrence of two-thirds, expel a Member.
Each house shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings,
and from time to time publish the same, excepting such Parts as may
in their Judgment require Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the
Members of either House on any question shall, at the Desire of
one fifth of those Present, be entered on the Journal.
Neither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without the
Consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to
any other Place than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.
Section 6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation
for their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the Treasury
of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony and
Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance
at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning
from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House,
they shall not be questioned in any other Place.
No Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he was elected,
be appointed to any civil Office under the authority of the United States,
which shall have been created, or the Emoluments whereof shall have been
increased during such time; and no Person holding any Office under the
United States, shall be a Member of either House during his Continuance
in Office.
Section 7. All Bills for raising Revenue shall originate in the
House of Representatives; but the Senate may propose or concur with
Amendments as on other Bills.
Every Bill which shall have passed the House of Representatives and
the Senate, shall, before it become a Law, be presented to the
President of the United States; If he approve he shall sign it,
but if not he shall return it, with his Objections to that House
in which it shall have originated, who shall enter the Objections
at large on their Journal, and proceed to reconsider it.
If after such Reconsideration two thirds of that house
shall agree to pass the Bill, it shall be sent,
together with the Objections, to the other House, by which
it shall likewise be reconsidered, and if approved by two thirds
of that House, it shall become a law. But in all such Cases
the Votes of both Houses shall be determined by Yeas and Nays,
and the Names of the Persons voting for and against the Bill shall be
entered on the Journal of each House respectively. If any Bill
shall not be returned by the President within ten Days (Sundays excepted)
after it shall have been presented to him, the Same shall be a Law,
in like Manner as if he had signed it, unless the Congress by their
Adjournment prevent its Return, in which case it shall not be a Law.
Every Order, Resolution, or Vote to which the Concurrence of the Senate
and House of Representatives may be necessary (except on a question
of Adjournment) shall be presented to the President of the United States;
and before the Same shall take Effect, shall be approved by him,
or being disapproved by him, shall be repassed by two thirds of
the Senate and House of Representatives, according to the Rules
and Limitations prescribed in the Case of a Bill.
Section 8. The Congress shall have Power to lay and collect Taxes, Duties,
Imposts and Excises, to pay the Debts and provide for the common Defence
and general Welfare of the United States; but all Duties, Imposts and Excises
shall be uniform throughout the United States;
To borrow Money on the credit of the United States;
To regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States,
and with the Indian Tribes;
To establish an uniform Rule of Naturalization, and uniform Laws
on the subject of Bankruptcies throughout the United States;
To coin Money, regulate the Value thereof, and of foreign Coin,
and fix the Standard of Weights and Measures;
To provide for the Punishment of counterfeiting the Securities
and current Coin of the United States;
To establish Post Offices and Post Roads;
To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing
for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right
to their respective Writings and Discoveries;
To constitute Tribunals inferior to the supreme Court;
To define and punish Piracies and Felonies committed on the high Seas,
and Offenses against the Law of Nations;
To declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal,
and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water;
To raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Use
shall be for a longer term than two Years;
To provide and maintain a Navy;
To make Rules for the Government and Regulation of the land and naval Forces;
To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the Union,
suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions;
To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and for
governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the
United States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment
of the Officers, and the Authority of training the militia according
to the discipline prescribed by Congress;
To exercise exclusive Legislation in all Cases whatsoever,
over such District (not exceeding ten Miles square) as may,
by Cession of particular States, and the Acceptance of Congress,
become the Seat of the Government of the United States, and to
exercise like Authority over all Places purchased by the Consent
of the Legislature of the State in which the Same shall be,
for the Erection of Forts, Magazines, Arsenals, Dockyards,
and other needful Buildings;--And
To make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying
into Execution the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested
by this Constitution in the Government of the United States,
or in any Department or Officer thereof.
Section 9. The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any
of the States now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not
be prohibited by the Congress prior to the Year one thousand eight
hundred and eight, but a Tax or Duty may be imposed on such Importation,
not exceeding ten dollars for each Person.
The Privilege of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall not be suspended, unless
when in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion the public Safety may require it.
No Bill of Attainder or ex post facto Law shall be passed.
No Capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion
to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.
No Tax or Duty shall be laid on Articles exported from any State.
No Preference shall be given by any Regulation of Commerce or Revenue
to the Ports of one State over those of another: nor shall Vessels bound to,
or from, one State, be obliged to enter, clear, or pay Duties in another.
No Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in Consequence
of Appropriations made by Law; and a regular Statement and Account
of the Receipts and Expenditures of all public Money shall be
published from time to time.
No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States;
and no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall,
without the Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument,
Office, or Title, of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince,
or foreign State.
Section 10. No State shall enter into any Treaty, Alliance, or
Confederation; grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal; coin Money;
emit Bills of Credit; make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender
in Payment of Debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law,
or Law impairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility.
No State shall, without the Consent of the Congress, lay any Imposts or Duties
on Imports or Exports, except what may be absolutely necessary for executing
it's inspection Laws: and the net Produce of all Duties and Imposts,
laid by any State on Imports or Exports, shall be for the Use of the Treasury
of the United States; and all such Laws shall be subject to the Revision
and Controul of the Congress.
No State shall, without the Consent of Congress, lay any Duty of
Tonnage, keep Troops, or Ships of War in time of Peace, enter into any
Agreement or Compact with another State, or with a foreign Power, or
engage in War, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent Danger
as will not admit of delay.
ARTICLE 2
Section 1. The executive Power shall be vested in a President
of the United States of America. He shall hold his Office during
the Term of four Years, and, together with the Vice President
chosen for the same Term, be elected, as follows:
Each State shall appoint, in such Manner as the Legislature thereof may direct,
a Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators and Representatives
to which the State may be entitled in the Congress: but no Senator or
Representative, or Person holding an Office of Trust or Profit under
the United States, shall be appointed an Elector.
The Electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by Ballot
for two Persons, of whom one at least shall not be an Inhabitant of
the same State with themselves. And they shall make a List of
all the Persons voted for, and of the Number of Votes for each;
which List they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to
the Seat of the Government of the United States, directed to the
President of the Senate. The President of the Senate shall,
in the Presence of the Senate and House of Representatives,
open all the Certificates, and the Votes shall then be counted.
The Person having the greatest Number of Votes shall be the President,
if such Number be a Majority of the whole Number of Electors appointed;
and if there be more than one who have such Majority, and have an equal
Number of votes, then the House of Representatives shall immediately
chuse by Ballot one of them for President; and if no Person have
a Majority, then from the five highest on the List the said House
shall in like Manner chuse the President. But in chusing the President,
the Votes shall be taken by States, the Representation from each State
having one Vote; a Quorum for this Purpose shall consist of a Member
or Members from two thirds of the States, and a Majority of all the
States shall be necessary to a Choice. In every Case, after the Choice
of the President, the Person having the greatest Number of Votes of
the Electors shall be the Vice President. But if there should remain
two or more who have equal Votes, the Senate shall chuse from them
by Ballot the Vice President.
The Congress may determine the Time of chusing the Electors,
and the Day on which they shall give their Votes; which Day
shall be the same throughout the United States.
No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States,
at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to
the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that
Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years,
and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.
In Case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death,
Resignation, or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the
said Office, the Same shall devolve on the Vice President, and the
Congress may by Law provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation
or Inability, both of the President and Vice President, declaring what
Officer shall then act as President, and such Officer shall act accordingly,
until the Disability be removed, or a President shall be elected.
The President shall, at stated Times, receive for his Services,
a Compensation, which shall neither be encreased nor diminished during
the Period for which he shall have been elected, and he shall not receive
within that Period any other Emolument from the United States, or any of them.
Before he enter on the Execution of his Office, he shall take the
following Oath or Affirmation:--"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that
I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,
and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the
Constitution of the United States."
Section 2. The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army
and Navy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States,
when called into the actual Service of the United States;
he may require the Opinion, in writing, of the principal Officer
in each of the executive Departments, upon any Subject relating to
the Duties of their respective Offices, and he shall have Power
to grant Reprieves and Pardons for Offenses against the United States,
except in Cases of impeachment.
He shall have Power, by and with the Advice and Consent of the
Senate, to make Treaties, provided two thirds of the Senators
present concur; and he shall nominate, and by and with the Advice
and Consent of the Senate, shall appoint Ambassadors, other public
Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court, and all other
Officers of the United States, whose Appointments are not herein
otherwise provided for, and which shall be established by Law:
but the Congress may by Law vest the Appointment of such inferior Officers,
as they think proper, in the President alone, in the Courts of Law,
or in the Heads of Departments.
The President shall have Power to fill up all Vacancies that may happen
during the Recess of the Senate, by granting Commissions which shall
expire at the End of their next session.
Section 3. He shall from time to time give to the Congress
Information of the State of the Union, and recommend to their
Consideration such Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient;
he may, on extraordinary Occasions, convene both Houses, or either
of them, and in Case of Disagreement between them, with Respect to
the Time of Adjournment, he may adjourn them to such Time as he shall
think proper; he shall receive Ambassadors and other public Ministers;
he shall take Care that the Laws be faithfully executed, and shall
Commission all the Officers of the United States.
Section 4. The President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the
United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for,
and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.
ARTICLE THREE
Section 1. The judicial Power of the United States, shall be vested
in one supreme Court, and in such inferior Courts as the Congress may
from time to time ordain and establish. The Judges, both of the supreme
and inferior Courts, shall hold their Offices during good behavior,
and shall, at stated Times, receive for their Services, a Compensation,
which shall not be diminished during their Continuance in Office.
Section 2. The judicial Power shall extend to all Cases, in Law and Equity,
arising under this Constitution, the Laws of the United States, and Treaties
made, or which shall be made, under their Authority;--to all Cases affecting
Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls;--to all Cases of admiralty
and maritime Jurisdiction;--to Controversies to which the United States
shall be a Party;--to Controversies between two or more States;--between a
State and Citizens of another State;--between Citizens of different States;
--between Citizens of the same State claiming Lands under Grants of
different States, and between a State, or the Citizens thereof,
and foreign States, Citizens or Subjects.
In all cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls,
and those in which a State shall be Party, the supreme Court shall have
original Jurisdiction. In all the other Cases before mentioned, the
supreme Court shall have appellate Jurisdiction, both as to Law and Fact,
with such Exceptions, and under such Regulations as the Congress shall make.
The Trial of all Crimes, except in Cases of Impeachment, shall be by Jury;
and such Trial shall be held in the State where the said Crimes shall
have been committed; but when not committed within any State, the Trial
shall be at such Place or Places as the Congress may by Law have directed.
Section 3. Treason against the United States, shall consist only in
levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them
Aid and Comfort. No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on
the Testimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession
in open Court.
The Congress shall have power to declare the punishment of Treason,
but no Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood,
or Forfeiture except during the Life of the Person attainted.
ARTICLE FOUR
Section 1. Full Faith and Credit shall be given in each State to the
public Acts, Records, and judicial Proceedings of every other State.
And the Congress may by general Laws prescribe the Manner in which such Acts,
Records, and Proceedings shall be proved, and the Effect thereof.
Section 2. The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all
Privileges and Immunities of Citizens in the several States.
A Person charged in any State with Treason, Felony, or other Crime,
who shall flee from Justice, and be found in another State,
shall on Demand of the executive Authority of the State from
which he fled, be delivered up, to be removed to the State having
Jurisdiction of the Crime.
No person held to Service or Labor in one State, under the Laws thereof,
escaping into another, shall, in Consequence of any Law or Regulation therein,
be discharged from such Service or Labor, But shall be delivered up on Claim
of the Party to whom such Service or Labor may be due.
Section 3. New States may be admitted by the Congress into this Union;
but no new States shall be formed or erected within the Jurisdiction
of any other State; nor any State be formed by the Junction of two
or more States, or Parts of States, without the Consent of the
Legislatures of the States concerned as well as of the Congress.
The Congress shall have Power to dispose of and make all needful Rules
and Regulations respecting the Territory or other Property belonging
to the United States; and nothing in this Constitution shall be so
construed as to Prejudice any Claims of the United States,
or of any particular State.
Section 4. The United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union
a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of them against
Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of the Executive
(when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domestic Violence.
ARTICLE FIVE
The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary,
shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of
the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention
for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents
and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures
of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths
thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by
the Congress; Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the
Year one thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect
the first and fourth Clauses in the ninth Section of the first Article;
and that no State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of it's
equal Suffrage in the Senate.
ARTICLE SIX
All Debts contracted and Engagements entered into, before the Adoption
of this Constitution, shall be as valid against the United States
under this Constitution, as under the Confederation.
This Constitution, and the Laws of the United States which shall be made
in Pursuance thereof; and all Treaties made, or which shall be made,
under the Authority of the United States, shall be the supreme
Law of the Land; and the Judges in every State shall be bound thereby,
any Thing in the Constitution or Laws of any State to the Contrary
notwithstanding.
The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the
several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers,
both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound
by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution; but no religious
Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust
under the United States
ARTICLE SEVEN
The Ratification of the Conventions of nine States, shall be sufficient for the
Establishment of this Constitution between the States so ratifying the Same.
Done in Convention by the Unanimous Consent of the States present
the Seventeenth Day of September in the Year of our Lord one
thousand seven hundred and eighty seven and of the Independence of the
United States of America the Twelfth In Witness whereof We have
hereunto subscribed our Names,
Go. WASHINGTON--
Presid. and deputy from Virginia
New Hampshire
John Langdon
Nicholas Gilman
Massachusetts
Nathaniel Gorham
Rufus King
Connecticut
Wm. Saml. Johnson
Roger Sherman
New York
Alexander Hamilton
New Jersey
Wil: Livingston
David Brearley
Wm. Paterson
Jona: Dayton
Pennsylvania
B Franklin
Thomas Mifflin
Robt Morris
Geo. Clymer
Thos FitzSimons
Jared Ingersoll
James Wilson
Gouv Morris
Delaware
Geo: Read
Gunning Bedford jun
John Dickinson
Richard Bassett
Jaco: Broom
Maryland
James Mchenry
Dan of St Thos. Jenifer
Danl Carroll
Virginia
John Blair--
James Madison Jr.
North Carolina
Wm. Blount
Rich'd Dobbs Spaight
Hu Williamson
South Carolina
J. Rutledge
Charles Cotesworth Pinckney
Charles Pinckney
Pierce Butler
Georgia
William Few
Abr Baldwin
Attest:
William Jackson, Secretary
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,601,381textThe Raven
By Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice,
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/26/2023
Public Domain Use#19,596,971textTake Me Out to the Ball Game
Words by Jack Norworth
Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks,
I don’t care if we never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
At the old ball game.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/25/2023
Public Domain Use#19,596,969textThe Raven
By Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice,
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/25/2023
Public Domain Use#19,438,685textThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by L. Frank Baum
Contents
--Introduction--
1. The Cyclone
2. The Council with the Munchkins
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
4. The Road Through the Forest
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
6. The Cowardly Lion
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
10. The Guardian of the Gates
11. The Emerald City of Oz
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
13. The Rescue
14. The Winged Monkeys
15. The Discovery of Oz the Terrible
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
18. Away to the South
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
20. The Dainty China Country
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
22. The Country of the Quadlings
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
24. Home Again
Introduction
Folklore, legends, myths and fairy tales have followed childhood
through the ages, for every healthy youngster has a wholesome and
instinctive love for stories fantastic, marvelous and manifestly unreal.
The winged fairies of Grimm and Andersen have brought more happiness to
childish hearts than all other human creations.
Yet the old time fairy tale, having served for generations,
may now be classed as "historical" in the children's library; for
the time has come for a series of newer "wonder tales" in which
the stereotyped genie, dwarf and fairy are eliminated, together
with all the horrible and blood-curdling incidents devised by
their authors to point a fearsome moral to each tale. Modern
education includes morality; therefore the modern child seeks only
entertainment in its wonder tales and gladly dispenses with all
disagreeable incident.
Having this thought in mind, the story of "The Wonderful
Wizard of Oz" was written solely to please children of today. It
aspires to being a modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment
and joy are retained and the heartaches and nightmares are left out.
L. Frank Baum
Chicago, April, 1900.
THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ
1. The Cyclone
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with
Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's
wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be
carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a
roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking
cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four
chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in
one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was
no garret at all, and no cellar--except a small hole dug in the
ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case
one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any
building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle
of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole.
When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could
see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree
nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to
the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the
plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it.
Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of
the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen
everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun
blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the
house was as dull and gray as everything else.
When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife.
The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle
from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red
from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin
and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan,
first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's
laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart
whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still
looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything
to laugh at.
Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till
night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his
long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn,
and rarely spoke.
It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from
growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he
was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes
that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto
played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.
Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon
the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even
grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her
arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes.
From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and
Uncle Henry and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in
waves before the coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling
in the air from the south, and as they turned their eyes that way
they saw ripples in the grass coming from that direction also.
Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up.
"There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife. "I'll
go look after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the
cows and horses were kept.
Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance
told her of the danger close at hand.
"Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed. "Run for the cellar!"
Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and
the girl started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw
open the trap door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into
the small, dark hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to
follow her aunt. When she was halfway across the room there came
a great shriek from the wind, and the house shook so hard that she
lost her footing and sat down suddenly upon the floor.
Then a strange thing happened.
The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly
through the air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.
The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made
it the exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone
the air is generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on
every side of the house raised it up higher and higher, until it
was at the very top of the cyclone; and there it remained and was
carried miles and miles away as easily as you could carry a feather.
It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her,
but Dorothy found she was riding quite easily. After the first
few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly,
she felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.
Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now
there, barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor
and waited to see what would happen.
Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at
first the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw
one of his ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong
pressure of the air was keeping him up so that he could not fall.
She crept to the hole, caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him
into the room again, afterward closing the trap door so that no
more accidents could happen.
Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her
fright; but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly
all about her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had
wondered if she would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again;
but as the hours passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped
worrying and resolved to wait calmly and see what the future would bring.
At last she crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it;
and Toto followed and lay down beside her.
In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the
wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
2. The Council with the Munchkins
She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if
Dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt.
As it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened;
and Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally.
Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark,
for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room.
She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door.
The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her,
her eyes growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.
The cyclone had set the house down very gently--for a
cyclone--in the midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There
were lovely patches of greensward all about, with stately trees
bearing rich and luscious fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were
on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant plumage sang and
fluttered in the trees and bushes. A little way off was a small
brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks, and
murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived
so long on the dry, gray prairies.
While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful
sights, she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest
people she had ever seen. They were not as big as the grown
folk she had always been used to; but neither were they very small.
In fact, they seemed about as tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown
child for her age, although they were, so far as looks go, many
years older.
Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed.
They wore round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their
heads, with little bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as
they moved. The hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat
was white, and she wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her
shoulders. Over it were sprinkled little stars that glistened in
the sun like diamonds. The men were dressed in blue, of the same
shade as their hats, and wore well-polished boots with a deep roll
of blue at the tops. The men, Dorothy thought, were about as old
as Uncle Henry, for two of them had beards. But the little woman
was doubtless much older. Her face was covered with wrinkles, her
hair was nearly white, and she walked rather stiffly.
When these people drew near the house where Dorothy was
standing in the doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves,
as if afraid to come farther. But the little old woman walked up
to Dorothy, made a low bow and said, in a sweet voice:
"You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins.
We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the East,
and for setting our people free from bondage."
Dorothy listened to this speech with wonder. What could the
little woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying
she had killed the Wicked Witch of the East? Dorothy was an innocent,
harmless little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home;
and she had never killed anything in all her life.
But the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said,
with hesitation, "You are very kind, but there must be some mistake.
I have not killed anything."
"Your house did, anyway," replied the little old woman, with a
laugh, "and that is the same thing. See!" she continued, pointing
to the corner of the house. "There are her two feet, still sticking
out from under a block of wood."
Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed,
just under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet
were sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together
in dismay. "The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?"
"There is nothing to be done," said the little woman calmly.
"But who was she?" asked Dorothy.
"She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I said," answered
the little woman. "She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for
many years, making them slave for her night and day. Now they are
all set free, and are grateful to you for the favor."
"Who are the Munchkins?" inquired Dorothy.
"They are the people who live in this land of the East
where the Wicked Witch ruled."
"Are you a Munchkin?" asked Dorothy.
"No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the
North. When they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins
sent a swift messenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch
of the North."
"Oh, gracious!" cried Dorothy. "Are you a real witch?"
"Yes, indeed," answered the little woman. "But I am a good witch,
and the people love me. I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was
who ruled here, or I should have set the people free myself."
"But I thought all witches were wicked," said the girl, who
was half frightened at facing a real witch. "Oh, no, that is a
great mistake. There were only four witches in all the Land of
Oz, and two of them, those who live in the North and the South,
are good witches. I know this is true, for I am one of them
myself, and cannot be mistaken. Those who dwelt in the East and
the West were, indeed, wicked witches; but now that you have
killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch in all the Land
of Oz--the one who lives in the West."
"But," said Dorothy, after a moment's thought, "Aunt Em has
told me that the witches were all dead--years and years ago."
"Who is Aunt Em?" inquired the little old woman.
"She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from."
The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her
head bowed and her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and
said, "I do not know where Kansas is, for I have never heard that
country mentioned before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?"
"Oh, yes," replied Dorothy.
"Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I
believe there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses,
nor magicians. But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been
civilized, for we are cut off from all the rest of the world.
Therefore we still have witches and wizards amongst us."
"Who are the wizards?" asked Dorothy.
"Oz himself is the Great Wizard," answered the Witch, sinking
her voice to a whisper. "He is more powerful than all the rest of
us together. He lives in the City of Emeralds."
Dorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the
Munchkins, who had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and
pointed to the corner of the house where the Wicked Witch had been lying.
"What is it?" asked the little old woman, and looked, and
began to laugh. The feet of the dead Witch had disappeared
entirely, and nothing was left but the silver shoes.
"She was so old," explained the Witch of the North, "that she
dried up quickly in the sun. That is the end of her. But the
silver shoes are yours, and you shall have them to wear."
She reached down and picked up the shoes, and after shaking
the dust out of them handed them to Dorothy.
"The Witch of the East was proud of those silver shoes," said
one of the Munchkins, "and there is some charm connected with them;
but what it is we never knew."
Dorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on
the table. Then she came out again to the Munchkins and said:
"I am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for I am sure
they will worry about me. Can you help me find my way?"
The Munchkins and the Witch first looked at one another, and
then at Dorothy, and then shook their heads.
"At the East, not far from here," said one, "there is a great
desert, and none could live to cross it."
"It is the same at the South," said another, "for I have been
there and seen it. The South is the country of the Quadlings."
"I am told," said the third man, "that it is the same at the West.
And that country, where the Winkies live, is ruled by the Wicked Witch
of the West, who would make you her slave if you passed her way."
"The North is my home," said the old lady, "and at its edge is
the same great desert that surrounds this Land of Oz. I'm afraid,
my dear, you will have to live with us."
Dorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all
these strange people. Her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted
Munchkins, for they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and
began to weep also. As for the little old woman, she took off her
cap and balanced the point on the end of her nose, while she
counted "One, two, three" in a solemn voice. At once the cap
changed to a slate, on which was written in big, white chalk marks:
"LET DOROTHY GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS"
The little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having
read the words on it, asked, "Is your name Dorothy, my dear?"
"Yes," answered the child, looking up and drying her tears.
"Then you must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps Oz will help you."
"Where is this city?" asked Dorothy.
"It is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by Oz,
the Great Wizard I told you of."
"Is he a good man?" inquired the girl anxiously.
"He is a good Wizard. Whether he is a man or not I cannot tell,
for I have never seen him."
"How can I get there?" asked Dorothy.
"You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that
is sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible. However,
I will use all the magic arts I know of to keep you from harm."
"Won't you go with me?" pleaded the girl, who had begun to
look upon the little old woman as her only friend.
"No, I cannot do that," she replied, "but I will give you my
kiss, and no one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by
the Witch of the North."
She came close to Dorothy and kissed her gently on the
forehead. Where her lips touched the girl they left a round,
shining mark, as Dorothy found out soon after.
"The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick,"
said the Witch, "so you cannot miss it. When you get to Oz do not
be afraid of him, but tell your story and ask him to help you.
Good-bye, my dear."
The three Munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant
journey, after which they walked away through the trees. The Witch
gave Dorothy a friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel
three times, and straightway disappeared, much to the surprise of
little Toto, who barked after her loudly enough when she had gone,
because he had been afraid even to growl while she stood by.
But Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to
disappear in just that way, and was not surprised in the least.
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
When Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she
went to the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread
with butter. She gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the
shelf she carried it down to the little brook and filled it with
clear, sparkling water. Toto ran over to the trees and began to
bark at the birds sitting there. Dorothy went to get him, and saw
such delicious fruit hanging from the branches that she gathered
some of it, finding it just what she wanted to help out her breakfast.
Then she went back to the house, and having helped herself and
Toto to a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about
making ready for the journey to the City of Emeralds.
Dorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be
clean and was hanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham,
with checks of white and blue; and although the blue was somewhat
faded with many washings, it was still a pretty frock. The girl
washed herself carefully, dressed herself in the clean gingham,
and tied her pink sunbonnet on her head. She took a little basket
and filled it with bread from the cupboard, laying a white cloth
over the top. Then she looked down at her feet and noticed how
old and worn her shoes were.
"They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto," she said.
And Toto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged
his tail to show he knew what she meant.
At that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes
that had belonged to the Witch of the East.
"I wonder if they will fit me," she said to Toto. "They would be
just the thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out."
She took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver
ones, which fitted her as well as if they had been made for her.
Finally she picked up her basket.
"Come along, Toto," she said. "We will go to the Emerald City
and ask the Great Oz how to get back to Kansas again."
She closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in
the pocket of her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly
behind her, she started on her journey.
There were several roads near by, but it did not take her long
to find the one paved with yellow bricks. Within a short time she
was walking briskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes
tinkling merrily on the hard, yellow road-bed. The sun shone
bright and the birds sang sweetly, and Dorothy did not feel
nearly so bad as you might think a little girl would who had
been suddenly whisked away from her own country and set down
in the midst of a strange land.
She was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the
country was about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the
road, painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of
grain and vegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were
good farmers and able to raise large crops. Once in a while she
would pass a house, and the people came out to look at her and bow
low as she went by; for everyone knew she had been the means of
destroying the Wicked Witch and setting them free from bondage.
The houses of the Munchkins were odd-looking dwellings, for each
was round, with a big dome for a roof. All were painted blue,
for in this country of the East blue was the favorite color.
Toward evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and
began to wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a
house rather larger than the rest. On the green lawn before it
many men and women were dancing. Five little fiddlers played as
loudly as possible, and the people were laughing and singing,
while a big table near by was loaded with delicious fruits and
nuts, pies and cakes, and many other good things to eat.
The people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and
to pass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the
richest Munchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with
him to celebrate their freedom from the bondage of the Wicked Witch.
Dorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich
Munchkin himself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat upon a settee
and watched the people dance.
When Boq saw her silver shoes he said, "You must be a great sorceress."
"Why?" asked the girl.
"Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the Wicked Witch.
Besides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses
wear white."
"My dress is blue and white checked," said Dorothy, smoothing
out the wrinkles in it.
"It is kind of you to wear that," said Boq. "Blue is the
color of the Munchkins, and white is the witch color. So we know
you are a friendly witch."
Dorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people
seemed to think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only
an ordinary little girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone
into a strange land.
When she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into
the house, where he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it.
The sheets were made of blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in
them till morning, with Toto curled up on the blue rug beside her.
She ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby,
who played with Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in
a way that greatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to
all the people, for they had never seen a dog before.
"How far is it to the Emerald City?" the girl asked.
"I do not know," answered Boq gravely, "for I have never been
there. It is better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they
have business with him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City,
and it will take you many days. The country here is rich and
pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places
before you reach the end of your journey."
This worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the
Great Oz could help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely
resolved not to turn back.
She bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road
of yellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she
would stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside
the road and sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence,
and not far away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep
the birds from the ripe corn.
Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully
at the Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw,
with eyes, nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face.
An old, pointed blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin,
was perched on his head, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit
of clothes, worn and faded, which had also been stuffed with straw.
On the feet were some old boots with blue tops, such as every man
wore in this country, and the figure was raised above the stalks
of corn by means of the pole stuck up its back.
While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted
face of the Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes
slowly wink at her. She thought she must have been mistaken at first,
for none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the
figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed
down from the fence and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the
pole and barked.
"Good day," said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.
"Did you speak?" asked the girl, in wonder.
"Certainly," answered the Scarecrow. "How do you do?"
"I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Dorothy politely.
"How do you do?"
"I'm not feeling well," said the Scarecrow, with a smile,
"for it is very tedious being perched up here night and day to
scare away crows."
"Can't you get down?" asked Dorothy.
"No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please
take away the pole I shall be greatly obliged to you."
Dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole,
for, being stuffed with straw, it was quite light.
"Thank you very much," said the Scarecrow, when he had been
set down on the ground. "I feel like a new man."
Dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a
stuffed man speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.
"Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched
himself and yawned. "And where are you going?"
"My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the
Emerald City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas."
"Where is the Emerald City?" he inquired. "And who is Oz?"
"Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise.
"No, indeed. I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed,
so I have no brains at all," he answered sadly.
"Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Do you think," he asked, "if I go to the Emerald City with you,
that Oz would give me some brains?"
"I cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me,
if you like. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be
no worse off than you are now."
"That is true," said the Scarecrow. "You see," he continued
confidentially, "I don't mind my legs and arms and body being
stuffed, because I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes
or sticks a pin into me, it doesn't matter, for I can't feel it.
But I do not want people to call me a fool, and if my head stays
stuffed with straw instead of with brains, as yours is, how am I
ever to know anything?"
"I understand how you feel," said the little girl, who was
truly sorry for him. "If you will come with me I'll ask Oz to
do all he can for you."
"Thank you," he answered gratefully.
They walked back to the road. Dorothy helped him over the
fence, and they started along the path of yellow brick for the
Emerald City.
Toto did not like this addition to the party at first.
He smelled around the stuffed man as if he suspected there
might be a nest of rats in the straw, and he often growled
in an unfriendly way at the Scarecrow.
"Don't mind Toto," said Dorothy to her new friend.
"He never bites."
"Oh, I'm not afraid," replied the Scarecrow. "He can't hurt
the straw. Do let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind
it, for I can't get tired. I'll tell you a secret," he continued,
as he walked along. "There is only one thing in the world I am
afraid of."
"What is that?" asked Dorothy; "the Munchkin farmer who made you?"
"No," answered the Scarecrow; "it's a lighted match."
4. The Road Through the Forest
After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking
grew so difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the
yellow bricks, which were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed,
they were broken or missing altogether, leaving holes that Toto
jumped across and Dorothy walked around. As for the Scarecrow,
having no brains, he walked straight ahead, and so stepped into
the holes and fell at full length on the hard bricks. It never hurt
him, however, and Dorothy would pick him up and set him upon his
feet again, while he joined her in laughing merrily at his own mishap.
The farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were
farther back. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and
the farther they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became.
At noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook,
and Dorothy opened her basket and got out some bread. She offered
a piece to the Scarecrow, but he refused.
"I am never hungry," he said, "and it is a lucky thing I am not,
for my mouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so
I could eat, the straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that
would spoil the shape of my head."
Dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and
went on eating her bread.
"Tell me something about yourself and the country you came from,"
said the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him
all about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone
had carried her to this queer Land of Oz.
The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "I cannot
understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and
go back to the dry, gray place you call Kansas."
"That is because you have no brains" answered the girl.
"No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of
flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country,
be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home."
The Scarecrow sighed.
"Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads
were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in
the beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all.
It is fortunate for Kansas that you have brains."
"Won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?" asked the child.
The Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered:
"My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever.
I was only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world
before that time is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer
made my head, one of the first things he did was to paint my ears,
so that I heard what was going on. There was another Munchkin with him,
and the first thing I heard was the farmer saying, `How do you like
those ears?'
"`They aren't straight,'" answered the other.
"`Never mind,'" said the farmer. "`They are ears just the same,'"
which was true enough.
"`Now I'll make the eyes,'" said the farmer. So he painted my
right eye, and as soon as it was finished I found myself looking
at him and at everything around me with a great deal of curiosity,
for this was my first glimpse of the world.
"`That's a rather pretty eye,'" remarked the Munchkin who was
watching the farmer. "`Blue paint is just the color for eyes.'
"`I think I'll make the other a little bigger,'" said the
farmer. And when the second eye was done I could see much better
than before. Then he made my nose and my mouth. But I did not
speak, because at that time I didn't know what a mouth was for.
I had the fun of watching them make my body and my arms and legs;
and when they fastened on my head, at last, I felt very proud,
for I thought I was just as good a man as anyone.
"`This fellow will scare the crows fast enough,' said the
farmer. `He looks just like a man.'
"`Why, he is a man,' said the other, and I quite agreed with him.
The farmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up
on a tall stick, where you found me. He and his friend soon after
walked away and left me alone.
"I did not like to be deserted this way. So I tried to walk
after them. But my feet would not touch the ground, and I was
forced to stay on that pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I
had nothing to think of, having been made such a little while before.
Many crows and other birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as
they saw me they flew away again, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this
pleased me and made me feel that I was quite an important person.
By and by an old crow flew near me, and after looking at me carefully
he perched upon my shoulder and said:
"`I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy
manner. Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed
with straw.' Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn
he wanted. The other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came
to eat the corn too, so in a short time there was a great flock of
them about me.
"I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good
Scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying,
`If you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man
as any of them, and a better man than some of them. Brains are
the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one
is a crow or a man.'
"After the crows had gone I thought this over, and decided I
would try hard to get some brains. By good luck you came along
and pulled me off the stake, and from what you say I am sure the
Great Oz will give me brains as soon as we get to the Emerald City."
"I hope so," said Dorothy earnestly, "since you seem anxious
to have them."
"Oh, yes; I am anxious," returned the Scarecrow. "It is such
an uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool."
"Well," said the girl, "let us go." And she handed the basket
to the Scarecrow.
There were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land
was rough and untilled. Toward evening they came to a great
forest, where the trees grew so big and close together that their
branches met over the road of yellow brick. It was almost dark
under the trees, for the branches shut out the daylight; but the
travelers did not stop, and went on into the forest.
"If this road goes in, it must come out," said the Scarecrow,
"and as the Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must
go wherever it leads us."
"Anyone would know that," said Dorothy.
"Certainly; that is why I know it," returned the Scarecrow.
"If it required brains to figure it out, I never should have said it."
After an hour or so the light faded away, and they found
themselves stumbling along in the darkness. Dorothy could not see
at all, but Toto could, for some dogs see very well in the dark;
and the Scarecrow declared he could see as well as by day. So she
took hold of his arm and managed to get along fairly well.
"If you see any house, or any place where we can pass the
night," she said, "you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable
walking in the dark."
Soon after the Scarecrow stopped.
"I see a little cottage at the right of us," he said,
"built of logs and branches. Shall we go there?"
"Yes, indeed," answered the child. "I am all tired out."
So the Scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached
the cottage, and Dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves
in one corner. She lay down at once, and with Toto beside her
soon fell into a sound sleep. The Scarecrow, who was never tired,
stood up in another corner and waited patiently until morning came.
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
When Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and
Toto had long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels.
She sat up and looked around her. Scarecrow, still standing
patiently in his corner, waiting for her.
"We must go and search for water," she said to him.
"Why do you want water?" he asked.
"To wash my face clean after the dust of the road, and to
drink, so the dry bread will not stick in my throat."
"It must be inconvenient to be made of flesh," said the
Scarecrow thoughtfully, "for you must sleep, and eat and drink.
However, you have brains, and it is worth a lot of bother to be
able to think properly."
They left the cottage and walked through the trees until they
found a little spring of clear water, where Dorothy drank and
bathed and ate her breakfast. She saw there was not much bread
left in the basket, and the girl was thankful the Scarecrow did
not have to eat anything, for there was scarcely enough for
herself and Toto for the day.
When she had finished her meal, and was about to go back to the
road of yellow brick, she was startled to hear a deep groan near by.
"What was that?" she asked timidly.
"I cannot imagine," replied the Scarecrow; "but we can go and see."
Just then another groan reached their ears, and the sound
seemed to come from behind them. They turned and walked through
the forest a few steps, when Dorothy discovered something shining
in a ray of sunshine that fell between the trees. She ran to the
place and then stopped short, with a little cry of surprise.
One of the big trees had been partly chopped through, and
standing beside it, with an uplifted axe in his hands, was a man
made entirely of tin. His head and arms and legs were jointed
upon his body, but he stood perfectly motionless, as if he could
not stir at all.
Dorothy looked at him in amazement, and so did the Scarecrow,
while Toto barked sharply and made a snap at the tin legs, which
hurt his teeth.
"Did you groan?" asked Dorothy.
"Yes," answered the tin man, "I did. I've been groaning for more
than a year, and no one has ever heard me before or come to help me."
"What can I do for you?" she inquired softly, for she was
moved by the sad voice in which the man spoke.
"Get an oil-can and oil my joints," he answered. "They are
rusted so badly that I cannot move them at all; if I am well oiled
I shall soon be all right again. You will find an oil-can on a
shelf in my cottage."
Dorothy at once ran back to the cottage and found the oil-can,
and then she returned and asked anxiously, "Where are your joints?"
"Oil my neck, first," replied the Tin Woodman. So she oiled it,
and as it was quite badly rusted the Scarecrow took hold of the tin
head and moved it gently from side to side until it worked freely,
and then the man could turn it himself.
"Now oil the joints in my arms," he said. And Dorothy oiled
them and the Scarecrow bent them carefully until they were quite
free from rust and as good as new.
The Tin Woodman gave a sigh of satisfaction and lowered his
axe, which he leaned against the tree.
"This is a great comfort," he said. "I have been holding that
axe in the air ever since I rusted, and I'm glad to be able to put
it down at last. Now, if you will oil the joints of my legs, I
shall be all right once more."
So they oiled his legs until he could move them freely; and he
thanked them again and again for his release, for he seemed a very
polite creature, and very grateful.
"I might have stood there always if you had not come along," he said;
"so you have certainly saved my life. How did you happen to be here?"
"We are on our way to the Emerald City to see the Great Oz,"
she answered, "and we stopped at your cottage to pass the night."
"Why do you wish to see Oz?" he asked.
"I want him to send me back to Kansas, and the Scarecrow wants
him to put a few brains into his head," she replied.
The Tin Woodman appeared to think deeply for a moment. Then he said:
"Do you suppose Oz could give me a heart?"
"Why, I guess so," Dorothy answered. "It would be as easy as
to give the Scarecrow brains."
"True," the Tin Woodman returned. "So, if you will allow me
to join your party, I will also go to the Emerald City and ask Oz
to help me."
"Come along," said the Scarecrow heartily, and Dorothy added
that she would be pleased to have his company. So the Tin Woodman
shouldered his axe and they all passed through the forest until
they came to the road that was paved with yellow brick.
The Tin Woodman had asked Dorothy to put the oil-can in her basket.
"For," he said, "if I should get caught in the rain, and rust again,
I would need the oil-can badly."
It was a bit of good luck to have their new comrade join the
party, for soon after they had begun their journey again they came
to a place where the trees and branches grew so thick over the
road that the travelers could not pass. But the Tin Woodman set
to work with his axe and chopped so well that soon he cleared a
passage for the entire party.
Dorothy was thinking so earnestly as they walked along that
she did not notice when the Scarecrow stumbled into a hole and
rolled over to the side of the road. Indeed he was obliged to
call to her to help him up again.
"Why didn't you walk around the hole?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"I don't know enough," replied the Scarecrow cheerfully.
"My head is stuffed with straw, you know, and that is why I am
going to Oz to ask him for some brains."
"Oh, I see," said the Tin Woodman. "But, after all, brains
are not the best things in the world."
"Have you any?" inquired the Scarecrow.
"No, my head is quite empty," answered the Woodman.
"But once I had brains, and a heart also; so, having tried
them both, I should much rather have a heart."
"And why is that?" asked the Scarecrow.
"I will tell you my story, and then you will know."
So, while they were walking through the forest, the Tin Woodman
told the following story:
"I was born the son of a woodman who chopped down trees in the
forest and sold the wood for a living. When I grew up, I too became
a woodchopper, and after my father died I took care of my old mother
as long as she lived. Then I made up my mind that instead of living
alone I would marry, so that I might not become lonely.
"There was one of the Munchkin girls who was so beautiful
that I soon grew to love her with all my heart. She, on her part,
promised to marry me as soon as I could earn enough money to
build a better house for her; so I set to work harder than ever.
But the girl lived with an old woman who did not want her to marry
anyone, for she was so lazy she wished the girl to remain with her
and do the cooking and the housework. So the old woman went to
the Wicked Witch of the East, and promised her two sheep and a cow
if she would prevent the marriage. Thereupon the Wicked Witch
enchanted my axe, and when I was chopping away at my best one day,
for I was anxious to get the new house and my wife as soon as
possible, the axe slipped all at once and cut off my left leg.
"This at first seemed a great misfortune, for I knew a
one-legged man could not do very well as a wood-chopper. So I
went to a tinsmith and had him make me a new leg out of tin. The
leg worked very well, once I was used to it. But my action
angered the Wicked Witch of the East, for she had promised the old
woman I should not marry the pretty Munchkin girl. When I began
chopping again, my axe slipped and cut off my right leg. Again I
went to the tinsmith, and again he made me a leg out of tin.
After this the enchanted axe cut off my arms, one after the
other; but, nothing daunted, I had them replaced with tin ones.
The Wicked Witch then made the axe slip and cut off my head, and
at first I thought that was the end of me. But the tinsmith
happened to come along, and he made me a new head out of tin.
"I thought I had beaten the Wicked Witch then, and I worked
harder than ever; but I little knew how cruel my enemy could be.
She thought of a new way to kill my love for the beautiful
Munchkin maiden, and made my axe slip again, so that it cut right
through my body, splitting me into two halves. Once more the
tinsmith came to my help and made me a body of tin, fastening my
tin arms and legs and head to it, by means of joints, so that I
could move around as well as ever. But, alas! I had now no
heart, so that I lost all my love for the Munchkin girl, and did
not care whether I married her or not. I suppose she is still
living with the old woman, waiting for me to come after her.
"My body shone so brightly in the sun that I felt very proud
of it and it did not matter now if my axe slipped, for it could
not cut me. There was only one danger--that my joints would
rust; but I kept an oil-can in my cottage and took care to oil
myself whenever I needed it. However, there came a day when I
forgot to do this, and, being caught in a rainstorm, before I
thought of the danger my joints had rusted, and I was left to
stand in the woods until you came to help me. It was a terrible
thing to undergo, but during the year I stood there I had time to
think that the greatest loss I had known was the loss of my heart.
While I was in love I was the happiest man on earth; but no one
can love who has not a heart, and so I am resolved to ask Oz to
give me one. If he does, I will go back to the Munchkin maiden
and marry her."
Both Dorothy and the Scarecrow had been greatly interested
in the story of the Tin Woodman, and now they knew why he was so
anxious to get a new heart.
"All the same," said the Scarecrow, "I shall ask for brains
instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a
heart if he had one."
"I shall take the heart," returned the Tin Woodman; "for
brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing
in the world."
Dorothy did not say anything, for she was puzzled to know
which of her two friends was right, and she decided if she could
only get back to Kansas and Aunt Em, it did not matter so much
whether the Woodman had no brains and the Scarecrow no heart,
or each got what he wanted.
What worried her most was that the bread was nearly gone, and
another meal for herself and Toto would empty the basket. To be sure
neither the Woodman nor the Scarecrow ever ate anything, but she was
not made of tin nor straw, and could not live unless she was fed.
6. The Cowardly Lion
All this time Dorothy and her companions had been walking
through the thick woods. The road was still paved with yellow
brick, but these were much covered by dried branches and dead
leaves from the trees, and the walking was not at all good.
There were few birds in this part of the forest, for birds
love the open country where there is plenty of sunshine. But now
and then there came a deep growl from some wild animal hidden
among the trees. These sounds made the little girl's heart beat
fast, for she did not know what made them; but Toto knew, and he
walked close to Dorothy's side, and did not even bark in return.
"How long will it be," the child asked of the Tin Woodman,
"before we are out of the forest?"
"I cannot tell," was the answer, "for I have never been to the
Emerald City. But my father went there once, when I was a boy,
and he said it was a long journey through a dangerous country,
although nearer to the city where Oz dwells the country is beautiful.
But I am not afraid so long as I have my oil-can, and nothing can hurt
the Scarecrow, while you bear upon your forehead the mark of the
Good Witch's kiss, and that will protect you from harm."
"But Toto!" said the girl anxiously. "What will protect him?"
"We must protect him ourselves if he is in danger," replied
the Tin Woodman.
Just as he spoke there came from the forest a terrible roar,
and the next moment a great Lion bounded into the road. With one
blow of his paw he sent the Scarecrow spinning over and over to
the edge of the road, and then he struck at the Tin Woodman with
his sharp claws. But, to the Lion's surprise, he could make no
impression on the tin, although the Woodman fell over in the road
and lay still.
Little Toto, now that he had an enemy to face, ran barking
toward the Lion, and the great beast had opened his mouth to bite
the dog, when Dorothy, fearing Toto would be killed, and heedless
of danger, rushed forward and slapped the Lion upon his nose as
hard as she could, while she cried out:
"Don't you dare to bite Toto! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, a big beast like you, to bite a poor little dog!"
"I didn't bite him," said the Lion, as he rubbed his nose with
his paw where Dorothy had hit it.
"No, but you tried to," she retorted. "You are nothing but a
big coward."
"I know it," said the Lion, hanging his head in shame. "I've
always known it. But how can I help it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. To think of your striking a stuffed
man, like the poor Scarecrow!"
"Is he stuffed?" asked the Lion in surprise, as he watched her
pick up the Scarecrow and set him upon his feet, while she patted
him into shape again.
"Of course he's stuffed," replied Dorothy, who was still angry.
"That's why he went over so easily," remarked the Lion.
"It astonished me to see him whirl around so. Is the other one
stuffed also?"
"No," said Dorothy, "he's made of tin." And she helped the
Woodman up again.
"That's why he nearly blunted my claws," said the Lion.
"When they scratched against the tin it made a cold shiver run
down my back. What is that little animal you are so tender of?"
"He is my dog, Toto," answered Dorothy.
"Is he made of tin, or stuffed?" asked the Lion.
"Neither. He's a--a--a meat dog," said the girl.
"Oh! He's a curious animal and seems remarkably small,
now that I look at him. No one would think of biting such a
little thing, except a coward like me," continued the Lion sadly.
"What makes you a coward?" asked Dorothy, looking at the great
beast in wonder, for he was as big as a small horse.
"It's a mystery," replied the Lion. "I suppose I was born
that way. All the other animals in the forest naturally expect me
to be brave, for the Lion is everywhere thought to be the King of
Beasts. I learned that if I roared very loudly every living thing
was frightened and got out of my way. Whenever I've met a man
I've been awfully scared; but I just roared at him, and he has
always run away as fast as he could go. If the elephants and the
tigers and the bears had ever tried to fight me, I should have run
myself--I'm such a coward; but just as soon as they hear me roar
they all try to get away from me, and of course I let them go."
"But that isn't right. The King of Beasts shouldn't be a coward,"
said the Scarecrow.
"I know it," returned the Lion, wiping a tear from his eye
with the tip of his tail. "It is my great sorrow, and makes my
life very unhappy. But whenever there is danger, my heart begins
to beat fast."
"Perhaps you have heart disease," said the Tin Woodman.
"It may be," said the Lion.
"If you have," continued the Tin Woodman, "you ought to be glad,
for it proves you have a heart. For my part, I have no heart; so I
cannot have heart disease."
"Perhaps," said the Lion thoughtfully, "if I had no heart I should
not be a coward."
"Have you brains?" asked the Scarecrow.
"I suppose so. I've never looked to see," replied the Lion.
"I am going to the Great Oz to ask him to give me some,"
remarked the Scarecrow, "for my head is stuffed with straw."
"And I am going to ask him to give me a heart," said the Woodman.
"And I am going to ask him to send Toto and me back to Kansas,"
added Dorothy.
"Do you think Oz could give me courage?" asked the Cowardly Lion.
"Just as easily as he could give me brains," said the Scarecrow.
"Or give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"Or send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"Then, if you don't mind, I'll go with you," said the Lion,
"for my life is simply unbearable without a bit of courage."
"You will be very welcome," answered Dorothy, "for you will help
to keep away the other wild beasts. It seems to me they must be more
cowardly than you are if they allow you to scare them so easily."
"They really are," said the Lion, "but that doesn't make me any braver,
and as long as I know myself to be a coward I shall be unhappy."
So once more the little company set off upon the journey, the
Lion walking with stately strides at Dorothy's side. Toto did not
approve this new comrade at first, for he could not forget how
nearly he had been crushed between the Lion's great jaws. But
after a time he became more at ease, and presently Toto and the
Cowardly Lion had grown to be good friends.
During the rest of that day there was no other adventure to
mar the peace of their journey. Once, indeed, the Tin Woodman
stepped upon a beetle that was crawling along the road, and killed
the poor little thing. This made the Tin Woodman very unhappy,
for he was always careful not to hurt any living creature; and as
he walked along he wept several tears of sorrow and regret. These
tears ran slowly down his face and over the hinges of his jaw, and
there they rusted. When Dorothy presently asked him a question
the Tin Woodman could not open his mouth, for his jaws were
tightly rusted together. He became greatly frightened at this and
made many motions to Dorothy to relieve him, but she could not
understand. The Lion was also puzzled to know what was wrong.
But the Scarecrow seized the oil-can from Dorothy's basket and
oiled the Woodman's jaws, so that after a few moments he could
talk as well as before.
"This will serve me a lesson," said he, "to look where I step.
For if I should kill another bug or beetle I should surely cry again,
and crying rusts my jaws so that I cannot speak."
Thereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road,
and when he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as
not to harm it. The Tin Woodman knew very well he had no heart, and
therefore he took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything.
"You people with hearts," he said, "have something to guide you, and
need never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very careful.
When Oz gives me a heart of course I needn't mind so much."
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
They were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in
the forest, for there were no houses near. The tree made a good,
thick covering to protect them from the dew, and the Tin Woodman
chopped a great pile of wood with his axe and Dorothy built a
splendid fire that warmed her and made her feel less lonely. She
and Toto ate the last of their bread, and now she did not know
what they would do for breakfast.
"If you wish," said the Lion, "I will go into the forest and
kill a deer for you. You can roast it by the fire, since your
tastes are so peculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you
will have a very good breakfast."
"Don't! Please don't," begged the Tin Woodman. "I should
certainly weep if you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would
rust again."
But the Lion went away into the forest and found his own supper,
and no one ever knew what it was, for he didn't mention it. And the
Scarecrow found a tree full of nuts and filled Dorothy's basket with them,
so that she would not be hungry for a long time. She thought this was
very kind and thoughtful of the Scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at the
awkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts. His padded
hands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped almost
as many as he put in the basket. But the Scarecrow did not mind how long
it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep away from the fire,
as he feared a spark might get into his straw and burn him up. So he kept a
good distance away from the flames, and only came near to cover Dorothy with
dry leaves when she lay down to sleep. These kept her very snug and warm,
and she slept soundly until morning.
When it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling brook,
and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City.
This was to be an eventful day for the travelers. They had
hardly been walking an hour when they saw before them a great
ditch that crossed the road and divided the forest as far as they
could see on either side. It was a very wide ditch, and when they
crept up to the edge and looked into it they could see it was also
very deep, and there were many big, jagged rocks at the bottom.
The sides were so steep that none of them could climb down, and
for a moment it seemed that their journey must end.
"What shall we do?" asked Dorothy despairingly.
"I haven't the faintest idea," said the Tin Woodman, and the
Lion shook his shaggy mane and looked thoughtful.
But the Scarecrow said, "We cannot fly, that is certain.
Neither can we climb down into this great ditch. Therefore,
if we cannot jump over it, we must stop where we are."
"I think I could jump over it," said the Cowardly Lion, after
measuring the distance carefully in his mind.
"Then we are all right," answered the Scarecrow, "for you can
carry us all over on your back, one at a time."
"Well, I'll try it," said the Lion. "Who will go first?"
"I will," declared the Scarecrow, "for, if you found that you
could not jump over the gulf, Dorothy would be killed, or the Tin
Woodman badly dented on the rocks below. But if I am on your back
it will not matter so much, for the fall would not hurt me at all."
"I am terribly afraid of falling, myself," said the Cowardly
Lion, "but I suppose there is nothing to do but try it. So get on
my back and we will make the attempt."
The Scarecrow sat upon the Lion's back, and the big beast
walked to the edge of the gulf and crouched down.
"Why don't you run and jump?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Because that isn't the way we Lions do these things," he replied.
Then giving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely
on the other side. They were all greatly pleased to see how easily
he did it, and after the Scarecrow had got down from his back the Lion
sprang across the ditch again.
Dorothy thought she would go next; so she took Toto in her
arms and climbed on the Lion's back, holding tightly to his mane
with one hand. The next moment it seemed as if she were flying
through the air; and then, before she had time to think about it,
she was safe on the other side. The Lion went back a third time
and got the Tin Woodman, and then they all sat down for a few
moments to give the beast a chance to rest, for his great leaps
had made his breath short, and he panted like a big dog that has
been running too long.
They found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked
dark and gloomy. After the Lion had rested they started along the
road of yellow brick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if
ever they would come to the end of the woods and reach the bright
sunshine again. To add to their discomfort, they soon heard strange
noises in the depths of the forest, and the Lion whispered to them
that it was in this part of the country that the Kalidahs lived.
"What are the Kalidahs?" asked the girl.
"They are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads
like tigers," replied the Lion, "and with claws so long and sharp
that they could tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto.
I'm terribly afraid of the Kalidahs."
"I'm not surprised that you are," returned Dorothy.
"They must be dreadful beasts."
The Lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another
gulf across the road. But this one was so broad and deep that the
Lion knew at once he could not leap across it.
So they sat down to consider what they should do, and after
serious thought the Scarecrow said:
"Here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch. If the
Tin Woodman can chop it down, so that it will fall to the other
side, we can walk across it easily."
"That is a first-rate idea," said the Lion. "One would almost
suspect you had brains in your head, instead of straw."
The Woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that
the tree was soon chopped nearly through. Then the Lion put his
strong front legs against the tree and pushed with all his might,
and slowly the big tree tipped and fell with a crash across the
ditch, with its top branches on the other side.
They had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl
made them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them
two great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers.
"They are the Kalidahs!" said the Cowardly Lion, beginning to tremble.
"Quick!" cried the Scarecrow. "Let us cross over."
So Dorothy went first, holding Toto in her arms, the Tin
Woodman followed, and the Scarecrow came next. The Lion, although
he was certainly afraid, turned to face the Kalidahs, and then he
gave so loud and terrible a roar that Dorothy screamed and the
Scarecrow fell over backward, while even the fierce beasts stopped
short and looked at him in surprise.
But, seeing they were bigger than the Lion, and remembering
that there were two of them and only one of him, the Kalidahs
again rushed forward, and the Lion crossed over the tree and
turned to see what they would do next. Without stopping an
instant the fierce beasts also began to cross the tree.
And the Lion said to Dorothy:
"We are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with
their sharp claws. But stand close behind me, and I will fight
them as long as I am alive."
"Wait a minute!" called the Scarecrow. He had been thinking
what was best to be done, and now he asked the Woodman to chop
away the end of the tree that rested on their side of the ditch.
The Tin Woodman began to use his axe at once, and, just as the two
Kalidahs were nearly across, the tree fell with a crash into the
gulf, carrying the ugly, snarling brutes with it, and both were
dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks at the bottom.
"Well," said the Cowardly Lion, drawing a long breath of
relief, "I see we are going to live a little while longer, and I
am glad of it, for it must be a very uncomfortable thing not to be
alive. Those creatures frightened me so badly that my heart is
beating yet."
"Ah," said the Tin Woodman sadly, "I wish I had a heart to beat."
This adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to
get out of the forest, and they walked so fast that Dorothy became
tired, and had to ride on the Lion's back. To their great joy the
trees became thinner the farther they advanced, and in the
afternoon they suddenly came upon a broad river, flowing swiftly
just before them. On the other side of the water they could see
the road of yellow brick running through a beautiful country, with
green meadows dotted with bright flowers and all the road bordered
with trees hanging full of delicious fruits. They were greatly
pleased to see this delightful country before them.
"How shall we cross the river?" asked Dorothy.
"That is easily done," replied the Scarecrow. "The Tin Woodman
must build us a raft, so we can float to the other side."
So the Woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees
to make a raft, and while he was busy at this the Scarecrow found
on the riverbank a tree full of fine fruit. This pleased Dorothy,
who had eaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal
of the ripe fruit.
But it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious
and untiring as the Tin Woodman, and when night came the work was not done.
So they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until the
morning; and Dorothy dreamed of the Emerald City, and of the good Wizard Oz,
who would soon send her back to her own home again.
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning
refreshed and full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a
princess off peaches and plums from the trees beside the river.
Behind them was the dark forest they had passed safely through,
although they had suffered many discouragements; but before them
was a lovely, sunny country that seemed to beckon them on to the
Emerald City.
To be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this
beautiful land. But the raft was nearly done, and after the Tin
Woodman had cut a few more logs and fastened them together with
wooden pins, they were ready to start. Dorothy sat down in the
middle of the raft and held Toto in her arms. When the Cowardly
Lion stepped upon the raft it tipped badly, for he was big and
heavy; but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood upon the other
end to steady it, and they had long poles in their hands to push
the raft through the water.
They got along quite well at first, but when they reached the
middle of the river the swift current swept the raft downstream,
farther and farther away from the road of yellow brick. And the
water grew so deep that the long poles would not touch the bottom.
"This is bad," said the Tin Woodman, "for if we cannot get to
the land we shall be carried into the country of the Wicked Witch
of the West, and she will enchant us and make us her slaves."
"And then I should get no brains," said the Scarecrow.
"And I should get no courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"And I should get no heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"And I should never get back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"We must certainly get to the Emerald City if we can,"
the Scarecrow continued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole
that it stuck fast in the mud at the bottom of the river. Then,
before he could pull it out again--or let go--the raft was swept
away, and the poor Scarecrow left clinging to the pole in the
middle of the river.
"Good-bye!" he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave him.
Indeed, the Tin Woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered that he
might rust, and so dried his tears on Dorothy's apron.
Of course this was a bad thing for the Scarecrow.
"I am now worse off than when I first met Dorothy," he
thought. "Then, I was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where I
could make-believe scare the crows, at any rate. But surely there
is no use for a Scarecrow stuck on a pole in the middle of a
river. I am afraid I shall never have any brains, after all!"
Down the stream the raft floated, and the poor Scarecrow was
left far behind. Then the Lion said:
"Something must be done to save us. I think I can swim to the
shore and pull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to
the tip of my tail."
So he sprang into the water, and the Tin Woodman caught fast
hold of his tail. Then the Lion began to swim with all his might
toward the shore. It was hard work, although he was so big; but
by and by they were drawn out of the current, and then Dorothy took
the Tin Woodman's long pole and helped push the raft to the land.
They were all tired out when they reached the shore at last
and stepped off upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew
that the stream had carried them a long way past the road of
yellow brick that led to the Emerald City.
"What shall we do now?" asked the Tin Woodman, as the Lion lay
down on the grass to let the sun dry him.
"We must get back to the road, in some way," said Dorothy.
"The best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we
come to the road again," remarked the Lion.
So, when they were rested, Dorothy picked up her basket and
they started along the grassy bank, to the road from which the
river had carried them. It was a lovely country, with plenty of
flowers and fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they
not felt so sorry for the poor Scarecrow, they could have been
very happy.
They walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping
once to pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman
cried out: "Look!"
Then they all looked at the river and saw the Scarecrow perched
upon his pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad.
"What can we do to save him?" asked Dorothy.
The Lion and the Woodman both shook their heads, for they did
not know. So they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at
the Scarecrow until a Stork flew by, who, upon seeing them,
stopped to rest at the water's edge.
"Who are you and where are you going?" asked the Stork.
"I am Dorothy," answered the girl, "and these are my friends,
the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion; and we are going to the
Emerald City."
"This isn't the road," said the Stork, as she twisted her long
neck and looked sharply at the queer party.
"I know it," returned Dorothy, "but we have lost the
Scarecrow, and are wondering how we shall get him again."
"Where is he?" asked the Stork.
"Over there in the river," answered the little girl.
"If he wasn't so big and heavy I would get him for you,"
remarked the Stork.
"He isn't heavy a bit," said Dorothy eagerly, "for he is
stuffed with straw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall
thank you ever and ever so much."
"Well, I'll try," said the Stork, "but if I find he is too
heavy to carry I shall have to drop him in the river again."
So the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she
came to where the Scarecrow was perched upon his pole. Then the
Stork with her great claws grabbed the Scarecrow by the arm and
carried him up into the air and back to the bank, where Dorothy
and the Lion and the Tin Woodman and Toto were sitting.
When the Scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he
was so happy that he hugged them all, even the Lion and Toto; and
as they walked along he sang "Tol-de-ri-de-oh!" at every step, he
felt so gay.
"I was afraid I should have to stay in the river forever,"
he said, "but the kind Stork saved me, and if I ever get any brains
I shall find the Stork again and do her some kindness in return."
"That's all right," said the Stork, who was flying along
beside them. "I always like to help anyone in trouble. But I
must go now, for my babies are waiting in the nest for me. I hope
you will find the Emerald City and that Oz will help you."
"Thank you," replied Dorothy, and then the kind Stork flew
into the air and was soon out of sight.
They walked along listening to the singing of the brightly
colored birds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became
so thick that the ground was carpeted with them. There were big
yellow and white and blue and purple blossoms, besides great
clusters of scarlet poppies, which were so brilliant in color they
almost dazzled Dorothy's eyes.
"Aren't they beautiful?" the girl asked, as she breathed in
the spicy scent of the bright flowers.
"I suppose so," answered the Scarecrow. "When I have brains,
I shall probably like them better."
"If I only had a heart, I should love them," added the Tin Woodman.
"I always did like flowers," said the Lion. "They of seem so
helpless and frail. But there are none in the forest so bright as these."
They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies,
and fewer and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found
themselves in the midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is
well known that when there are many of these flowers together
their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls
asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of
the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But Dorothy did not
know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that
were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she
felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.
But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.
"We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,"
he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until
Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and
she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.
"What shall we do?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"If we leave her here she will die," said the Lion. "The smell of
the flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open,
and the dog is asleep already."
It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress.
But the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh,
were not troubled by the scent of the flowers.
"Run fast," said the Scarecrow to the Lion, "and get out of
this deadly flower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the
little girl with us, but if you should fall asleep you are too big
to be carried."
So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he
could go. In a moment he was out of sight.
"Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her," said the
Scarecrow. So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy's
lap, and then they made a chair with their hands for the seat and
their arms for the arms and carried the sleeping girl between them
through the flowers.
On and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of
deadly flowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed
the bend of the river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion,
lying fast asleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong
for the huge beast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short
distance from the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in
beautiful green fields before them.
"We can do nothing for him," said the Tin Woodman, sadly; "for
he is much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on
forever, and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last."
"I'm sorry," said the Scarecrow. "The Lion was a very good
comrade for one so cowardly. But let us go on."
They carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river,
far enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of
the poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft
grass and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
"We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now," remarked
the Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, "for we have come
nearly as far as the river carried us away."
The Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl,
and turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a
strange beast come bounding over the grass toward them. It was,
indeed, a great yellow Wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must
be chasing something, for its ears were lying close to its head
and its mouth was wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while
its red eyes glowed like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin
Woodman saw that running before the beast was a little gray field
mouse, and although he had no heart he knew it was wrong for the
Wildcat to try to kill such a pretty, harmless creature.
So the Woodman raised his axe, and as the Wildcat ran by he gave
it a quick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body,
and it rolled over at his feet in two pieces.
The field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short;
and coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice:
"Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life."
"Don't speak of it, I beg of you," replied the Woodman.
"I have no heart, you know, so I am careful to help all those
who may need a friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse."
"Only a mouse!" cried the little animal, indignantly.
"Why, I am a Queen--the Queen of all the Field Mice!"
"Oh, indeed," said the Woodman, making a bow.
"Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one,
in saving my life," added the Queen.
At that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as
their little legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen
they exclaimed:
"Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did
you manage to escape the great Wildcat?" They all bowed so low to
the little Queen that they almost stood upon their heads.
"This funny tin man," she answered, "killed the Wildcat and
saved my life. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his
slightest wish."
"We will!" cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they
scampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and
seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped
right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase mice
when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it.
But the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight,
while he called to the mice, "Come back! Come back! Toto shall not hurt you."
At this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from underneath a clump
of grass and asked, in a timid voice, "Are you sure he will not bite us?"
"I will not let him," said the Woodman; "so do not be afraid."
One by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again,
although he tried to get out of the Woodman's arms, and would have bitten
him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one of the
biggest mice spoke.
"Is there anything we can do," it asked, "to repay you for
saving the life of our Queen?"
"Nothing that I know of," answered the Woodman; but the
Scarecrow, who had been trying to think, but could not because his
head was stuffed with straw, said, quickly, "Oh, yes; you can save
our friend, the Cowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed."
"A Lion!" cried the little Queen. "Why, he would eat us all up."
"Oh, no," declared the Scarecrow; "this Lion is a coward."
"Really?" asked the Mouse.
"He says so himself," answered the Scarecrow, "and he would
never hurt anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save
him I promise that he shall treat you all with kindness."
"Very well," said the Queen, "we trust you. But what shall we do?"
"Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing
to obey you?"
"Oh, yes; there are thousands," she replied.
"Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible,
and let each one bring a long piece of string."
The Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them
to go at once and get all her people. As soon as they heard her
orders they ran away in every direction as fast as possible.
"Now," said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, "you must go to
those trees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the Lion."
So the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work;
and he soon made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he
chopped away all the leaves and branches. He fastened it together
with wooden pegs and made the four wheels out of short pieces of a
big tree trunk. So fast and so well did he work that by the time
the mice began to arrive the truck was all ready for them.
They came from all directions, and there were thousands of
them: big mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each
one brought a piece of string in his mouth. It was about this
time that Dorothy woke from her long sleep and opened her eyes.
She was greatly astonished to find herself lying upon the grass,
with thousands of mice standing around and looking at her timidly.
But the Scarecrow told her about everything, and turning to the
dignified little Mouse, he said:
"Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen."
Dorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a curtsy, after
which she became quite friendly with the little girl.
The Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to
the truck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a
string was tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to
the truck. Of course the truck was a thousand times bigger than
any of the mice who were to draw it; but when all the mice had
been harnessed, they were able to pull it quite easily. Even the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly
by their queer little horses to the place where the Lion lay asleep.
After a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they
managed to get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave
her people the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed
among the poppies too long they also would fall asleep.
At first the little creatures, many though they were, could
hardly stir the heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the
Scarecrow both pushed from behind, and they got along better.
Soon they rolled the Lion out of the poppy bed to the green fields,
where he could breathe the sweet, fresh air again, instead of the
poisonous scent of the flowers.
Dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly
for saving her companion from death. She had grown so fond of
the big Lion she was glad he had been rescued.
Then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered
away through the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was
the last to leave.
"If ever you need us again," she said, "come out into the
field and call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance.
Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while
Dorothy held Toto tightly lest he should run after her and
frighten her.
After this they sat down beside the Lion until he should
awaken; and the Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree
near by, which she ate for her dinner.
10. The Guardian of the Gate
It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had
lain among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly
fragrance; but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck
he was very glad to find himself still alive.
"I ran as fast as I could," he said, sitting down and yawning,
"but the flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?"
Then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously
saved him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said:
"I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such
little things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small
animals as mice have saved my life. How strange it all is!
But, comrades, what shall we do now?"
"We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again,"
said Dorothy, "and then we can keep on to the Emerald City."
So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again,
they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through the soft,
fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road of yellow brick
and turned again toward the Emerald City where the Great Oz dwelt.
The road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about
was beautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the
forest far behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in
its gloomy shades. Once more they could see fences built beside
the road; but these were painted green, and when they came to a
small house, in which a farmer evidently lived, that also was
painted green. They passed by several of these houses during the
afternoon, and sometimes people came to the doors and looked at
them as if they would like to ask questions; but no one came near
them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of which they
were very much afraid. The people were all dressed in clothing of
a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like those of
the Munchkins.
"This must be the Land of Oz," said Dorothy, "and we are
surely getting near the Emerald City."
"Yes," answered the Scarecrow. "Everything is green here,
while in the country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color.
But the people do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins, and
I'm afraid we shall be unable to find a place to pass the night."
"I should like something to eat besides fruit," said the girl,
"and I'm sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next
house and talk to the people."
So, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, Dorothy walked
boldly up to the door and knocked.
A woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said,
"What do you want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?"
"We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us,"
answered Dorothy; "and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and
would not hurt you for the world."
"Is he tame?" asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.
"Oh, yes," said the girl, "and he is a great coward, too.
He will be more afraid of you than you are of him."
"Well," said the woman, after thinking it over and taking
another peep at the Lion, "if that is the case you may come in,
and I will give you some supper and a place to sleep."
So they all entered the house, where there were, besides the
woman, two children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was
lying on the couch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to
see so strange a company, and while the woman was busy laying the
table the man asked:
"Where are you all going?"
"To the Emerald City," said Dorothy, "to see the Great Oz."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the man. "Are you sure that Oz will see you?"
"Why not?" she replied.
"Why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence.
I have been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and
wonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz,
nor do I know of any living person who has seen him."
"Does he never go out?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Never. He sits day after day in the great Throne Room of his
Palace, and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face."
"What is he like?" asked the girl.
"That is hard to tell," said the man thoughtfully. "You see,
Oz is a Great Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that
some say he looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an
elephant; and some say he looks like a cat. To others he appears
as a beautiful fairy, or a brownie, or in any other form that
pleases him. But who the real Oz is, when he is in his own form,
no living person can tell."
"That is very strange," said Dorothy, "but we must try, in
some way, to see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing."
"Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?" asked the man.
"I want him to give me some brains," said the Scarecrow eagerly.
"Oh, Oz could do that easily enough," declared the man.
"He has more brains than he needs."
"And I want him to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"That will not trouble him," continued the man, "for Oz has a
large collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes."
"And I want him to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his Throne Room," said
the man, "which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it
from running over. He will be glad to give you some."
"And I want him to send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"Where is Kansas?" asked the man, with surprise.
"I don't know," replied Dorothy sorrowfully, "but it is my home,
and I'm sure it's somewhere."
"Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will
find Kansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that
will be a hard task; for the Great Wizard does not like to see anyone,
and he usually has his own way. But what do YOU want?" he continued,
speaking to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say,
he could not speak.
The woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they
gathered around the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge
and a dish of scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and
enjoyed her meal. The Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not
care for it, saying it was made from oats and oats were food for
horses, not for lions. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate
nothing at all. Toto ate a little of everything, and was glad to
get a good supper again.
The woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay
down beside her, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so
she might not be disturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
stood up in a corner and kept quiet all night, although of course
they could not sleep.
The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on
their way, and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just
before them.
"That must be the Emerald City," said Dorothy.
As they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter,
and it seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels.
Yet it was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded
the City. It was high and thick and of a bright green color.
In front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick,
was a big gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the
sun that even the painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by
their brilliancy.
There was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the
button and heard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate
swung slowly open, and they all passed through and found
themselves in a high arched room, the walls of which glistened
with countless emeralds.
Before them stood a little man about the same size as the
Munchkins. He was clothed all in green, from his head to his
feet, and even his skin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a
large green box.
When he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked,
"What do you wish in the Emerald City?"
"We came here to see the Great Oz," said Dorothy.
The man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to
think it over.
"It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz,"
he said, shaking his head in perplexity. "He is powerful and
terrible, and if you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother
the wise reflections of the Great Wizard, he might be angry and
destroy you all in an instant."
"But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one," replied the
Scarecrow; "it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a
good Wizard."
"So he is," said the green man, "and he rules the Emerald City
wisely and well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach
him from curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared
ask to see his face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since
you demand to see the Great Oz I must take you to his Palace.
But first you must put on the spectacles."
"Why?" asked Dorothy.
"Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and
glory of the Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in
the City must wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked
on, for Oz so ordered it when the City was first built, and I have
the only key that will unlock them."
He opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with
spectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses
in them. The Guardian of the Gates found a pair that would just
fit Dorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden
bands fastened to them that passed around the back of her head,
where they were locked together by a little key that was at the
end of a chain the Guardian of the Gates wore around his neck.
When they were on, Dorothy could not take them off had she wished,
but of course she did not wish to be blinded by the glare of the
Emerald City, so she said nothing.
Then the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the
Tin Woodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were
locked fast with the key.
Then the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told
them he was ready to show them to the Palace. Taking a big golden
key from a peg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all
followed him through the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.
11. The Wonderful City of Oz
Even with eyes protected by the green spectacles, Dorothy
and her friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the
wonderful City. The streets were lined with beautiful houses all
built of green marble and studded everywhere with sparkling
emeralds. They walked over a pavement of the same green marble,
and where the blocks were joined together were rows of emeralds,
set closely, and glittering in the brightness of the sun. The
window panes were of green glass; even the sky above the City had
a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green.
There were many people--men, women, and children--walking about,
and these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins.
They looked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with
wondering eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind
their mothers when they saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them.
Many shops stood in the street, and Dorothy saw that everything
in them was green. Green candy and green pop corn were offered
for sale, as well as green shoes, green hats, and green clothes
of all sorts. At one place a man was selling green lemonade,
and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that they paid
for it with green pennies.
There seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men
carried things around in little green carts, which they pushed
before them. Everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous.
The Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until
they came to a big building, exactly in the middle of the City,
which was the Palace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier
before the door, dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long
green beard.
"Here are strangers," said the Guardian of the Gates to him,
"and they demand to see the Great Oz."
"Step inside," answered the soldier, "and I will carry your
message to him."
So they passed through the Palace Gates and were led into a
big room with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with
emeralds. The soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green
mat before entering this room, and when they were seated he said
politely:
"Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of
the Throne Room and tell Oz you are here."
They had to wait a long time before the soldier returned.
When, at last, he came back, Dorothy asked:
"Have you seen Oz?"
"Oh, no," returned the soldier; "I have never seen him.
But I spoke to him as he sat behind his screen and gave him your
message. He said he will grant you an audience, if you so desire;
but each one of you must enter his presence alone, and he will
admit but one each day. Therefore, as you must remain in the
Palace for several days, I will have you shown to rooms where you
may rest in comfort after your journey."
"Thank you," replied the girl; "that is very kind of Oz."
The soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl,
dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely
green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she said,
"Follow me and I will show you your room."
So Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and
taking the dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven
passages and up three flights of stairs until they came to a room
at the front of the Palace. It was the sweetest little room in
the world, with a soft comfortable bed that had sheets of green
silk and a green velvet counterpane. There was a tiny fountain in
the middle of the room, that shot a spray of green perfume into
the air, to fall back into a beautifully carved green marble basin.
Beautiful green flowers stood in the windows, and there was a shelf
with a row of little green books. When Dorothy had time to open
these books she found them full of queer green pictures that made
her laugh, they were so funny.
In a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin
and velvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly.
"Make yourself perfectly at home," said the green girl,
"and if you wish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send
for you tomorrow morning."
She left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she
also led to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a
very pleasant part of the Palace. Of course this politeness was
wasted on the Scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his
room he stood stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to
wait till morning. It would not rest him to lie down, and he
could not close his eyes; so he remained all night staring at a
little spider which was weaving its web in a corner of the room,
just as if it were not one of the most wonderful rooms in the world.
The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from force of habit, for he
remembered when he was made of flesh; but not being able to sleep,
he passed the night moving his joints up and down to make sure they
kept in good working order. The Lion would have preferred a bed of
dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being shut up in a room;
but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so he sprang upon
the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred himself asleep
in a minute.
The next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to
fetch Dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns,
made of green brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron
and tied a green ribbon around Toto's neck, and they started
for the Throne Room of the Great Oz.
First they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and
gentlemen of the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These
people had nothing to do but talk to each other, but they always
came to wait outside the Throne Room every morning, although they
were never permitted to see Oz. As Dorothy entered they looked at
her curiously, and one of them whispered:
"Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible?"
"Of course," answered the girl, "if he will see me."
"Oh, he will see you," said the soldier who had taken her
message to the Wizard, "although he does not like to have people
ask to see him. Indeed, at first he was angry and said I should
send you back where you came from. Then he asked me what you
looked like, and when I mentioned your silver shoes he was very
much interested. At last I told him about the mark upon your
forehead, and he decided he would admit you to his presence."
Just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy,
"That is the signal. You must go into the Throne Room alone."
She opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and
found herself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with
a high arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered
with large emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof
was a great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds
sparkle in a wonderful manner.
But what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green
marble that stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a
chair and sparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the
center of the chair was an enormous Head, without a body to
support it or any arms or legs whatever. There was no hair upon
this head, but it had eyes and a nose and mouth, and was much
bigger than the head of the biggest giant.
As Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned
slowly and looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth
moved, and Dorothy heard a voice say:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you
seek me?"
It was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come
from the big Head; so she took courage and answered:
"I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help."
The eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute.
Then said the voice:
"Where did you get the silver shoes?"
"I got them from the Wicked Witch of the East, when my house
fell on her and killed her," she replied.
"Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?" continued the voice.
"That is where the Good Witch of the North kissed me when she
bade me good-bye and sent me to you," said the girl.
Again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was
telling the truth. Then Oz asked, "What do you wish me to do?"
"Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are,"
she answered earnestly. "I don't like your country, although it is
so beautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over
my being away so long."
The eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the
ceiling and down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that
they seemed to see every part of the room. And at last they
looked at Dorothy again.
"Why should I do this for you?" asked Oz.
"Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great
Wizard and I am only a little girl."
"But you were strong enough to kill the Wicked Witch of the East,"
said Oz.
"That just happened," returned Dorothy simply; "I could not help it."
"Well," said the Head, "I will give you my answer. You have no
right to expect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something
for me in return. In this country everyone must pay for everything
he gets. If you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again
you must do something for me first. Help me and I will help you."
"What must I do?" asked the girl.
"Kill the Wicked Witch of the West," answered Oz.
"But I cannot!" exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised.
"You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes,
which bear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left
in all this land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send
you back to Kansas--but not before."
The little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed;
and the eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the
Great Oz felt that she could help him if she would.
"I never killed anything, willingly," she sobbed. "Even if I
wanted to, how could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great
and Terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?"
"I do not know," said the Head; "but that is my answer, and
until the Wicked Witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt
again. Remember that the Witch is Wicked--tremendously Wicked
-and ought to be killed. Now go, and do not ask to see me again
until you have done your task."
Sorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where
the Lion and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to
hear what Oz had said to her. "There is no hope for me," she
said sadly, "for Oz will not send me home until I have killed
the Wicked Witch of the West; and that I can never do."
Her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so
Dorothy went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried
herself to sleep.
The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to
the Scarecrow and said:
"Come with me, for Oz has sent for you."
So the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great
Throne Room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most
lovely Lady. She was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon
her flowing green locks a crown of jewels. Growing from her
shoulders were wings, gorgeous in color and so light that they
fluttered if the slightest breath of air reached them.
When the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would
let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly,
and said:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
Now the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had
told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely.
"I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have
no brains, and I come to you praying that you will put brains in
my head instead of straw, so that I may become as much a man as
any other in your dominions."
"Why should I do this for you?" asked the Lady.
"Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me,"
answered the Scarecrow.
"I never grant favors without some return," said Oz; "but this
much I will promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of
the West, I will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such
good brains that you will be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz."
"I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch," said the Scarecrow,
in surprise.
"So I did. I don't care who kills her. But until she is dead
I will not grant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again
until you have earned the brains you so greatly desire."
The Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told
them what Oz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the
Great Wizard was not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely Lady.
"All the same," said the Scarecrow, "she needs a heart as much
as the Tin Woodman."
On the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came
to the Tin Woodman and said:
"Oz has sent for you. Follow me."
So the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne
Room. He did not know whether he would find Oz a lovely Lady or a
Head, but he hoped it would be the lovely Lady. "For," he said to
himself, "if it is the head, I am sure I shall not be given a
heart, since a head has no heart of its own and therefore cannot
feel for me. But if it is the lovely Lady I shall beg hard for a
heart, for all ladies are themselves said to be kindly hearted."
But when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw
neither the Head nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a
most terrible Beast. It was nearly as big as an elephant, and the
green throne seemed hardly strong enough to hold its weight. The
Beast had a head like that of a rhinoceros, only there were five
eyes in its face. There were five long arms growing out of its
body, and it also had five long, slim legs. Thick, woolly hair
covered every part of it, and a more dreadful-looking monster
could not be imagined. It was fortunate the Tin Woodman had no
heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud and fast from
terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all afraid,
although he was much disappointed.
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," spoke the Beast, in a voice
that was one great roar. "Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
"I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart,
and cannot love. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as
other men are."
"Why should I do this?" demanded the Beast.
"Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request,"
answered the Woodman.
Oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly: "If you indeed
desire a heart, you must earn it."
"How?" asked the Woodman.
"Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West," replied
the Beast. "When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then
give you the biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the
Land of Oz."
So the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his
friends and tell them of the terrible Beast he had seen.
They all wondered greatly at the many forms the Great Wizard
could take upon himself, and the Lion said:
"If he is a Beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my
loudest, and so frighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if
he is the lovely Lady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so
compel her to do my bidding. And if he is the great Head, he will
be at my mercy; for I will roll this head all about the room until
he promises to give us what we desire. So be of good cheer, my
friends, for all will yet be well."
The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the
Lion to the great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz.
The Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw,
to his surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce
and glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought
was that Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when
he tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his whiskers,
and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door.
Then a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these
were the words it spoke:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
And the Lion answered, "I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything.
I came to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may
become the King of Beasts, as men call me."
"Why should I give you courage?" demanded Oz.
"Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have
power to grant my request," answered the Lion.
The Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said,
"Bring me proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will
give you courage. But as long as the Witch lives, you must remain a coward."
The Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply,
and while he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became
so furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room.
He was glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them
of his terrible interview with the Wizard.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy sadly.
"There is only one thing we can do," returned the Lion, "and
that is to go to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked
Witch, and destroy her."
"But suppose we cannot?" said the girl.
"Then I shall never have courage," declared the Lion.
"And I shall never have brains," added the Scarecrow.
"And I shall never have a heart," spoke the Tin of Woodman.
"And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry," said Dorothy,
beginning to cry.
"Be careful!" cried the green girl. "The tears will fall on
your green silk gown and spot it."
So Dorothy dried her eyes and said, "I suppose we must try it;
but I am sure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again."
"I will go with you; but I'm too much of a coward to kill the
Witch," said the Lion.
"I will go too," declared the Scarecrow; "but I shall not be
of much help to you, I am such a fool."
"I haven't the heart to harm even a Witch," remarked the Tin
Woodman; "but if you go I certainly shall go with you."
Therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next
morning, and the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone
and had all his joints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed
himself with fresh straw and Dorothy put new paint on his eyes
that he might see better. The green girl, who was very kind to
them, filled Dorothy's basket with good things to eat, and
fastened a little bell around Toto's neck with a green ribbon.
They went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight,
when they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived
in the back yard of the Palace, and the cackling of a hen that had
laid a green egg.
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
The soldier with the green whiskers led them through the
streets of the Emerald City until they reached the room where the
Guardian of the Gates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles
to put them back in his great box, and then he politely opened the
gate for our friends.
"Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked
Dorothy.
"There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates.
"No one ever wishes to go that way."
"How, then, are we to find her?" inquired the girl.
"That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you
are in the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you
all her slaves."
"Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her."
"Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates.
"No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she
would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care;
for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her.
Keep to the West, where the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her."
They thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the West,
walking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies
and buttercups. Dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put on
in the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer green,
but pure white. The ribbon around Toto's neck had also lost its green
color and was as white as Dorothy's dress.
The Emerald City was soon left far behind. As they advanced
the ground became rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor
houses in this country of the West, and the ground was untilled.
In the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there
were no trees to offer them shade; so that before night Dorothy
and Toto and the Lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and
fell asleep, with the Woodman and the Scarecrow keeping watch.
Now the Wicked Witch of the West had but one eye, yet that was as
powerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere. So, as she sat in
the door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw Dorothy
lying asleep, with her friends all about her. They were a long
distance off, but the Wicked Witch was angry to find them in her
country; so she blew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck.
At once there came running to her from all directions a pack
of great wolves. They had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth.
"Go to those people," said the Witch, "and tear them to pieces."
"Are you not going to make them your slaves?" asked the leader
of the wolves.
"No," she answered, "one is of tin, and one of straw; one is
a girl and another a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you
may tear them into small pieces."
"Very well," said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed,
followed by the others.
It was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and
heard the wolves coming.
"This is my fight," said the Woodman, "so get behind me and I
will meet them as they come."
He seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the
leader of the wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and
chopped the wolf's head from its body, so that it immediately died.
As soon as he could raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also
fell under the sharp edge of the Tin Woodman's weapon. There were
forty wolves, and forty times a wolf was killed, so that at last
they all lay dead in a heap before the Woodman.
Then he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said,
"It was a good fight, friend."
They waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little
girl was quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy
wolves, but the Tin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for
saving them and sat down to breakfast, after which they started
again upon their journey.
Now this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her
castle and looked out with her one eye that could see far off.
She saw all her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still
traveling through her country. This made her angrier than before,
and she blew her silver whistle twice.
Straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her,
enough to darken the sky.
And the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow, "Fly at once to
the strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces."
The wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her
companions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.
But the Scarecrow said, "This is my battle, so lie down beside
me and you will not be harmed."
So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he
stood up and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him
they were frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and
did not dare to come any nearer. But the King Crow said:
"It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out."
The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head
and twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at
him, and the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty
crows, and forty times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last
all were lying dead beside him. Then he called to his companions
to rise, and again they went upon their journey.
When the Wicked Witch looked out again and saw all her crows
lying in a heap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three
times upon her silver whistle.
Forthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a
swarm of black bees came flying toward her.
"Go to the strangers and sting them to death!" commanded
the Witch, and the bees turned and flew rapidly until they came
to where Dorothy and her friends were walking. But the Woodman
had seen them coming, and the Scarecrow had decided what to do.
"Take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the
dog and the Lion," he said to the Woodman, "and the bees cannot
sting them." This the Woodman did, and as Dorothy lay close beside
the Lion and held Toto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely.
The bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so
they flew at him and broke off all their stings against the tin,
without hurting the Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when
their stings are broken that was the end of the black bees, and
they lay scattered thick about the Woodman, like little heaps of
fine coal.
Then Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin
Woodman put the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was
as good as ever. So they started upon their journey once more.
The Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in
little heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her
hair and gnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her
slaves, who were the Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling
them to go to the strangers and destroy them.
The Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as
they were told. So they marched away until they came near to
Dorothy. Then the Lion gave a great roar and sprang towards them,
and the poor Winkies were so frightened that they ran back as fast
as they could.
When they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them
well with a strap, and sent them back to their work, after which
she sat down to think what she should do next. She could not
understand how all her plans to destroy these strangers had failed;
but she was a powerful Witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon
made up her mind how to act.
There was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of
diamonds and rubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm.
Whoever owned it could call three times upon the Winged Monkeys,
who would obey any order they were given. But no person
could command these strange creatures more than three times.
Twice already the Wicked Witch had used the charm of the Cap.
Once was when she had made the Winkies her slaves, and set herself
to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys had helped her
do this. The second time was when she had fought against the
Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the West.
The Winged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once
more could she use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not
like to do so until all her other powers were exhausted. But now
that her fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were
gone, and her slaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion,
she saw there was only one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends.
So the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and
placed it upon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and
said slowly:
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!"
Next she stood upon her right foot and said:
"Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!"
After this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice:
"Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"
Now the charm began to work. The sky was darkened, and a low
rumbling sound was heard in the air. There was a rushing of many
wings, a great chattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the
dark sky to show the Wicked Witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys,
each with a pair of immense and powerful wings on his shoulders.
One, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader.
He flew close to the Witch and said, "You have called us for the
third and last time. What do you command?"
"Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them
all except the Lion," said the Wicked Witch. "Bring that beast to
me, for I have a mind to harness him like a horse, and make him work."
"Your commands shall be obeyed," said the leader. Then, with
a great deal of chattering and noise, the Winged Monkeys flew away
to the place where Dorothy and her friends were walking.
Some of the Monkeys seized the Tin Woodman and carried him
through the air until they were over a country thickly covered
with sharp rocks. Here they dropped the poor Woodman, who fell a
great distance to the rocks, where he lay so battered and dented
that he could neither move nor groan.
Others of the Monkeys caught the Scarecrow, and with their
long fingers pulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head.
They made his hat and boots and clothes into a small bundle and
threw it into the top branches of a tall tree.
The remaining Monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around
the Lion and wound many coils about his body and head and legs,
until he was unable to bite or scratch or struggle in any way.
Then they lifted him up and flew away with him to the Witch's castle,
where he was placed in a small yard with a high iron fence around it,
so that he could not escape.
But Dorothy they did not harm at all. She stood, with Toto in
her arms, watching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it
would soon be her turn. The leader of the Winged Monkeys flew up
to her, his long, hairy arms stretched out and his ugly face
grinning terribly; but he saw the mark of the Good Witch's kiss
upon her forehead and stopped short, motioning the others not to
touch her.
"We dare not harm this little girl," he said to them, "for she
is protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the
Power of Evil. All we can do is to carry her to the castle of the
Wicked Witch and leave her there."
So, carefully and gently, they lifted Dorothy in their
arms and carried her swiftly through the air until they came
to the castle, where they set her down upon the front doorstep.
Then the leader said to the Witch:
"We have obeyed you as far as we were able. The Tin Woodman and
the Scarecrow are destroyed, and the Lion is tied up in your yard.
The little girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms.
Your power over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again."
Then all the Winged Monkeys, with much laughing and chattering
and noise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight.
The Wicked Witch was both surprised and worried when she saw
the mark on Dorothy's forehead, for she knew well that neither the
Winged Monkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way.
She looked down at Dorothy's feet, and seeing the Silver Shoes,
began to tremble with fear, for she knew what a powerful charm
belonged to them. At first the Witch was tempted to run away from
Dorothy; but she happened to look into the child's eyes and saw
how simple the soul behind them was, and that the little girl did
not know of the wonderful power the Silver Shoes gave her. So the
Wicked Witch laughed to herself, and thought, "I can still make
her my slave, for she does not know how to use her power."
Then she said to Dorothy, harshly and severely:
"Come with me; and see that you mind everything I tell you,
for if you do not I will make an end of you, as I did of the Tin
Woodman and the Scarecrow."
Dorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in
her castle until they came to the kitchen, where the Witch bade
her clean the pots and kettles and sweep the floor and keep the
fire fed with wood.
Dorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as
hard as she could; for she was glad the Wicked Witch had decided
not to kill her.
With Dorothy hard at work, the Witch thought she would go into
the courtyard and harness the Cowardly Lion like a horse; it would
amuse her, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she
wished to go to drive. But as she opened the gate the Lion gave a
loud roar and bounded at her so fiercely that the Witch was afraid,
and ran out and shut the gate again.
"If I cannot harness you," said the Witch to the Lion,
speaking through the bars of the gate, "I can starve you.
You shall have nothing to eat until you do as I wish."
So after that she took no food to the imprisoned Lion;
but every day she came to the gate at noon and asked, "Are you
ready to be harnessed like a horse?"
And the Lion would answer, "No. If you come in this yard, I
will bite you."
The reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was
that every night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him
food from the cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on
his bed of straw, and Dorothy would lie beside him and put her
head on his soft, shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles
and tried to plan some way to escape. But they could find no way
to get out of the castle, for it was constantly guarded by the
yellow Winkies, who were the slaves of the Wicked Witch and
too afraid of her not to do as she told them.
The girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch
threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always
carried in her hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike
Dorothy, because of the mark upon her forehead. The child did not
know this, and was full of fear for herself and Toto. Once the
Witch struck Toto a blow with her umbrella and the brave little
dog flew at her and bit her leg in return. The Witch did not
bleed where she was bitten, for she was so wicked that the blood
in her had dried up many years before.
Dorothy's life became very sad as she grew to understand that
it would be harder than ever to get back to Kansas and Aunt Em again.
Sometimes she would cry bitterly for hours, with Toto sitting at her
feet and looking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry
he was for his little mistress. Toto did not really care whether
he was in Kansas or the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him;
but he knew the little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.
Now the Wicked Witch had a great longing to have for her own
the Silver Shoes which the girl always wore. Her bees and her
crows and her wolves were lying in heaps and drying up, and she
had used up all the power of the Golden Cap; but if she could
only get hold of the Silver Shoes, they would give her more power
than all the other things she had lost. She watched Dorothy carefully,
to see if she ever took off her shoes, thinking she might steal them.
But the child was so proud of her pretty shoes that she never took
them off except at night and when she took her bath. The Witch was
too much afraid of the dark to dare go in Dorothy's room at night
to take the shoes, and her dread of water was greater than her
fear of the dark, so she never came near when Dorothy was bathing.
Indeed, the old Witch never touched water, nor ever let water
touch her in any way.
But the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of
a trick that would give her what she wanted. She placed a bar of iron
in the middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the
iron invisible to human eyes. So that when Dorothy walked across the floor
she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at full length.
She was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver Shoes came off; and
before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched it away and put it on her
own skinny foot.
The wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick,
for as long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of
their charm, and Dorothy could not use it against her, even had she
known how to do so.
The little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes,
grew angry, and said to the Witch, "Give me back my shoe!"
"I will not," retorted the Witch, "for it is now my shoe, and
not yours."
"You are a wicked creature!" cried Dorothy. "You have no right
to take my shoe from me."
"I shall keep it, just the same," said the Witch, laughing at her,
"and someday I shall get the other one from you, too."
This made Dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket
of water that stood near and dashed it over the Witch, wetting her
from head to foot.
Instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as
Dorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall away.
"See what you have done!" she screamed. "In a minute I shall melt away."
"I'm very sorry, indeed," said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to
see the Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes.
"Didn't you know water would be the end of me?" asked the
Witch, in a wailing, despairing voice.
"Of course not," answered Dorothy. "How should I?"
"Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will
have the castle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, but I
never thought a little girl like you would ever be able to melt me
and end my wicked deeds. Look out--here I go!"
With these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted,
shapeless mass and began to spread over the clean boards of the
kitchen floor. Seeing that she had really melted away to nothing,
Dorothy drew another bucket of water and threw it over the mess.
She then swept it all out the door. After picking out the silver
shoe, which was all that was left of the old woman, she cleaned
and dried it with a cloth, and put it on her foot again. Then,
being at last free to do as she chose, she ran out to the
courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West had
come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a
strange land.
13. The Rescue
The Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked
Witch had been melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once
unlocked the gate of his prison and set him free. They went in
together to the castle, where Dorothy's first act was to call all
the Winkies together and tell them that they were no longer slaves.
There was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they
had been made to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch,
who had always treated them with great cruelty. They kept this
day as a holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in
feasting and dancing.
"If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only
with us," said the Lion, "I should be quite happy."
"Don't you suppose we could rescue them?" asked the girl anxiously.
"We can try," answered the Lion.
So they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would
help to rescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would
be delighted to do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them
free from bondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked
as if they knew the most, and they all started away. They traveled
that day and part of the next until they came to the rocky plain
where the Tin Woodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him,
but the blade was rusted and the handle broken off short.
The Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him
back to the Yellow Castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by
the way at the sad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking
sober and sorry. When they reached the castle Dorothy said to the
Winkies:
"Are any of your people tinsmiths?"
"Oh, yes. Some of us are very good tinsmiths," they told her.
"Then bring them to me," she said. And when the tinsmiths came,
bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired,
"Can you straighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him
back into shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?"
The tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then
answered that they thought they could mend him so he would be as
good as ever. So they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms
of the castle and worked for three days and four nights, hammering
and twisting and bending and soldering and polishing and pounding
at the legs and body and head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he
was straightened out into his old form, and his joints worked as
well as ever. To be sure, there were several patches on him, but
the tinsmiths did a good job, and as the Woodman was not a vain
man he did not mind the patches at all.
When, at last, he walked into Dorothy's room and thanked her
for rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy,
and Dorothy had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with
her apron, so his joints would not be rusted. At the same time
her own tears fell thick and fast at the joy of meeting her old
friend again, and these tears did not need to be wiped away. As
for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so often with the tip of his tail
that it became quite wet, and he was obliged to go out into the
courtyard and hold it in the sun till it dried.
"If we only had the Scarecrow with us again," said the
Tin Woodman, when Dorothy had finished telling him everything
that had happened, "I should be quite happy."
"We must try to find him," said the girl.
So she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day
and part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of
which the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow's clothes.
It was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no
one could climb it; but the Woodman said at once, "I'll chop it
down, and then we can get the Scarecrow's clothes."
Now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman
himself, another of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an
axe-handle of solid gold and fitted it to the Woodman's axe,
instead of the old broken handle. Others polished the blade until
all the rust was removed and it glistened like burnished silver.
As soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a
short time the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the Scarecrow's
clothes fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground.
Dorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to
the castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and
behold! here was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them
over and over again for saving him.
Now that they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a
few happy days at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything
they needed to make them comfortable.
But one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said, "We must go
back to Oz, and claim his promise."
"Yes," said the Woodman, "at last I shall get my heart."
"And I shall get my brains," added the Scarecrow joyfully.
"And I shall get my courage," said the Lion thoughtfully.
"And I shall get back to Kansas," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands.
"Oh, let us start for the Emerald City tomorrow!"
This they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies
together and bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have
them go, and they had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they
begged him to stay and rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West.
Finding they were determined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion
each a golden collar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet
studded with diamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed
walking stick, to keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they
offered a silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels.
Every one of the travelers made the Winkies a pretty speech in
return, and all shook hands with them until their arms ached.
Dorothy went to the Witch's cupboard to fill her basket with
food for the journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried
it on her own head and found that it fitted her exactly. She did
not know anything about the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw
that it was pretty, so she made up her mind to wear it and carry
her sunbonnet in the basket.
Then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the
Emerald City; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good
wishes to carry with them.
14. The Winged Monkeys
You will remember there was no road--not even a pathway--
between the castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City.
When the four travelers went in search of the Witch she had seen
them coming, and so sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her.
It was much harder to find their way back through the big fields
of buttercups and yellow daisies than it was being carried.
They knew, of course, they must go straight east, toward the rising
sun; and they started off in the right way. But at noon, when the
sun was over their heads, they did not know which was east and
which was west, and that was the reason they were lost in the
great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night the
moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the
sweet smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning--
all but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman.
The next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started
on, as if they were quite sure which way they were going.
"If we walk far enough," said Dorothy, "I am sure we shall
sometime come to some place."
But day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before
them but the scarlet fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit.
"We have surely lost our way," he said, "and unless we find it
again in time to reach the Emerald City, I shall never get my brains."
"Nor I my heart," declared the Tin Woodman. "It seems to me I
can scarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a
very long journey."
"You see," said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper, "I haven't the
courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all."
Then Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked
at her companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto
found that for the first time in his life he was too tired to
chase a butterfly that flew past his head. So he put out his
tongue and panted and looked at Dorothy as if to ask what they
should do next.
"Suppose we call the field mice," she suggested. "They could
probably tell us the way to the Emerald City."
"To be sure they could," cried the Scarecrow. "Why didn't we
think of that before?"
Dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about
her neck since the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a
few minutes they heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the
small gray mice came running up to her. Among them was the Queen
herself, who asked, in her squeaky little voice:
"What can I do for my friends?"
"We have lost our way," said Dorothy. "Can you tell us where
the Emerald City is?"
"Certainly," answered the Queen; "but it is a great way off,
for you have had it at your backs all this time." Then she
noticed Dorothy's Golden Cap, and said, "Why don't you use the
charm of the Cap, and call the Winged Monkeys to you? They will
carry you to the City of Oz in less than an hour."
"I didn't know there was a charm," answered Dorothy, in
surprise. "What is it?"
"It is written inside the Golden Cap," replied the Queen of
the Mice. "But if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we
must run away, for they are full of mischief and think it great
fun to plague us."
"Won't they hurt me?" asked the girl anxiously.
"Oh, no. They must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!"
And she scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her.
Dorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written
upon the lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read
the directions carefully and put the Cap upon her head.
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" she said, standing on her left foot.
"What did you say?" asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what
she was doing.
"Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Dorothy went on, standing this time
on her right foot.
"Hello!" replied the Tin Woodman calmly.
"Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!" said Dorothy, who was now standing on
both feet. This ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a
great chattering and flapping of wings, as the band of Winged
Monkeys flew up to them.
The King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked, "What is your command?"
"We wish to go to the Emerald City," said the child, "and we have
lost our way."
"We will carry you," replied the King, and no sooner had he
spoken than two of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and
flew away with her. Others took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and
the Lion, and one little Monkey seized Toto and flew after them,
although the dog tried hard to bite him.
The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at
first, for they remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had
treated them before; but they saw that no harm was intended, so
they rode through the air quite cheerfully, and had a fine time
looking at the pretty gardens and woods far below them.
Dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest
Monkeys, one of them the King himself. They had made a chair of
their hands and were careful not to hurt her.
"Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?" she asked.
"That is a long story," answered the King, with a Winged laugh;
"but as we have a long journey before us, I will pass the time by
telling you about it, if you wish."
"I shall be glad to hear it," she replied.
"Once," began the leader, "we were a free people, living happily
in the great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit,
and doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps
some of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to
pull the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and
throwing nuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were
careless and happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day.
This was many years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule
over this land.
"There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess,
who was also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help
the people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good.
Her name was Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built
from great blocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest
sorrow was that she could find no one to love in return, since all
the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful
and wise. At last, however, she found a boy who was handsome and
manly and wise beyond his years. Gayelette made up her mind that
when he grew to be a man she would make him her husband, so she
took him to her ruby palace and used all her magic powers to
make him as strong and good and lovely as any woman could wish.
When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called, was said to
be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly beauty
was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to make
everything ready for the wedding.
"My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys
which lived in the forest near Gayelette's palace, and the old fellow
loved a joke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding,
my grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking
beside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and
purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could do.
At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in their
arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then dropped him
into the water.
"`Swim out, my fine fellow,' cried my grandfather, `and see if
the water has spotted your clothes.' Quelala was much too wise
not to swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good
fortune. He laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and
swam in to shore. But when Gayelette came running out to him she
found his silks and velvet all ruined by the river.
"The princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it.
She had all the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at
first that their wings should be tied and they should be treated
as they had treated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my
grandfather pleaded hard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in
the river with their wings tied, and Quelala said a kind word for
them also; so that Gayelette finally spared them, on condition
that the Winged Monkeys should ever after do three times the
bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This Cap had been made
for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to have cost the
princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and all the
other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how it
happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the
Golden Cap, whosoever he may be."
"And what became of them?" asked Dorothy, who had been greatly
interested in the story.
"Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap," replied
the Monkey, "he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his
bride could not bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in
the forest after he had married her and ordered us always to keep
where she could never again set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we
were glad to do, for we were all afraid of her.
"This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into
the hands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the
Winkies, and afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the
West. Now the Golden Cap is yours, and three times you have the
right to lay your wishes upon us."
As the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down
and saw the green, shining walls of the Emerald City before them.
She wondered at the rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the
journey was over. The strange creatures set the travelers down
carefully before the gate of the City, the King bowed low to
Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away, followed by all his band.
"That was a good ride," said the little girl.
"Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles," replied the Lion.
"How lucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap!"
15. The Discovery of Oz, the Terrible
The four travelers walked up to the great gate of Emerald City
and rang the bell. After ringing several times, it was opened by
the same Guardian of the Gates they had met before.
"What! are you back again?" he asked, in surprise.
"Do you not see us?" answered the Scarecrow.
"But I thought you had gone to visit the Wicked Witch of the West."
"We did visit her," said the Scarecrow.
"And she let you go again?" asked the man, in wonder.
"She could not help it, for she is melted," explained the Scarecrow.
"Melted! Well, that is good news, indeed," said the man.
"Who melted her?"
"It was Dorothy," said the Lion gravely.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the man, and he bowed very low indeed
before her.
Then he led them into his little room and locked the spectacles
from the great box on all their eyes, just as he had done before.
Afterward they passed on through the gate into the Emerald City.
When the people heard from the Guardian of the Gates that Dorothy
had melted the Wicked Witch of the West, they all gathered around
the travelers and followed them in a great crowd to the Palace of Oz.
The soldier with the green whiskers was still on guard before
the door, but he let them in at once, and they were again met by
the beautiful green girl, who showed each of them to their old
rooms at once, so they might rest until the Great Oz was ready to
receive them.
The soldier had the news carried straight to Oz that Dorothy
and the other travelers had come back again, after destroying the
Wicked Witch; but Oz made no reply. They thought the Great Wizard
would send for them at once, but he did not. They had no word
from him the next day, nor the next, nor the next. The waiting
was tiresome and wearing, and at last they grew vexed that Oz
should treat them in so poor a fashion, after sending them to
undergo hardships and slavery. So the Scarecrow at last asked the
green girl to take another message to Oz, saying if he did not
let them in to see him at once they would call the Winged Monkeys
to help them, and find out whether he kept his promises or not.
When the Wizard was given this message he was so frightened that he
sent word for them to come to the Throne Room at four minutes after
nine o'clock the next morning. He had once met the Winged Monkeys
in the Land of the West, and he did not wish to meet them again.
The four travelers passed a sleepless night, each thinking of the
gift Oz had promised to bestow on him. Dorothy fell asleep only once,
and then she dreamed she was in Kansas, where Aunt Em was telling her
how glad she was to have her little girl at home again.
Promptly at nine o'clock the next morning the green-whiskered
soldier came to them, and four minutes later they all went into
the Throne Room of the Great Oz.
Of course each one of them expected to see the Wizard in the shape
he had taken before, and all were greatly surprised when they looked
about and saw no one at all in the room. They kept close to the door
and closer to one another, for the stillness of the empty room was more
dreadful than any of the forms they had seen Oz take.
Presently they heard a solemn Voice, that seemed to come from
somewhere near the top of the great dome, and it said:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Why do you seek me?"
They looked again in every part of the room, and then, seeing
no one, Dorothy asked, "Where are you?"
"I am everywhere," answered the Voice, "but to the eyes of
common mortals I am invisible. I will now seat myself upon my
throne, that you may converse with me." Indeed, the Voice seemed
just then to come straight from the throne itself; so they walked
toward it and stood in a row while Dorothy said:
"We have come to claim our promise, O Oz."
"What promise?" asked Oz.
"You promised to send me back to Kansas when the Wicked Witch
was destroyed," said the girl.
"And you promised to give me brains," said the Scarecrow.
"And you promised to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"And you promised to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"Is the Wicked Witch really destroyed?" asked the Voice,
and Dorothy thought it trembled a little.
"Yes," she answered, "I melted her with a bucket of water."
"Dear me," said the Voice, "how sudden! Well, come to me
tomorrow, for I must have time to think it over."
"You've had plenty of time already," said the Tin Woodman angrily.
"We shan't wait a day longer," said the Scarecrow.
"You must keep your promises to us!" exclaimed Dorothy.
The Lion thought it might be as well to frighten the Wizard,
so he gave a large, loud roar, which was so fierce and dreadful
that Toto jumped away from him in alarm and tipped over the screen
that stood in a corner. As it fell with a crash they looked
that way, and the next moment all of them were filled with wonder.
For they saw, standing in just the spot the screen had hidden,
a little old man, with a bald head and a wrinkled face, who seemed
to be as much surprised as they were. The Tin Woodman, raising
his axe, rushed toward the little man and cried out, "Who are you?"
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," said the little man, in a
trembling voice. "But don't strike me--please don't--and I'll
do anything you want me to."
Our friends looked at him in surprise and dismay.
"I thought Oz was a great Head," said Dorothy.
"And I thought Oz was a lovely Lady," said the Scarecrow.
"And I thought Oz was a terrible Beast," said the Tin Woodman.
"And I thought Oz was a Ball of Fire," exclaimed the Lion.
"No, you are all wrong," said the little man meekly. "I have
been making believe."
"Making believe!" cried Dorothy. "Are you not a Great Wizard?"
"Hush, my dear," he said. "Don't speak so loud, or you will be
overheard--and I should be ruined. I'm supposed to be a Great Wizard."
"And aren't you?" she asked.
"Not a bit of it, my dear; I'm just a common man."
"You're more than that," said the Scarecrow, in a grieved tone;
"you're a humbug."
"Exactly so!" declared the little man, rubbing his hands
together as if it pleased him. "I am a humbug."
"But this is terrible," said the Tin Woodman. "How shall I
ever get my heart?"
"Or I my courage?" asked the Lion.
"Or I my brains?" wailed the Scarecrow, wiping the tears from
his eyes with his coat sleeve.
"My dear friends," said Oz, "I pray you not to speak of these
little things. Think of me, and the terrible trouble I'm in at
being found out."
"Doesn't anyone else know you're a humbug?" asked Dorothy.
"No one knows it but you four--and myself," replied Oz. "I
have fooled everyone so long that I thought I should never be
found out. It was a great mistake my ever letting you into the
Throne Room. Usually I will not see even my subjects, and so they
believe I am something terrible."
"But, I don't understand," said Dorothy, in bewilderment.
"How was it that you appeared to me as a great Head?"
"That was one of my tricks," answered Oz. "Step this way,
please, and I will tell you all about it."
He led the way to a small chamber in the rear of the Throne
Room, and they all followed him. He pointed to one corner, in
which lay the great Head, made out of many thicknesses of paper,
and with a carefully painted face.
"This I hung from the ceiling by a wire," said Oz. "I stood
behind the screen and pulled a thread, to make the eyes move and
the mouth open."
"But how about the voice?" she inquired.
"Oh, I am a ventriloquist," said the little man. "I can throw
the sound of my voice wherever I wish, so that you thought it was
coming out of the Head. Here are the other things I used to
deceive you." He showed the Scarecrow the dress and the mask he
had worn when he seemed to be the lovely Lady. And the Tin
Woodman saw that his terrible Beast was nothing but a lot of
skins, sewn together, with slats to keep their sides out. As for
the Ball of Fire, the false Wizard had hung that also from the
ceiling. It was really a ball of cotton, but when oil was poured
upon it the ball burned fiercely.
"Really," said the Scarecrow, "you ought to be ashamed of
yourself for being such a humbug."
"I am--I certainly am," answered the little man sorrowfully;
"but it was the only thing I could do. Sit down, please, there
are plenty of chairs; and I will tell you my story."
So they sat down and listened while he told the following tale.
"I was born in Omaha--"
"Why, that isn't very far from Kansas!" cried Dorothy.
"No, but it's farther from here," he said, shaking his head at
her sadly. "When I grew up I became a ventriloquist, and at that
I was very well trained by a great master. I can imitate any kind
of a bird or beast." Here he mewed so like a kitten that Toto
pricked up his ears and looked everywhere to see where she was.
"After a time," continued Oz, "I tired of that, and became a
balloonist."
"What is that?" asked Dorothy.
"A man who goes up in a balloon on circus day, so as to draw a
crowd of people together and get them to pay to see the circus,"
he explained.
"Oh," she said, "I know."
"Well, one day I went up in a balloon and the ropes got
twisted, so that I couldn't come down again. It went way up above
the clouds, so far that a current of air struck it and carried it
many, many miles away. For a day and a night I traveled through
the air, and on the morning of the second day I awoke and found
the balloon floating over a strange and beautiful country.
"It came down gradually, and I was not hurt a bit. But I
found myself in the midst of a strange people, who, seeing me come
from the clouds, thought I was a great Wizard. Of course I let
them think so, because they were afraid of me, and promised to do
anything I wished them to.
"Just to amuse myself, and keep the good people busy, I
ordered them to build this City, and my Palace; and they did it
all willingly and well. Then I thought, as the country was so
green and beautiful, I would call it the Emerald City; and to make
the name fit better I put green spectacles on all the people, so
that everything they saw was green."
"But isn't everything here green?" asked Dorothy.
"No more than in any other city," replied Oz; "but when you
wear green spectacles, why of course everything you see looks
green to you. The Emerald City was built a great many years ago,
for I was a young man when the balloon brought me here, and I am a
very old man now. But my people have worn green glasses on their
eyes so long that most of them think it really is an Emerald City,
and it certainly is a beautiful place, abounding in jewels and
precious metals, and every good thing that is needed to make
one happy. I have been good to the people, and they like me;
but ever since this Palace was built, I have shut myself up
and would not see any of them.
"One of my greatest fears was the Witches, for while I had no
magical powers at all I soon found out that the Witches were
really able to do wonderful things. There were four of them in
this country, and they ruled the people who live in the North and
South and East and West. Fortunately, the Witches of the North
and South were good, and I knew they would do me no harm; but the
Witches of the East and West were terribly wicked, and had they
not thought I was more powerful than they themselves, they would
surely have destroyed me. As it was, I lived in deadly fear of
them for many years; so you can imagine how pleased I was when
I heard your house had fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East.
When you came to me, I was willing to promise anything if you
would only do away with the other Witch; but, now that you have
melted her, I am ashamed to say that I cannot keep my promises."
"I think you are a very bad man," said Dorothy.
"Oh, no, my dear; I'm really a very good man, but I'm a very
bad Wizard, I must admit."
"Can't you give me brains?" asked the Scarecrow.
"You don't need them. You are learning something every day.
A baby has brains, but it doesn't know much. Experience is the
only thing that brings knowledge, and the longer you are on earth
the more experience you are sure to get."
"That may all be true," said the Scarecrow, "but I shall be
very unhappy unless you give me brains."
The false Wizard looked at him carefully.
"Well," he said with a sigh, "I'm not much of a magician,
as I said; but if you will come to me tomorrow morning, I will
stuff your head with brains. I cannot tell you how to use them,
however; you must find that out for yourself."
"Oh, thank you--thank you!" cried the Scarecrow. "I'll find
a way to use them, never fear!"
"But how about my courage?" asked the Lion anxiously.
"You have plenty of courage, I am sure," answered Oz. "All you need
is confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid
when it faces danger. The True courage is in facing danger when you are
afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty."
"Perhaps I have, but I'm scared just the same," said the Lion.
"I shall really be very unhappy unless you give me the sort of
courage that makes one forget he is afraid."
"Very well, I will give you that sort of courage tomorrow,"
replied Oz.
"How about my heart?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"Why, as for that," answered Oz, "I think you are wrong to
want a heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it,
you are in luck not to have a heart."
"That must be a matter of opinion," said the Tin Woodman.
"For my part, I will bear all the unhappiness without a murmur,
if you will give me the heart."
"Very well," answered Oz meekly. "Come to me tomorrow and you
shall have a heart. I have played Wizard for so many years that I
may as well continue the part a little longer."
"And now," said Dorothy, "how am I to get back to Kansas?"
"We shall have to think about that," replied the little man.
"Give me two or three days to consider the matter and I'll try to
find a way to carry you over the desert. In the meantime you
shall all be treated as my guests, and while you live in the Palace
my people will wait upon you and obey your slightest wish. There is
only one thing I ask in return for my help--such as it is. You must
keep my secret and tell no one I am a humbug."
They agreed to say nothing of what they had learned, and went
back to their rooms in high spirits. Even Dorothy had hope that
"The Great and Terrible Humbug," as she called him, would find a
way to send her back to Kansas, and if he did she was willing to
forgive him everything.
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
Next morning the Scarecrow said to his friends:
"Congratulate me. I am going to Oz to get my brains at last.
When I return I shall be as other men are."
"I have always liked you as you were," said Dorothy simply.
"It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow," he replied. "But surely
you will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new
brain is going to turn out." Then he said good-bye to them all in a
cheerful voice and went to the Throne Room, where he rapped upon the door.
"Come in," said Oz.
The Scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by
the window, engaged in deep thought.
"I have come for my brains," remarked the Scarecrow, a little uneasily.
"Oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please," replied Oz. "You must
excuse me for taking your head off, but I shall have to do it in order
to put your brains in their proper place."
"That's all right," said the Scarecrow. "You are quite welcome to take
my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on again."
So the Wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw.
Then he entered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which
he mixed with a great many pins and needles. Having shaken them
together thoroughly, he filled the top of the Scarecrow's head with
the mixture and stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold
it in place.
When he had fastened the Scarecrow's head on his body again he
said to him, "Hereafter you will be a great man, for I have given
you a lot of bran-new brains."
The Scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of
his greatest wish, and having thanked Oz warmly he went back to
his friends.
Dorothy looked at him curiously. His head was quite bulged
out at the top with brains.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I feel wise indeed," he answered earnestly. "When I get used
to my brains I shall know everything."
"Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?"
asked the Tin Woodman.
"That is proof that he is sharp," remarked the Lion.
"Well, I must go to Oz and get my heart," said the Woodman.
So he walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.
"Come in," called Oz, and the Woodman entered and said,
"I have come for my heart."
"Very well," answered the little man. "But I shall have to cut
a hole in your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place.
I hope it won't hurt you."
"Oh, no," answered the Woodman. "I shall not feel it at all."
So Oz brought a pair of tinsmith's shears and cut a small,
square hole in the left side of the Tin Woodman's breast.
Then, going to a chest of drawers, he took out a pretty heart,
made entirely of silk and stuffed with sawdust.
"Isn't it a beauty?" he asked.
"It is, indeed!" replied the Woodman, who was greatly pleased.
"But is it a kind heart?"
"Oh, very!" answered Oz. He put the heart in the Woodman's
breast and then replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly
together where it had been cut.
"There," said he; "now you have a heart that any man might be
proud of. I'm sorry I had to put a patch on your breast, but it
really couldn't be helped."
"Never mind the patch," exclaimed the happy Woodman. "I am
very grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness."
"Don't speak of it," replied Oz.
Then the Tin Woodman went back to his friends, who wished him
every joy on account of his good fortune.
The Lion now walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.
"Come in," said Oz.
"I have come for my courage," announced the Lion, entering the room.
"Very well," answered the little man; "I will get it for you."
He went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took
down a square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into
a green-gold dish, beautifully carved. Placing this before the
Cowardly Lion, who sniffed at it as if he did not like it, the
Wizard said:
"Drink."
"What is it?" asked the Lion.
"Well," answered Oz, "if it were inside of you, it would be courage.
You know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this
really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore
I advise you to drink it as soon as possible."
The Lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty.
"How do you feel now?" asked Oz.
"Full of courage," replied the Lion, who went joyfully back to
his friends to tell them of his good fortune.
Oz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving
the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion exactly what they
thought they wanted. "How can I help being a humbug," he said,
"when all these people make me do things that everybody knows
can't be done? It was easy to make the Scarecrow and the Lion
and the Woodman happy, because they imagined I could do anything.
But it will take more than imagination to carry Dorothy back
to Kansas, and I'm sure I don't know how it can be done."
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
For three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad
days for the little girl, although her friends were all quite
happy and contented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful
thoughts in his head; but he would not say what they were because
he knew no one could understand them but himself. When the Tin
Woodman walked about he felt his heart rattling around in his
breast; and he told Dorothy he had discovered it to be a kinder
and more tender heart than the one he had owned when he was made
of flesh. The Lion declared he was afraid of nothing on earth,
and would gladly face an army or a dozen of the fierce Kalidahs.
Thus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy,
who longed more than ever to get back to Kansas.
On the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when
she entered the Throne Room he greeted her pleasantly:
"Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you
out of this country."
"And back to Kansas?" she asked eagerly.
"Well, I'm not sure about Kansas," said Oz, "for I haven't the
faintest notion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to
cross the desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home."
"How can I cross the desert?" she inquired.
"Well, I'll tell you what I think," said the little man.
"You see, when I came to this country it was in a balloon. You also
came through the air, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe
the best way to get across the desert will be through the air.
Now, it is quite beyond my powers to make a cyclone; but I've been
thinking the matter over, and I believe I can make a balloon."
"How?" asked Dorothy.
"A balloon," said Oz, "is made of silk, which is coated with
glue to keep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace,
so it will be no trouble to make the balloon. But in all this
country there is no gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float."
"If it won't float," remarked Dorothy, "it will be of no use to us."
"True," answered Oz. "But there is another way to make it
float, which is to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn't as good as
gas, for if the air should get cold the balloon would come down in
the desert, and we should be lost."
"We!" exclaimed the girl. "Are you going with me?"
"Yes, of course," replied Oz. "I am tired of being such a humbug.
If I should go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not
a Wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.
So I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome.
I'd much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again."
"I shall be glad to have your company," said Dorothy.
"Thank you," he answered. "Now, if you will help me sew the
silk together, we will begin to work on our balloon."
So Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the
strips of silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together.
First there was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green
and then a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon
in different shades of the color about them. It took three days to sew
all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of
green silk more than twenty feet long.
Then Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make
it airtight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready.
"But we must have a basket to ride in," he said. So he sent
the soldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket,
which he fastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon.
When it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was
going to make a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds.
The news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the
wonderful sight.
Oz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace,
and the people gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman
had chopped a big pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it,
and Oz held the bottom of the balloon over the fire so that the
hot air that arose from it would be caught in the silken bag.
Gradually the balloon swelled out and rose into the air, until
finally the basket just touched the ground.
Then Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a
loud voice:
"I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the
Scarecrow will rule over you. I command you to obey him as you
would me."
The balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that
held it to the ground, for the air within it was hot, and this
made it so much lighter in weight than the air without that it
pulled hard to rise into the sky.
"Come, Dorothy!" cried the Wizard. "Hurry up, or the balloon
will fly away."
"I can't find Toto anywhere," replied Dorothy, who did not
wish to leave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd
to bark at a kitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked
him up and ran towards the balloon.
She was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his
hands to help her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes,
and the balloon rose into the air without her.
"Come back!" she screamed. "I want to go, too!"
"I can't come back, my dear," called Oz from the basket.
"Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward
to where the Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment
farther and farther into the sky.
And that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the
Wonderful Wizard, though he may have reached Omaha safely,
and be there now, for all we know. But the people remembered
him lovingly, and said to one another:
"Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us
this beautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the
Wise Scarecrow to rule over us."
Still, for many days they grieved over the loss of the
Wonderful Wizard, and would not be comforted.
18. Away to the South
Dorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home
to Kansas again; but when she thought it all over she was glad she
had not gone up in a balloon. And she also felt sorry at losing
Oz, and so did her companions.
The Tin Woodman came to her and said:
"Truly I should be ungrateful if I failed to mourn for the
man who gave me my lovely heart. I should like to cry a little
because Oz is gone, if you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that
I shall not rust."
"With pleasure," she answered, and brought a towel at once.
Then the Tin Woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the
tears carefully and wiped them away with the towel. When he had
finished, he thanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with
his jeweled oil-can, to guard against mishap.
The Scarecrow was now the ruler of the Emerald City,
and although he was not a Wizard the people were proud of him.
"For," they said, "there is not another city in all the world
that is ruled by a stuffed man." And, so far as they knew,
they were quite right.
The morning after the balloon had gone up with Oz, the
four travelers met in the Throne Room and talked matters over.
The Scarecrow sat in the big throne and the others stood
respectfully before him.
"We are not so unlucky," said the new ruler, "for this Palace
and the Emerald City belong to us, and we can do just as we please.
When I remember that a short time ago I was up on a pole in a farmer's
cornfield, and that now I am the ruler of this beautiful City, I am
quite satisfied with my lot."
"I also," said the Tin Woodman, "am well-pleased with my new heart;
and, really, that was the only thing I wished in all the world."
"For my part, I am content in knowing I am as brave as any
beast that ever lived, if not braver," said the Lion modestly.
"If Dorothy would only be contented to live in the Emerald City,"
continued the Scarecrow, "we might all be happy together."
"But I don't want to live here," cried Dorothy. "I want to go
to Kansas, and live with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry."
"Well, then, what can be done?" inquired the Woodman.
The Scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the
pins and needles began to stick out of his brains. Finally he said:
"Why not call the Winged Monkeys, and ask them to carry you
over the desert?"
"I never thought of that!" said Dorothy joyfully. "It's just
the thing. I'll go at once for the Golden Cap."
When she brought it into the Throne Room she spoke the magic
words, and soon the band of Winged Monkeys flew in through the
open window and stood beside her.
"This is the second time you have called us," said the Monkey
King, bowing before the little girl. "What do you wish?"
"I want you to fly with me to Kansas," said Dorothy.
But the Monkey King shook his head.
"That cannot be done," he said. "We belong to this country alone,
and cannot leave it. There has never been a Winged Monkey in Kansas yet,
and I suppose there never will be, for they don't belong there. We shall
be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross the desert.
Good-bye."
And with another bow, the Monkey King spread his wings and
flew away through the window, followed by all his band.
Dorothy was ready to cry with disappointment. "I have wasted
the charm of the Golden Cap to no purpose," she said, "for the
Winged Monkeys cannot help me."
"It is certainly too bad!" said the tender-hearted Woodman.
The Scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so
horribly that Dorothy feared it would burst.
"Let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers," he said,
"and ask his advice."
So the soldier was summoned and entered the Throne Room
timidly, for while Oz was alive he never was allowed to come
farther than the door.
"This little girl," said the Scarecrow to the soldier,
"wishes to cross the desert. How can she do so?"
"I cannot tell," answered the soldier, "for nobody has ever
crossed the desert, unless it is Oz himself."
"Is there no one who can help me?" asked Dorothy earnestly.
"Glinda might," he suggested.
"Who is Glinda?" inquired the Scarecrow.
"The Witch of the South. She is the most powerful of all the
Witches, and rules over the Quadlings. Besides, her castle stands
on the edge of the desert, so she may know a way to cross it."
"Glinda is a Good Witch, isn't she?" asked the child.
"The Quadlings think she is good," said the soldier, "and she
is kind to everyone. I have heard that Glinda is a beautiful woman,
who knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived."
"How can I get to her castle?" asked Dorothy.
"The road is straight to the South," he answered, "but it is
said to be full of dangers to travelers. There are wild beasts in
the woods, and a race of queer men who do not like strangers to
cross their country. For this reason none of the Quadlings ever
come to the Emerald City."
The soldier then left them and the Scarecrow said:
"It seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing Dorothy
can do is to travel to the Land of the South and ask Glinda to
help her. For, of course, if Dorothy stays here she will never
get back to Kansas."
"You must have been thinking again," remarked the Tin Woodman.
"I have," said the Scarecrow.
"I shall go with Dorothy," declared the Lion, "for I am
tired of your city and long for the woods and the country again.
I am really a wild beast, you know. Besides, Dorothy will need
someone to protect her."
"That is true," agreed the Woodman. "My axe may be of service
to her; so I also will go with her to the Land of the South."
"When shall we start?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Are you going?" they asked, in surprise.
"Certainly. If it wasn't for Dorothy I should never have had brains.
She lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the
Emerald City. So my good luck is all due to her, and I shall never
leave her until she starts back to Kansas for good and all."
"Thank you," said Dorothy gratefully. "You are all very kind
to me. But I should like to start as soon as possible."
"We shall go tomorrow morning," returned the Scarecrow. "So
now let us all get ready, for it will be a long journey."
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
The next morning Dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye,
and they all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers,
who had walked with them as far as the gate. When the Guardian of
the Gate saw them again he wondered greatly that they could leave
the beautiful City to get into new trouble. But he at once
unlocked their spectacles, which he put back into the green box,
and gave them many good wishes to carry with them.
"You are now our ruler," he said to the Scarecrow;
"so you must come back to us as soon as possible."
"I certainly shall if I am able," the Scarecrow replied;
"but I must help Dorothy to get home, first."
As Dorothy bade the good-natured Guardian a last farewell she said:
"I have been very kindly treated in your lovely City, and
everyone has been good to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am."
"Don't try, my dear," he answered. "We should like to keep
you with us, but if it is your wish to return to Kansas, I hope
you will find a way." He then opened the gate of the outer wall,
and they walked forth and started upon their journey.
The sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces
toward the Land of the South. They were all in the best of spirits,
and laughed and chatted together. Dorothy was once more filled with
the hope of getting home, and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were
glad to be of use to her. As for the Lion, he sniffed the fresh air
with delight and whisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at
being in the country again, while Toto ran around them and chased
the moths and butterflies, barking merrily all the time.
"City life does not agree with me at all," remarked the Lion,
as they walked along at a brisk pace. "I have lost much flesh
since I lived there, and now I am anxious for a chance to show the
other beasts how courageous I have grown."
They now turned and took a last look at the Emerald City.
All they could see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the
green walls, and high up above everything the spires and dome
of the Palace of Oz.
"Oz was not such a bad Wizard, after all," said the Tin
Woodman, as he felt his heart rattling around in his breast.
"He knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too,"
said the Scarecrow.
"If Oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me,"
added the Lion, "he would have been a brave man."
Dorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her,
but he had done his best, so she forgave him. As he said, he was
a good man, even if he was a bad Wizard.
The first day's journey was through the green fields and
bright flowers that stretched about the Emerald City on every side.
They slept that night on the grass, with nothing but the stars
over them; and they rested very well indeed.
In the morning they traveled on until they came to a thick wood.
There was no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the
right and left as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not
dare change the direction of their journey for fear of getting lost.
So they looked for the place where it would be easiest to get into
the forest.
The Scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big
tree with such wide-spreading branches that there was room for the
party to pass underneath. So he walked forward to the tree, but
just as he came under the first branches they bent down and twined
around him, and the next minute he was raised from the ground and
flung headlong among his fellow travelers.
This did not hurt the Scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he
looked rather dizzy when Dorothy picked him up.
"Here is another space between the trees," called the Lion.
"Let me try it first," said the Scarecrow, "for it doesn't hurt
me to get thrown about." He walked up to another tree, as he spoke,
but its branches immediately seized him and tossed him back again.
"This is strange," exclaimed Dorothy. "What shall we do?"
"The trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us,
and stop our journey," remarked the Lion.
"I believe I will try it myself," said the Woodman, and
shouldering his axe, he marched up to the first tree that had
handled the Scarecrow so roughly. When a big branch bent down to
seize him the Woodman chopped at it so fiercely that he cut it in two.
At once the tree began shaking all its branches as if in pain, and the
Tin Woodman passed safely under it.
"Come on!" he shouted to the others. "Be quick!" They all
ran forward and passed under the tree without injury, except Toto,
who was caught by a small branch and shaken until he howled.
But the Woodman promptly chopped off the branch and set the
little dog free.
The other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back,
so they made up their minds that only the first row of trees could
bend down their branches, and that probably these were the
policemen of the forest, and given this wonderful power in order
to keep strangers out of it.
The four travelers walked with ease through the trees until they
came to the farther edge of the wood. Then, to their surprise, they
found before them a high wall which seemed to be made of white china.
It was smooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy.
"I will make a ladder," said the Tin Woodman, "for we certainly
must climb over the wall."
20. The Dainty China Country
While the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found
in the forest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the
long walk. The Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay
beside him.
The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him:
"I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of."
"Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the Woodman.
"When we have climbed over it, we shall know what is on the other side."
After a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but
the Tin Woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose.
The Scarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that
the ladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but
he was so awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him
from falling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the
Scarecrow said, "Oh, my!"
"Go on," exclaimed Dorothy.
So the Scarecrow climbed farther up and sat down on the top of
the wall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried, "Oh, my!" just
as the Scarecrow had done.
Then Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy
made him be still.
The Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came
last; but both of them cried, "Oh, my!" as soon as they looked
over the wall. When they were all sitting in a row on the top
of the wall, they looked down and saw a strange sight.
Before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as
smooth and shining and white as the bottom of a big platter.
Scattered around were many houses made entirely of china and
painted in the brightest colors. These houses were quite small,
the biggest of them reaching only as high as Dorothy's waist.
There were also pretty little barns, with china fences around them;
and many cows and sheep and horses and pigs and chickens, all made
of china, were standing about in groups.
But the strangest of all were the people who lived in this
queer country. There were milkmaids and shepherdesses, with
brightly colored bodices and golden spots all over their gowns;
and princesses with most gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and
purple; and shepherds dressed in knee breeches with pink and
yellow and blue stripes down them, and golden buckles on their
shoes; and princes with jeweled crowns upon their heads, wearing
ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns in ruffled gowns,
with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall, pointed caps.
And, strangest of all, these people were all made of china, even to
their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of them was no
higher than Dorothy's knee.
No one did so much as look at the travelers at first, except
one little purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came
to the wall and barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running
away again.
"How shall we get down?" asked Dorothy.
They found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so
the Scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him
so that the hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they
took pains not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet.
When all were safely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body
was quite flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again.
"We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side,"
said Dorothy, "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except
due South."
They began walking through the country of the china people,
and the first thing they came to was a china milkmaid milking a
china cow. As they drew near, the cow suddenly gave a kick and
kicked over the stool, the pail, and even the milkmaid herself,
and all fell on the china ground with a great clatter.
Dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg
off, and that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while
the poor milkmaid had a nick in her left elbow.
"There!" cried the milkmaid angrily. "See what you have done!
My cow has broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender's
shop and have it glued on again. What do you mean by coming here
and frightening my cow?"
"I'm very sorry," returned Dorothy. "Please forgive us."
But the pretty milkmaid was much too vexed to make any answer.
She picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor
animal limping on three legs. As she left them the milkmaid cast
many reproachful glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers,
holding her nicked elbow close to her side.
Dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap.
"We must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted Woodman,
"or we may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it."
A little farther on Dorothy met a most beautifully dressed
young Princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and
started to run away.
Dorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her.
But the china girl cried out:
"Don't chase me! Don't chase me!"
She had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped
and said, "Why not?"
"Because," answered the Princess, also stopping, a safe
distance away, "if I run I may fall down and break myself."
"But could you not be mended?" asked the girl.
"Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know,"
replied the Princess.
"I suppose not," said Dorothy.
"Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns," continued the
china lady, "who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has
broken himself so often that he is mended in a hundred places, and
doesn't look at all pretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for
yourself."
Indeed, a jolly little clown came walking toward them, and
Dorothy could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and
yellow and green he was completely covered with cracks, running
every which way and showing plainly that he had been mended in
many places.
The Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out
his cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily, he said:
"My lady fair,
Why do you stare
At poor old Mr. Joker?
You're quite as stiff
And prim as if
You'd eaten up a poker!"
"Be quiet, sir!" said the Princess. "Can't you see these are
strangers, and should be treated with respect?"
"Well, that's respect, I expect," declared the Clown,
and immediately stood upon his head.
"Don't mind Mr. Joker," said the Princess to Dorothy. "He is
considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish."
"Oh, I don't mind him a bit," said Dorothy. "But you are so
beautiful," she continued, "that I am sure I could love you dearly.
Won't you let me carry you back to Kansas, and stand you on
Aunt Em's mantel? I could carry you in my basket."
"That would make me very unhappy," answered the china Princess.
"You see, here in our country we live contentedly, and can talk and
move around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our
joints at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty.
Of course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantels and
cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter
here in our own country."
"I would not make you unhappy for all the world!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"So I'll just say good-bye."
"Good-bye," replied the Princess.
They walked carefully through the china country. The little
animals and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the
strangers would break them, and after an hour or so the travelers
reached the other side of the country and came to another china wall.
It was not so high as the first, however, and by standing upon
the Lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the
Lion gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just
as he jumped, he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it
all to pieces.
"That was too bad," said Dorothy, "but really I think we were
lucky in not doing these little people more harm than breaking a
cow's leg and a church. They are all so brittle!"
"They are, indeed," said the Scarecrow, "and I am thankful I
am made of straw and cannot be easily damaged. There are worse
things in the world than being a Scarecrow."
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
After climbing down from the china wall the travelers found
themselves in a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and
covered with tall, rank grass. It was difficult to walk without
falling into muddy holes, for the grass was so thick that it hid
them from sight. However, by carefully picking their way, they
got safely along until they reached solid ground. But here the
country seemed wilder than ever, and after a long and tiresome
walk through the underbrush they entered another forest, where the
trees were bigger and older than any they had ever seen.
"This forest is perfectly delightful," declared the Lion, looking
around him with joy. "Never have I seen a more beautiful place."
"It seems gloomy," said the Scarecrow.
"Not a bit of it," answered the Lion. "I should like to live
here all my life. See how soft the dried leaves are under your
feet and how rich and green the moss is that clings to these old
trees. Surely no wild beast could wish a pleasanter home."
"Perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now," said Dorothy.
"I suppose there are," returned the Lion, "but I do not see
any of them about."
They walked through the forest until it became too dark to go
any farther. Dorothy and Toto and the Lion lay down to sleep,
while the Woodman and the Scarecrow kept watch over them as usual.
When morning came, they started again. Before they had gone
far they heard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals.
Toto whimpered a little, but none of the others was frightened,
and they kept along the well-trodden path until they came to
an opening in the wood, in which were gathered hundreds of
beasts of every variety. There were tigers and elephants and
bears and wolves and foxes and all the others in the natural
history, and for a moment Dorothy was afraid. But the Lion
explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he judged
by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble.
As he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at
once the great assemblage hushed as if by magic. The biggest of
the tigers came up to the Lion and bowed, saying:
"Welcome, O King of Beasts! You have come in good time to
fight our enemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest
once more."
"What is your trouble?" asked the Lion quietly.
"We are all threatened," answered the tiger, "by a fierce
enemy which has lately come into this forest. It is a most
tremendous monster, like a great spider, with a body as big as an
elephant and legs as long as a tree trunk. It has eight of these
long legs, and as the monster crawls through the forest he seizes
an animal with a leg and drags it to his mouth, where he eats it
as a spider does a fly. Not one of us is safe while this fierce
creature is alive, and we had called a meeting to decide how to
take care of ourselves when you came among us."
The Lion thought for a moment.
"Are there any other lions in this forest?" he asked.
"No; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all. And,
besides, they were none of them nearly so large and brave as you."
"If I put an end to your enemy, will you bow down to me and
obey me as King of the Forest?" inquired the Lion.
"We will do that gladly," returned the tiger; and all the
other beasts roared with a mighty roar: "We will!"
"Where is this great spider of yours now?" asked the Lion.
"Yonder, among the oak trees," said the tiger, pointing with
his forefoot.
"Take good care of these friends of mine," said the Lion, "and
I will go at once to fight the monster."
He bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do
battle with the enemy.
The great spider was lying asleep when the Lion found him,
and it looked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust.
Its legs were quite as long as the tiger had said, and its body
covered with coarse black hair. It had a great mouth, with a row
of sharp teeth a foot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy
body by a neck as slender as a wasp's waist. This gave the Lion a
hint of the best way to attack the creature, and as he knew it was
easier to fight it asleep than awake, he gave a great spring and
landed directly upon the monster's back. Then, with one blow of
his heavy paw, all armed with sharp claws, he knocked the spider's
head from its body. Jumping down, he watched it until the long
legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was quite dead.
The Lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the
forest were waiting for him and said proudly:
"You need fear your enemy no longer."
Then the beasts bowed down to the Lion as their King, and he
promised to come back and rule over them as soon as Dorothy was
safely on her way to Kansas.
22. The Country of the Quadlings
The four travelers passed through the rest of the forest in
safety, and when they came out from its gloom saw before them a
steep hill, covered from top to bottom with great pieces of rock.
"That will be a hard climb," said the Scarecrow, "but we must
get over the hill, nevertheless."
So he led the way and the others followed. They had nearly
reached the first rock when they heard a rough voice cry out,
"Keep back!"
"Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow.
Then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said,
"This hill belongs to us, and we don't allow anyone to cross it."
"But we must cross it," said the Scarecrow. "We're going to
the country of the Quadlings."
"But you shall not!" replied the voice, and there stepped from
behind the rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen.
He was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was
flat at the top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles.
But he had no arms at all, and, seeing this, the Scarecrow did not
fear that so helpless a creature could prevent them from climbing
the hill. So he said, "I'm sorry not to do as you wish, but we
must pass over your hill whether you like it or not," and he
walked boldly forward.
As quick as lightning the man's head shot forward and his neck
stretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck
the Scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over,
down the hill. Almost as quickly as it came the head went back to
the body, and the man laughed harshly as he said, "It isn't as
easy as you think!"
A chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and
Dorothy saw hundreds of the armless Hammer-Heads upon the
hillside, one behind every rock.
The Lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the
Scarecrow's mishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder,
he dashed up the hill.
Again a head shot swiftly out, and the great Lion went rolling
down the hill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball.
Dorothy ran down and helped the Scarecrow to his feet, and the
Lion came up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said,
"It is useless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can
withstand them."
"What can we do, then?" she asked.
"Call the Winged Monkeys," suggested the Tin Woodman. "You
have still the right to command them once more."
"Very well," she answered, and putting on the Golden Cap she
uttered the magic words. The Monkeys were as prompt as ever, and
in a few moments the entire band stood before her.
"What are your commands?" inquired the King of the Monkeys,
bowing low.
"Carry us over the hill to the country of the Quadlings,"
answered the girl.
"It shall be done," said the King, and at once the Winged Monkeys
caught the four travelers and Toto up in their arms and flew away with them.
As they passed over the hill the Hammer-Heads yelled with vexation, and shot
their heads high in the air, but they could not reach the Winged Monkeys,
which carried Dorothy and her comrades safely over the hill and set them
down in the beautiful country of the Quadlings.
"This is the last time you can summon us," said the leader to
Dorothy; "so good-bye and good luck to you."
"Good-bye, and thank you very much," returned the girl; and
the Monkeys rose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling.
The country of the Quadlings seemed rich and happy. There was
field upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running
between, and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them.
The fences and houses and bridges were all painted bright red,
just as they had been painted yellow in the country of the Winkies
and blue in the country of the Munchkins. The Quadlings themselves,
who were short and fat and looked chubby and good-natured, were
dressed all in red, which showed bright against the green grass
and the yellowing grain.
The Monkeys had set them down near a farmhouse, and the four
travelers walked up to it and knocked at the door. It was opened
by the farmer's wife, and when Dorothy asked for something to eat
the woman gave them all a good dinner, with three kinds of cake
and four kinds of cookies, and a bowl of milk for Toto.
"How far is it to the Castle of Glinda?" asked the child.
"It is not a great way," answered the farmer's wife.
"Take the road to the South and you will soon reach it."
Thanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the
fields and across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a
very beautiful Castle. Before the gates were three young girls,
dressed in handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as
Dorothy approached, one of them said to her:
"Why have you come to the South Country?"
"To see the Good Witch who rules here," she answered.
"Will you take me to her?"
"Let me have your name, and I will ask Glinda if she will
receive you." They told who they were, and the girl soldier went
into the Castle. After a few moments she came back to say that
Dorothy and the others were to be admitted at once.
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a
room of the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her
hair, and the Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the
Scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the Woodman
polished his tin and oiled his joints.
When they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier
girl into a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies.
She was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was
a rich red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders.
Her dress was pure white but her eyes were blue, and they looked
kindly upon the little girl.
"What can I do for you, my child?" she asked.
Dorothy told the Witch all her story: how the cyclone had
brought her to the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions,
and of the wonderful adventures they had met with.
"My greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to Kansas,
for Aunt Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me,
and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better
this year than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it."
Glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of
the loving little girl.
"Bless your dear heart," she said, "I am sure I can tell you
of a way to get back to Kansas." Then she added, "But, if I do,
you must give me the Golden Cap."
"Willingly!" exclaimed Dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to
me now, and when you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys
three times."
"And I think I shall need their service just those three times,"
answered Glinda, smiling.
Dorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to
the Scarecrow, "What will you do when Dorothy has left us?"
"I will return to the Emerald City," he replied, "for Oz has
made me its ruler and the people like me. The only thing that
worries me is how to cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads."
"By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys
to carry you to the gates of the Emerald City," said Glinda, "for
it would be a shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler."
"Am I really wonderful?" asked the Scarecrow.
"You are unusual," replied Glinda.
Turning to the Tin Woodman, she asked, "What will become of
you when Dorothy leaves this country?"
He leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said,
"The Winkies were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them
after the Wicked Witch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I
could get back again to the Country of the West, I should like
nothing better than to rule over them forever."
"My second command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda "will
be that they carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your
brain may not be so large to look at as those of the Scarecrow,
but you are really brighter than he is--when you are well polished--
and I am sure you will rule the Winkies wisely and well."
Then the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked, "When
Dorothy has returned to her own home, what will become of you?"
"Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads," he answered, "lies a
grand old forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me
their King. If I could only get back to this forest, I would pass
my life very happily there."
"My third command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "shall
be to carry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers
of the Golden Cap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys,
that he and his band may thereafter be free for evermore."
The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the
Good Witch earnestly for her kindness; and Dorothy exclaimed:
"You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have
not yet told me how to get back to Kansas."
"Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert," replied Glinda.
"If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em
the very first day you came to this country."
"But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!" cried the Scarecrow.
"I might have passed my whole life in the farmer's cornfield."
"And I should not have had my lovely heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"I might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world."
"And I should have lived a coward forever," declared the Lion,
"and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me."
"This is all true," said Dorothy, "and I am glad I was of use
to these good friends. But now that each of them has had what he
most desired, and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule besides,
I think I should like to go back to Kansas."
"The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers.
And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry
you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be
made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels
together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you
wish to go."
"If that is so," said the child joyfully, "I will ask them to
carry me back to Kansas at once."
She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him,
patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman,
who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints. But she
hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead
of kissing his painted face, and found she was crying herself at
this sorrowful parting from her loving comrades.
Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the
little girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the
kindness she had shown to her friends and herself.
Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said
one last good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three
times, saying:
"Take me home to Aunt Em!"
Instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that
all she could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears.
The Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so
suddenly that she rolled over upon the grass several times before
she knew where she was.
At length, however, she sat up and looked about her.
"Good gracious!" she cried.
For she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just
before her was the new farmhouse Uncle Henry built after the
cyclone had carried away the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the
cows in the barnyard, and Toto had jumped out of her arms and was
running toward the barn, barking furiously.
Dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet.
For the Silver Shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air,
and were lost forever in the desert.
24. Home Again
Aunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages
when she looked up and saw Dorothy running toward her.
"My darling child!" she cried, folding the little girl in her
arms and covering her face with kisses. "Where in the world did
you come from?"
"From the Land of Oz," said Dorothy gravely. "And here is
Toto, too. And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be at home again!"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/25/2023
Public Domain Use#19,438,434textTake Me Out to the Ball Game
Words by Jack Norworth
Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks,
I don’t care if we never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
At the old ball game.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/25/2023
Public Domain Use#19,438,229textThe Raven
By Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice,
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ordinal Library
Mint Date: 7/25/2023
Public Domain Use
Source: https://www.owleyes.org/text/raven/read/the-raven#root-219281-17#19,437,551textALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND
Lewis Carroll
CHAPTER I
Down the Rabbit-Hole
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister
on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had
peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no
pictures or conversations in it, `and what is the use of a book,'
thought Alice `without pictures or conversation?'
So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could,
for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether
the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble
of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White
Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.
There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice
think it so VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to
itself, `Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!' (when she thought
it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have
wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural);
but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT-
POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to
her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never
before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to
take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the
field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop
down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once
considering how in the world she was to get out again.
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way,
and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a
moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself
falling down a very deep well.
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she
had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to
wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look
down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to
see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and
noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves;
here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She
took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was
labelled `ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it
was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing
somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she
fell past it.
`Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I
shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll
all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it,
even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely
true.)
Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! `I
wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud.
`I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let
me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for,
you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her
lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good
opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to
listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes,
that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude
or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was,
or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to
say.)
Presently she began again. `I wonder if I shall fall right
THROUGH the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the
people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I
think--' (she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this
time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) `--but I shall
have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know.
Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and she tried
to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling
through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) `And what
an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll
never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.'
Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon
began talking again. `Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I
should think!' (Dinah was the cat.) `I hope they'll remember
her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were
down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but
you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know.
But do cats eat bats, I wonder?' And here Alice began to get
rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of
way, `Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?' and sometimes, `Do
bats eat cats?' for, you see, as she couldn't answer either
question, it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt
that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she
was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very
earnestly, `Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a
bat?' when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of
sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.
Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a
moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her
was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in
sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost:
away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it
say, as it turned a corner, `Oh my ears and whiskers, how late
it's getting!' She was close behind it when she turned the
corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found
herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps
hanging from the roof.
There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked;
and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the
other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle,
wondering how she was ever to get out again.
Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of
solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key,
and Alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the
doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or
the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of
them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low
curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little
door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key
in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!
Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small
passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and
looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw.
How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about
among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but
she could not even get her head through the doorway; `and even if
my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, `it would be of
very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish
I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only
know how to begin.' For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things
had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few
things indeed were really impossible.
There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she
went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on
it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like
telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (`which
certainly was not here before,' said Alice,) and round the neck
of the bottle was a paper label, with the words `DRINK ME'
beautifully printed on it in large letters.
It was all very well to say `Drink me,' but the wise little
Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. `No, I'll look
first,' she said, `and see whether it's marked "poison" or not';
for she had read several nice little histories about children who
had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant
things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules
their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker
will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your
finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had
never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked
`poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or
later.
However, this bottle was NOT marked `poison,' so Alice ventured
to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort
of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast
turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished
it off.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * * *
`What a curious feeling!' said Alice; `I must be shutting up
like a telescope.'
And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and
her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right
size for going through the little door into that lovely garden.
First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was
going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about
this; `for it might end, you know,' said Alice to herself, `in my
going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be
like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is
like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember
ever having seen such a thing.
After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided
on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice!
when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the
little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it,
she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it
quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb
up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery;
and when she had tired herself out with trying,
the poor little thing sat down and cried.
`Come, there's no use in crying like that!' said Alice to
herself, rather sharply; `I advise you to leave off this minute!'
She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very
seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so
severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered
trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game
of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious
child was very fond of pretending to be two people. `But it's no
use now,' thought poor Alice, `to pretend to be two people! Why,
there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable
person!'
Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under
the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on
which the words `EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants.
`Well, I'll eat it,' said Alice, `and if it makes me grow larger,
I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep
under the door; so either way I'll get into the garden, and I
don't care which happens!'
She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, `Which
way? Which way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to
feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to
find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally
happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the
way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen,
that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the
common way.
So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * * *
CHAPTER II
The Pool of Tears
`Curiouser and curiouser!' cried Alice (she was so much
surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good
English); `now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that
ever was! Good-bye, feet!' (for when she looked down at her
feet, they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so
far off). `Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on
your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure _I_ shan't
be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself
about you: you must manage the best way you can; --but I must be
kind to them,' thought Alice, `or perhaps they won't walk the
way I want to go! Let me see: I'll give them a new pair of
boots every Christmas.'
And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it.
`They must go by the carrier,' she thought; `and how funny it'll
seem, sending presents to one's own feet! And how odd the
directions will look!
ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ.
HEARTHRUG,
NEAR THE FENDER,
(WITH ALICE'S LOVE).
Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!'
Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in
fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took
up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door.
Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one
side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get
through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to
cry again.
`You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, `a great
girl like you,' (she might well say this), `to go on crying in
this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!' But she went on all
the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool
all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the
hall.
After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the
distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming.
It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a
pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the
other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to
himself as he came, `Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she
be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so desperate
that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit
came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, `If you please,
sir--' The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid
gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard
as he could go.
Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very
hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking:
`Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday
things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in
the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this
morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little
different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in
the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she began
thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age
as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of
them.
`I'm sure I'm not Ada,' she said, `for her hair goes in such
long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm
sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she,
oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I,
and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the
things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve,
and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear!
I shall never get to twenty at that rate! However, the
Multiplication Table doesn't signify: let's try Geography.
London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome,
and Rome--no, THAT'S all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been
changed for Mabel! I'll try and say "How doth the little--"'
and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons,
and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and
strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:--
`How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
`How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcome little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!'
`I'm sure those are not the right words,' said poor Alice, and
her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, `I must be Mabel
after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little
house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so
many lessons to learn! No, I've made up my mind about it; if I'm
Mabel, I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their
heads down and saying "Come up again, dear!" I shall only look
up and say "Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I
like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down
here till I'm somebody else"--but, oh dear!' cried Alice, with a
sudden burst of tears, `I do wish they WOULD put their heads
down! I am so VERY tired of being all alone here!'
As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was
surprised to see that she had put on one of the Rabbit's little
white kid gloves while she was talking. `How CAN I have done
that?' she thought. `I must be growing small again.' She got up
and went to the table to measure herself by it, and found that,
as nearly as she could guess, she was now about two feet high,
and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon found out that the
cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped it
hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether.
`That WAS a narrow escape!' said Alice, a good deal frightened at
the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in
existence; `and now for the garden!' and she ran with all speed
back to the little door: but, alas! the little door was shut
again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as
before, `and things are worse than ever,' thought the poor child,
`for I never was so small as this before, never! And I declare
it's too bad, that it is!'
As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another
moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first
idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, `and in that
case I can go back by railway,' she said to herself. (Alice had
been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general
conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find
a number of bathing machines in the sea, some children digging in
the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging houses, and
behind them a railway station.) However, she soon made out that
she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine
feet high.
`I wish I hadn't cried so much!' said Alice, as she swam about,
trying to find her way out. `I shall be punished for it now, I
suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That WILL be a queer
thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.'
Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a
little way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at
first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then
she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that
it was only a mouse that had slipped in like herself.
`Would it be of any use, now,' thought Alice, `to speak to this
mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should
think very likely it can talk: at any rate, there's no harm in
trying.' So she began: `O Mouse, do you know the way out of
this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!'
(Alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse:
she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having
seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, `A mouse--of a mouse--to a
mouse--a mouse--O mouse!') The Mouse looked at her rather
inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little
eyes, but it said nothing.
`Perhaps it doesn't understand English,' thought Alice; `I
daresay it's a French mouse, come over with William the
Conqueror.' (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had
no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she
began again: `Ou est ma chatte?' which was the first sentence in
her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the
water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. `Oh, I beg
your pardon!' cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the
poor animal's feelings. `I quite forgot you didn't like cats.'
`Not like cats!' cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate
voice. `Would YOU like cats if you were me?'
`Well, perhaps not,' said Alice in a soothing tone: `don't be
angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah:
I think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her.
She is such a dear quiet thing,' Alice went on, half to herself,
as she swam lazily about in the pool, `and she sits purring so
nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face--and
she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's such a capital
one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!' cried Alice again,
for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt
certain it must be really offended. `We won't talk about her any
more if you'd rather not.'
`We indeed!' cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end
of his tail. `As if I would talk on such a subject! Our family
always HATED cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear
the name again!'
`I won't indeed!' said Alice, in a great hurry to change the
subject of conversation. `Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?'
The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: `There is
such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you!
A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly
brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and
it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I
can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you
know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds!
He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!' cried Alice in a
sorrowful tone, `I'm afraid I've offended it again!' For the
Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and
making quite a commotion in the pool as it went.
So she called softly after it, `Mouse dear! Do come back
again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't
like them!' When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam
slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice
thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, `Let us get to
the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll
understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.'
It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded
with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a
Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious
creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the
shore.
CHAPTER III
A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale
They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the
bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their
fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and
uncomfortable.
The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they
had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed
quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with
them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had
quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky,
and would only say, `I am older than you, and must know better';
and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was,
and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no
more to be said.
At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among
them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL
soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large
ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes
anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad
cold if she did not get dry very soon.
`Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready?
This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please!
"William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was
soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been
of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and
Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"'
`Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver.
`I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very
politely: `Did you speak?'
`Not I!' said the Lory hastily.
`I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and
Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him:
and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found
it advisable--"'
`Found WHAT?' said the Duck.
`Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you
know what "it" means.'
`I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said
the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is,
what did the archbishop find?'
The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on,
`"--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William
and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was
moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--" How are you
getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning to Alice as it
spoke.
`As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: `it doesn't
seem to dry me at all.'
`In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, `I
move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more
energetic remedies--'
`Speak English!' said the Eaglet. `I don't know the meaning of
half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do
either!' And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile:
some of the other birds tittered audibly.
`What I was going to say,' said the Dodo in an offended tone,
`was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.'
`What IS a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much
to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY
ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.
`Why,' said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.'
(And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter
day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.)
First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (`the
exact shape doesn't matter,' it said,) and then all the party
were placed along the course, here and there. There was no `One,
two, three, and away,' but they began running when they liked,
and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know
when the race was over. However, when they had been running half
an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called
out `The race is over!' and they all crowded round it, panting,
and asking, `But who has won?'
This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of
thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon
its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare,
in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At
last the Dodo said, `EVERYBODY has won, and all must have
prizes.'
`But who is to give the prizes?' quite a chorus of voices
asked.
`Why, SHE, of course,' said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with
one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her,
calling out in a confused way, `Prizes! Prizes!'
Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand
in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt
water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes.
There was exactly one a-piece all round.
`But she must have a prize herself, you know,' said the Mouse.
`Of course,' the Dodo replied very gravely. `What else have
you got in your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice.
`Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly.
`Hand it over here,' said the Dodo.
Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo
solemnly presented the thimble, saying `We beg your acceptance of
this elegant thimble'; and, when it had finished this short
speech, they all cheered.
Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked
so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not
think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble,
looking as solemn as she could.
The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise
and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not
taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on
the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again
in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more.
`You promised to tell me your history, you know,' said Alice,
`and why it is you hate--C and D,' she added in a whisper, half
afraid that it would be offended again.
`Mine is a long and a sad tale!' said the Mouse, turning to
Alice, and sighing.
`It IS a long tail, certainly,' said Alice, looking down with
wonder at the Mouse's tail; `but why do you call it sad?' And
she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so
that her idea of the tale was something like this:--
`Fury said to a
mouse, That he
met in the
house,
"Let us
both go to
law: I will
prosecute
YOU. --Come,
I'll take no
denial; We
must have a
trial: For
really this
morning I've
nothing
to do."
Said the
mouse to the
cur, "Such
a trial,
dear Sir,
With
no jury
or judge,
would be
wasting
our
breath."
"I'll be
judge, I'll
be jury,"
Said
cunning
old Fury:
"I'll
try the
whole
cause,
and
condemn
you
to
death."'
`You are not attending!' said the Mouse to Alice severely.
`What are you thinking of?'
`I beg your pardon,' said Alice very humbly: `you had got to
the fifth bend, I think?'
`I had NOT!' cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.
`A knot!' said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and
looking anxiously about her. `Oh, do let me help to undo it!'
`I shall do nothing of the sort,' said the Mouse, getting up
and walking away. `You insult me by talking such nonsense!'
`I didn't mean it!' pleaded poor Alice. `But you're so easily
offended, you know!'
The Mouse only growled in reply.
`Please come back and finish your story!' Alice called after
it; and the others all joined in chorus, `Yes, please do!' but
the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little
quicker.
`What a pity it wouldn't stay!' sighed the Lory, as soon as it
was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of
saying to her daughter `Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you
never to lose YOUR temper!' `Hold your tongue, Ma!' said the
young Crab, a little snappishly. `You're enough to try the
patience of an oyster!'
`I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!' said Alice aloud,
addressing nobody in particular. `She'd soon fetch it back!'
`And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?'
said the Lory.
Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about
her pet: `Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for
catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her
after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look
at it!'
This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party.
Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began
wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, `I really must be
getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!' and a Canary
called out in a trembling voice to its children, `Come away, my
dears! It's high time you were all in bed!' On various pretexts
they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone.
`I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!' she said to herself in a
melancholy tone. `Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm
sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I
wonder if I shall ever see you any more!' And here poor Alice
began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited.
In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of
footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping
that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to
finish his story.
CHAPTER IV
The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill
It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and
looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something;
and she heard it muttering to itself `The Duchess! The Duchess!
Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She'll get me
executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where CAN I have
dropped them, I wonder?' Alice guessed in a moment that it was
looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she
very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were
nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her
swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and
the little door, had vanished completely.
Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about,
and called out to her in an angry tone, `Why, Mary Ann, what ARE
you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of
gloves and a fan! Quick, now!' And Alice was so much frightened
that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without
trying to explain the mistake it had made.
`He took me for his housemaid,' she said to herself as she ran.
`How surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd
better take him his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them.'
As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door
of which was a bright brass plate with the name `W. RABBIT'
engraved upon it. She went in without knocking, and hurried
upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann,
and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and
gloves.
`How queer it seems,' Alice said to herself, `to be going
messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on
messages next!' And she began fancying the sort of thing that
would happen: `"Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready
for your walk!" "Coming in a minute, nurse! But I've got to see
that the mouse doesn't get out." Only I don't think,' Alice went
on, `that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering
people about like that!'
By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with
a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two
or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and
a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when
her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-
glass. There was no label this time with the words `DRINK ME,'
but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. `I know
SOMETHING interesting is sure to happen,' she said to herself,
`whenever I eat or drink anything; so I'll just see what this
bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for
really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!'
It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected:
before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing
against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being
broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself
`That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I
can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so
much!'
Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and
growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in
another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried
the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the
other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and,
as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one
foot up the chimney, and said to herself `Now I can do no more,
whatever happens. What WILL become of me?'
Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full
effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable,
and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting
out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy.
`It was much pleasanter at home,' thought poor Alice, `when one
wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about
by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that
rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know,
this sort of life! I do wonder what CAN have happened to me!
When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing
never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There
ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when
I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now,' she added in a
sorrowful tone; `at least there's no room to grow up any more
HERE.'
`But then,' thought Alice, `shall I NEVER get any older than I
am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--
but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like THAT!'
`Oh, you foolish Alice!' she answered herself. `How can you
learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for YOU, and no
room at all for any lesson-books!'
And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other,
and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few
minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen.
`Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' said the voice. `Fetch me my gloves
this moment!' Then came a little pattering of feet on the
stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and
she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she
was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no
reason to be afraid of it.
Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it;
but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed
hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it
say to itself `Then I'll go round and get in at the window.'
`THAT you won't' thought Alice, and, after waiting till she
fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly
spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not
get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall,
and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was
just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something
of the sort.
Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--`Pat! Pat! Where are
you?' And then a voice she had never heard before, `Sure then
I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!'
`Digging for apples, indeed!' said the Rabbit angrily. `Here!
Come and help me out of THIS!' (Sounds of more broken glass.)
`Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?'
`Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!' (He pronounced it `arrum.')
`An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it
fills the whole window!'
`Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that.'
`Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it
away!'
There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear
whispers now and then; such as, `Sure, I don't like it, yer
honour, at all, at all!' `Do as I tell you, you coward!' and at
last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in
the air. This time there were TWO little shrieks, and more
sounds of broken glass. `What a number of cucumber-frames there
must be!' thought Alice. `I wonder what they'll do next! As for
pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD! I'm sure I
don't want to stay in here any longer!'
She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at
last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a
good many voices all talking together: she made out the words:
`Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one;
Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up
at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half
high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--
Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind
that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!' (a loud
crash)--`Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go
down the chimney?--Nay, I shan't! YOU do it!--That I won't,
then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to
go down the chimney!'
`Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?' said
Alice to herself. `Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill!
I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is
narrow, to be sure; but I THINK I can kick a little!'
She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and
waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what
sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close
above her: then, saying to herself `This is Bill,' she gave one
sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next.
The first thing she heard was a general chorus of `There goes
Bill!' then the Rabbit's voice along--`Catch him, you by the
hedge!' then silence, and then another confusion of voices--`Hold
up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow?
What happened to you? Tell us all about it!'
Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (`That's Bill,'
thought Alice,) `Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm
better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know
is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes
like a sky-rocket!'
`So you did, old fellow!' said the others.
`We must burn the house down!' said the Rabbit's voice; and
Alice called out as loud as she could, `If you do. I'll set
Dinah at you!'
There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to
herself, `I wonder what they WILL do next! If they had any
sense, they'd take the roof off.' After a minute or two, they
began moving about again, and Alice heard the Rabbit say, `A
barrowful will do, to begin with.'
`A barrowful of WHAT?' thought Alice; but she had not long to
doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came
rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face.
`I'll put a stop to this,' she said to herself, and shouted out,
`You'd better not do that again!' which produced another dead
silence.
Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all
turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright
idea came into her head. `If I eat one of these cakes,' she
thought, `it's sure to make SOME change in my size; and as it
can't possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, I
suppose.'
So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find
that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small
enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and
found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside.
The poor little Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by
two guinea-pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle.
They all made a rush at Alice the moment she appeared; but she
ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a
thick wood.
`The first thing I've got to do,' said Alice to herself, as she
wandered about in the wood, `is to grow to my right size again;
and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden.
I think that will be the best plan.'
It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and
simply arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the
smallest idea how to set about it; and while she was peering
about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over
her head made her look up in a great hurry.
An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round
eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her.
`Poor little thing!' said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried
hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the
time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it
would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing.
Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of
stick, and held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped
into the air off all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight,
and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it; then Alice
dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run
over; and the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy
made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in
its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very
like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every
moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle
again; then the puppy began a series of short charges at the
stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long
way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat
down a good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its
mouth, and its great eyes half shut.
This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape;
so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out
of breath, and till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the
distance.
`And yet what a dear little puppy it was!' said Alice, as she
leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself
with one of the leaves: `I should have liked teaching it tricks
very much, if--if I'd only been the right size to do it! Oh
dear! I'd nearly forgotten that I've got to grow up again! Let
me see--how IS it to be managed? I suppose I ought to eat or
drink something or other; but the great question is, what?'
The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round
her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see
anything that looked like the right thing to eat or drink under
the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near her,
about the same height as herself; and when she had looked under
it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her
that she might as well look and see what was on the top of it.
She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of
the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large
caterpillar, that was sitting on the top with its arms folded,
quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice
of her or of anything else.
CHAPTER V
Advice from a Caterpillar
The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in
silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its
mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
`Who are YOU?' said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice
replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--
at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think
I must have been changed several times since then.'
`What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly.
`Explain yourself!'
`I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because
I'm not myself, you see.'
`I don't see,' said the Caterpillar.
`I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very
politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and
being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.'
`It isn't,' said the Caterpillar.
`Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but
when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you
know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll
feel it a little queer, won't you?'
`Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar.
`Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice;
`all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.'
`You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are YOU?'
Which brought them back again to the beginning of the
conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's
making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said,
very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.'
`Why?' said the Caterpillar.
Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not
think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in
a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away.
`Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something
important to say!'
This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back
again.
`Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar.
`Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as
she could.
`No,' said the Caterpillar.
Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else
to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth
hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but
at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth
again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?'
`I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as
I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!'
`Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar.
`Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it
all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice.
`Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar.
Alice folded her hands, and began:--
`You are old, Father William,' the young man said,
`And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?'
`In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,
`I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.'
`You are old,' said the youth, `as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?'
`In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
`I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
Allow me to sell you a couple?'
`You are old,' said the youth, `and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray how did you manage to do it?'
`In my youth,' said his father, `I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.'
`You are old,' said the youth, `one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?'
`I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
Said his father; `don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!'
`That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar.
`Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; `some of the
words have got altered.'
`It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar
decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes.
The Caterpillar was the first to speak.
`What size do you want to be?' it asked.
`Oh, I'm not particular as to size,' Alice hastily replied;
`only one doesn't like changing so often, you know.'
`I DON'T know,' said the Caterpillar.
Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in
her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.
`Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar.
`Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you
wouldn't mind,' said Alice: `three inches is such a wretched
height to be.'
`It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar
angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three
inches high).
`But I'm not used to it!' pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone.
And she thought of herself, `I wish the creatures wouldn't be so
easily offended!'
`You'll get used to it in time,' said the Caterpillar; and it
put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.
This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again.
In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its
mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got
down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely
remarking as it went, `One side will make you grow taller, and
the other side will make you grow shorter.'
`One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?' thought Alice to
herself.
`Of the mushroom,' said the Caterpillar, just as if she had
asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight.
Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a
minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as
it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question.
However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they
would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand.
`And now which is which?' she said to herself, and nibbled a
little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment
she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her
foot!
She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but
she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking
rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit.
Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was
hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and
managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * * *
`Come, my head's free at last!' said Alice in a tone of
delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she
found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could
see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which
seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay
far below her.
`What CAN all that green stuff be?' said Alice. `And where
HAVE my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I
can't see you?' She was moving them about as she spoke, but no
result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the
distant green leaves.
As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her
head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted
to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction,
like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a
graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which
she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she
had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a
hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating
her violently with its wings.
`Serpent!' screamed the Pigeon.
`I'm NOT a serpent!' said Alice indignantly. `Let me alone!'
`Serpent, I say again!' repeated the Pigeon, but in a more
subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, `I've tried every
way, and nothing seems to suit them!'
`I haven't the least idea what you're talking about,' said
Alice.
`I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've
tried hedges,' the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; `but
those serpents! There's no pleasing them!'
Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no
use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished.
`As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs,' said the
Pigeon; `but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and
day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!'
`I'm very sorry you've been annoyed,' said Alice, who was
beginning to see its meaning.
`And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood,' continued
the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, `and just as I was
thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come
wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!'
`But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. `I'm a--I'm
a--'
`Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. `I can see you're
trying to invent something!'
`I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she
remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day.
`A likely story indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the
deepest contempt. `I've seen a good many little girls in my
time, but never ONE with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a
serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be
telling me next that you never tasted an egg!'
`I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a very
truthful child; `but little girls eat eggs quite as much as
serpents do, you know.'
`I don't believe it,' said the Pigeon; `but if they do, why
then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.'
This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent
for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of
adding, `You're looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and
what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a
serpent?'
`It matters a good deal to ME,' said Alice hastily; `but I'm
not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't
want YOURS: I don't like them raw.'
`Well, be off, then!' said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it
settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the
trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled
among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and
untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the
pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very
carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and
growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had
succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height.
It was so long since she had been anything near the right size,
that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a
few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual. `Come,
there's half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes
are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to
another! However, I've got back to my right size: the next
thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how IS that to be
done, I wonder?' As she said this, she came suddenly upon an
open place, with a little house in it about four feet high.
`Whoever lives there,' thought Alice, `it'll never do to come
upon them THIS size: why, I should frighten them out of their
wits!' So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did
not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself
down to nine inches high.
CHAPTER VI
Pig and Pepper
For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and
wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came
running out of the wood--(she considered him to be a footman
because he was in livery: otherwise, judging by his face only,
she would have called him a fish)--and rapped loudly at the door
with his knuckles. It was opened by another footman in livery,
with a round face, and large eyes like a frog; and both footmen,
Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all over their
heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all about, and
crept a little way out of the wood to listen.
The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great
letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to
the other, saying, in a solemn tone, `For the Duchess. An
invitation from the Queen to play croquet.' The Frog-Footman
repeated, in the same solemn tone, only changing the order of the
words a little, `From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess
to play croquet.'
Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled
together.
Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into
the wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped
out the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the
ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky.
Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked.
`There's no sort of use in knocking,' said the Footman, `and
that for two reasons. First, because I'm on the same side of the
door as you are; secondly, because they're making such a noise
inside, no one could possibly hear you.' And certainly there was
a most extraordinary noise going on within--a constant howling
and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish
or kettle had been broken to pieces.
`Please, then,' said Alice, `how am I to get in?'
`There might be some sense in your knocking,' the Footman went
on without attending to her, `if we had the door between us. For
instance, if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let
you out, you know.' He was looking up into the sky all the time
he was speaking, and this Alice thought decidedly uncivil. `But
perhaps he can't help it,' she said to herself; `his eyes are so
VERY nearly at the top of his head. But at any rate he might
answer questions.--How am I to get in?' she repeated, aloud.
`I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked, `till tomorrow--'
At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate
came skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just
grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees
behind him.
`--or next day, maybe,' the Footman continued in the same tone,
exactly as if nothing had happened.
`How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in a louder tone.
`ARE you to get in at all?' said the Footman. `That's the
first question, you know.'
It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so.
`It's really dreadful,' she muttered to herself, `the way all the
creatures argue. It's enough to drive one crazy!'
The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for
repeating his remark, with variations. `I shall sit here,' he
said, `on and off, for days and days.'
`But what am I to do?' said Alice.
`Anything you like,' said the Footman, and began whistling.
`Oh, there's no use in talking to him,' said Alice desperately:
`he's perfectly idiotic!' And she opened the door and went in.
The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of
smoke from one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a
three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was
leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to
be full of soup.
`There's certainly too much pepper in that soup!' Alice said to
herself, as well as she could for sneezing.
There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the
Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was
sneezing and howling alternately without a moment's pause. The
only things in the kitchen that did not sneeze, were the cook,
and a large cat which was sitting on the hearth and grinning from
ear to ear.
`Please would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, for
she was not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to
speak first, `why your cat grins like that?'
`It's a Cheshire cat,' said the Duchess, `and that's why. Pig!'
She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice
quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed
to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on
again:--
`I didn't know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I
didn't know that cats COULD grin.'
`They all can,' said the Duchess; `and most of 'em do.'
`I don't know of any that do,' Alice said very politely,
feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation.
`You don't know much,' said the Duchess; `and that's a fact.'
Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought
it would be as well to introduce some other subject of
conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took
the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work
throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby
--the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans,
plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when
they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it
was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.
`Oh, PLEASE mind what you're doing!' cried Alice, jumping up
and down in an agony of terror. `Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS
nose'; as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very
nearly carried it off.
`If everybody minded their own business,' the Duchess said in a
hoarse growl, `the world would go round a deal faster than it
does.'
`Which would NOT be an advantage,' said Alice, who felt very
glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her
knowledge. `Just think of what work it would make with the day
and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn
round on its axis--'
`Talking of axes,' said the Duchess, `chop off her head!'
Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant
to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and
seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: `Twenty-four
hours, I THINK; or is it twelve? I--'
`Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; `I never could abide
figures!' And with that she began nursing her child again,
singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a
violent shake at the end of every line:
`Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes:
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.'
CHORUS.
(In which the cook and the baby joined):--
`Wow! wow! wow!'
While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept
tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing
howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:--
`I speak severely to my boy,
I beat him when he sneezes;
For he can thoroughly enjoy
The pepper when he pleases!'
CHORUS.
`Wow! wow! wow!'
`Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said
to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. `I must go and
get ready to play croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of
the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out,
but it just missed her.
Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-
shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all
directions, `just like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor
little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it,
and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again,
so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much
as she could do to hold it.
As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it,
(which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep
tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its
undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. `IF I
don't take this child away with me,' thought Alice, `they're sure
to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it
behind?' She said the last words out loud, and the little thing
grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). `Don't
grunt,' said Alice; `that's not at all a proper way of expressing
yourself.'
The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into
its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no
doubt that it had a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout
than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for
a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at
all. `But perhaps it was only sobbing,' she thought, and looked
into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears.
No, there were no tears. `If you're going to turn into a pig,
my dear,' said Alice, seriously, `I'll have nothing more to do
with you. Mind now!' The poor little thing sobbed again (or
grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for
some while in silence.
Alice was just beginning to think to herself, `Now, what am I
to do with this creature when I get it home?' when it grunted
again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some
alarm. This time there could be NO mistake about it: it was
neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be
quite absurd for her to carry it further.
So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to
see it trot away quietly into the wood. `If it had grown up,'
she said to herself, `it would have made a dreadfully ugly child:
but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.' And she began
thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as
pigs, and was just saying to herself, `if one only knew the right
way to change them--' when she was a little startled by seeing
the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off.
The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-
natured, she thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great
many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.
`Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at
all know whether it would like the name: however, it only
grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought
Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I
ought to go from here?'
`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said
the Cat.
`I don't much care where--' said Alice.
`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
`--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk
long enough.'
Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another
question. `What sort of people live about here?'
`In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round,
`lives a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw,
`lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.'
`But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
`Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here.
I'm mad. You're mad.'
`How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
`You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on
`And how do you know that you're mad?'
`To begin with,' said the Cat, `a dog's not mad. You grant
that?'
`I suppose so,' said Alice.
`Well, then,' the Cat went on, `you see, a dog growls when it's
angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm
pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.'
`I call it purring, not growling,' said Alice.
`Call it what you like,' said the Cat. `Do you play croquet
with the Queen to-day?'
`I should like it very much,' said Alice, `but I haven't been
invited yet.'
`You'll see me there,' said the Cat, and vanished.
Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used
to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place
where it had been, it suddenly appeared again.
`By-the-bye, what became of the baby?' said the Cat. `I'd
nearly forgotten to ask.'
`It turned into a pig,' Alice quietly said, just as if it had
come back in a natural way.
`I thought it would,' said the Cat, and vanished again.
Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it
did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the
direction in which the March Hare was said to live. `I've seen
hatters before,' she said to herself; `the March Hare will be
much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be
raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March.' As she said
this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a
branch of a tree.
`Did you say pig, or fig?' said the Cat.
`I said pig,' replied Alice; `and I wish you wouldn't keep
appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.'
`All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,
beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin,
which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.
`Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice;
`but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever
saw in my life!'
She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the
house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house,
because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was
thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not
like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand
bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even
then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself
`Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd
gone to see the Hatter instead!'
CHAPTER VII
A Mad Tea-Party
There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house,
and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a
Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two
were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking
over its head. `Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,' thought Alice;
`only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind.'
The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded
together at one corner of it: `No room! No room!' they cried
out when they saw Alice coming. `There's PLENTY of room!' said
Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one
end of the table.
`Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.
Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it
but tea. `I don't see any wine,' she remarked.
`There isn't any,' said the March Hare.
`Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice
angrily.
`It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being
invited,' said the March Hare.
`I didn't know it was YOUR table,' said Alice; `it's laid for a
great many more than three.'
`Your hair wants cutting,' said the Hatter. He had been
looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was
his first speech.
`You should learn not to make personal remarks,' Alice said
with some severity; `it's very rude.'
The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all
he SAID was, `Why is a raven like a writing-desk?'
`Come, we shall have some fun now!' thought Alice. `I'm glad
they've begun asking riddles.--I believe I can guess that,' she
added aloud.
`Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?'
said the March Hare.
`Exactly so,' said Alice.
`Then you should say what you mean,' the March Hare went on.
`I do,' Alice hastily replied; `at least--at least I mean what
I say--that's the same thing, you know.'
`Not the same thing a bit!' said the Hatter. `You might just
as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat
what I see"!'
`You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, `that "I
like what I get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!'
`You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, who seemed to
be talking in his sleep, `that "I breathe when I sleep" is the
same thing as "I sleep when I breathe"!'
`It IS the same thing with you,' said the Hatter, and here the
conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute,
while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and
writing-desks, which wasn't much.
The Hatter was the first to break the silence. `What day of
the month is it?' he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his
watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking
it every now and then, and holding it to his ear.
Alice considered a little, and then said `The fourth.'
`Two days wrong!' sighed the Hatter. `I told you butter
wouldn't suit the works!' he added looking angrily at the March
Hare.
`It was the BEST butter,' the March Hare meekly replied.
`Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,' the Hatter
grumbled: `you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife.'
The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then
he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he
could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, `It
was the BEST butter, you know.'
Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity.
`What a funny watch!' she remarked. `It tells the day of the
month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!'
`Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. `Does YOUR watch tell
you what year it is?'
`Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: `but that's
because it stays the same year for such a long time together.'
`Which is just the case with MINE,' said the Hatter.
Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to
have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English.
`I don't quite understand you,' she said, as politely as she
could.
`The Dormouse is asleep again,' said the Hatter, and he poured
a little hot tea upon its nose.
The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without
opening its eyes, `Of course, of course; just what I was going to
remark myself.'
`Have you guessed the riddle yet?' the Hatter said, turning to
Alice again.
`No, I give it up,' Alice replied: `what's the answer?'
`I haven't the slightest idea,' said the Hatter.
`Nor I,' said the March Hare.
Alice sighed wearily. `I think you might do something better
with the time,' she said, `than waste it in asking riddles that
have no answers.'
`If you knew Time as well as I do,' said the Hatter, `you
wouldn't talk about wasting IT. It's HIM.'
`I don't know what you mean,' said Alice.
`Of course you don't!' the Hatter said, tossing his head
contemptuously. `I dare say you never even spoke to Time!'
`Perhaps not,' Alice cautiously replied: `but I know I have to
beat time when I learn music.'
`Ah! that accounts for it,' said the Hatter. `He won't stand
beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do
almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose
it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons:
you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the
clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!'
(`I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a
whisper.)
`That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully:
`but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.'
`Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: `but you could keep
it to half-past one as long as you liked.'
`Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked.
The Hatter shook his head mournfully. `Not I!' he replied.
`We quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--'
(pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) `--it was at the
great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing
"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you're at!"
You know the song, perhaps?'
`I've heard something like it,' said Alice.
`It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, `in this way:--
"Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea-tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle--"'
Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep
`Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that
they had to pinch it to make it stop.
`Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter,
`when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the
time! Off with his head!"'
`How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice.
`And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone,
`he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.'
A bright idea came into Alice's head. `Is that the reason so
many tea-things are put out here?' she asked.
`Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: `it's always
tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.'
`Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice.
`Exactly so,' said the Hatter: `as the things get used up.'
`But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice
ventured to ask.
`Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted,
yawning. `I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady
tells us a story.'
`I'm afraid I don't know one,' said Alice, rather alarmed at
the proposal.
`Then the Dormouse shall!' they both cried. `Wake up,
Dormouse!' And they pinched it on both sides at once.
The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. `I wasn't asleep,' he
said in a hoarse, feeble voice: `I heard every word you fellows
were saying.'
`Tell us a story!' said the March Hare.
`Yes, please do!' pleaded Alice.
`And be quick about it,' added the Hatter, `or you'll be asleep
again before it's done.'
`Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the
Dormouse began in a great hurry; `and their names were Elsie,
Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--'
`What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great
interest in questions of eating and drinking.
`They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a
minute or two.
`They couldn't have done that, you know,' Alice gently
remarked; `they'd have been ill.'
`So they were,' said the Dormouse; `VERY ill.'
Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways
of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went
on: `But why did they live at the bottom of a well?'
`Take some more tea,' the March Hare said to Alice, very
earnestly.
`I've had nothing yet,' Alice replied in an offended tone, `so
I can't take more.'
`You mean you can't take LESS,' said the Hatter: `it's very
easy to take MORE than nothing.'
`Nobody asked YOUR opinion,' said Alice.
`Who's making personal remarks now?' the Hatter asked
triumphantly.
Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped
herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the
Dormouse, and repeated her question. `Why did they live at the
bottom of a well?'
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and
then said, `It was a treacle-well.'
`There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but
the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse
sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the
story for yourself.'
`No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt
again. I dare say there may be ONE.'
`One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he
consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they
were learning to draw, you know--'
`What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.
`Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this
time.
`I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: `let's all move
one place on.'
He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the
March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather
unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the
only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a
good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset
the milk-jug into his plate.
Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began
very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw
the treacle from?'
`You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so
I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh,
stupid?'
`But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not
choosing to notice this last remark.
`Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.'
This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse
go on for some time without interrupting it.
`They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and
rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; `and they drew
all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--'
`Why with an M?' said Alice.
`Why not?' said the March Hare.
Alice was silent.
The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going
off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up
again with a little shriek, and went on: `--that begins with an
M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--
you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever
see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?'
`Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I
don't think--'
`Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter.
This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got
up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep
instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her
going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that
they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were
trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.
`At any rate I'll never go THERE again!' said Alice as she
picked her way through the wood. `It's the stupidest tea-party I
ever was at in all my life!'
Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a
door leading right into it. `That's very curious!' she thought.
`But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.'
And in she went.
Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the
little glass table. `Now, I'll manage better this time,'
she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key,
and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went
to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it
in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down
the little passage: and THEN--she found herself at last in the
beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains.
CHAPTER VIII
The Queen's Croquet-Ground
A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the
roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at
it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious
thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up
to them she heard one of them say, `Look out now, Five! Don't go
splashing paint over me like that!'
`I couldn't help it,' said Five, in a sulky tone; `Seven jogged
my elbow.'
On which Seven looked up and said, `That's right, Five! Always
lay the blame on others!'
`YOU'D better not talk!' said Five. `I heard the Queen say only
yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!'
`What for?' said the one who had spoken first.
`That's none of YOUR business, Two!' said Seven.
`Yes, it IS his business!' said Five, `and I'll tell him--it
was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.'
Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun `Well, of all
the unjust things--' when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as
she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the
others looked round also, and all of them bowed low.
`Would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, `why you are
painting those roses?'
Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a
low voice, `Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to
have been a RED rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake;
and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads
cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore
she comes, to--' At this moment Five, who had been anxiously
looking across the garden, called out `The Queen! The Queen!'
and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon
their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice
looked round, eager to see the Queen.
First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped
like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and
feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were
ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the
soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were
ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand
in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next
came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice
recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous
manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without
noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the
King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this
grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.
Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on
her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember
ever having heard of such a rule at processions; `and besides,
what would be the use of a procession,' thought she, `if people
had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?'
So she stood still where she was, and waited.
When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped
and looked at her, and the Queen said severely `Who is this?'
She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.
`Idiot!' said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and,
turning to Alice, she went on, `What's your name, child?'
`My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,' said Alice very
politely; but she added, to herself, `Why, they're only a pack of
cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!'
`And who are THESE?' said the Queen, pointing to the three
gardeners who were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as
they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs
was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether
they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her
own children.
`How should I know?' said Alice, surprised at her own courage.
`It's no business of MINE.'
The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her
for a moment like a wild beast, screamed `Off with her head!
Off--'
`Nonsense!' said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the
Queen was silent.
The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said
`Consider, my dear: she is only a child!'
The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave
`Turn them over!'
The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.
`Get up!' said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the
three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the
King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else.
`Leave off that!' screamed the Queen. `You make me giddy.'
And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, `What HAVE you
been doing here?'
`May it please your Majesty,' said Two, in a very humble tone,
going down on one knee as he spoke, `we were trying--'
`I see!' said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the
roses. `Off with their heads!' and the procession moved on,
three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate
gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection.
`You shan't be beheaded!' said Alice, and she put them into a
large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered
about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly
marched off after the others.
`Are their heads off?' shouted the Queen.
`Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!' the soldiers
shouted in reply.
`That's right!' shouted the Queen. `Can you play croquet?'
The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question
was evidently meant for her.
`Yes!' shouted Alice.
`Come on, then!' roared the Queen, and Alice joined the
procession, wondering very much what would happen next.
`It's--it's a very fine day!' said a timid voice at her side.
She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously
into her face.
`Very,' said Alice: `--where's the Duchess?'
`Hush! Hush!' said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He
looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised
himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and
whispered `She's under sentence of execution.'
`What for?' said Alice.
`Did you say "What a pity!"?' the Rabbit asked.
`No, I didn't,' said Alice: `I don't think it's at all a pity.
I said "What for?"'
`She boxed the Queen's ears--' the Rabbit began. Alice gave a
little scream of laughter. `Oh, hush!' the Rabbit whispered in a
frightened tone. `The Queen will hear you! You see, she came
rather late, and the Queen said--'
`Get to your places!' shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder,
and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up
against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or
two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a
curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and
furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live
flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to
stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.
The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her
flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away,
comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down,
but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened
out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it
WOULD twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a
puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing:
and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again,
it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled
itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this,
there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she
wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers
were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the
ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very
difficult game indeed.
The players all played at once without waiting for turns,
quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in
a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went
stamping about, and shouting `Off with his head!' or `Off with
her head!' about once in a minute.
Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as
yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might
happen any minute, `and then,' thought she, `what would become of
me? They're dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great
wonder is, that there's any one left alive!'
She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering
whether she could get away without being seen, when she noticed a
curious appearance in the air: it puzzled her very much at
first, but, after watching it a minute or two, she made it out to
be a grin, and she said to herself `It's the Cheshire Cat: now I
shall have somebody to talk to.'
`How are you getting on?' said the Cat, as soon as there was
mouth enough for it to speak with.
Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. `It's no
use speaking to it,' she thought, `till its ears have come, or at
least one of them.' In another minute the whole head appeared,
and then Alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the
game, feeling very glad she had someone to listen to her. The
Cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and
no more of it appeared.
`I don't think they play at all fairly,' Alice began, in rather
a complaining tone, `and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't
hear oneself speak--and they don't seem to have any rules in
particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them--and
you've no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive;
for instance, there's the arch I've got to go through next
walking about at the other end of the ground--and I should have
croqueted the Queen's hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it
saw mine coming!'
`How do you like the Queen?' said the Cat in a low voice.
`Not at all,' said Alice: `she's so extremely--' Just then
she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so
she went on, `--likely to win, that it's hardly worth while
finishing the game.'
The Queen smiled and passed on.
`Who ARE you talking to?' said the King, going up to Alice, and
looking at the Cat's head with great curiosity.
`It's a friend of mine--a Cheshire Cat,' said Alice: `allow me
to introduce it.'
`I don't like the look of it at all,' said the King:
`however, it may kiss my hand if it likes.'
`I'd rather not,' the Cat remarked.
`Don't be impertinent,' said the King, `and don't look at me
like that!' He got behind Alice as he spoke.
`A cat may look at a king,' said Alice. `I've read that in
some book, but I don't remember where.'
`Well, it must be removed,' said the King very decidedly, and
he called the Queen, who was passing at the moment, `My dear! I
wish you would have this cat removed!'
The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great
or small. `Off with his head!' she said, without even looking
round.
`I'll fetch the executioner myself,' said the King eagerly, and
he hurried off.
Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game
was going on, as she heard the Queen's voice in the distance,
screaming with passion. She had already heard her sentence three
of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and
she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in
such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or
not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.
The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog,
which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one
of them with the other: the only difficulty was, that her
flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where
Alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up
into a tree.
By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back,
the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight:
`but it doesn't matter much,' thought Alice, `as all the arches
are gone from this side of the ground.' So she tucked it away
under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for
a little more conversation with her friend.
When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to
find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute
going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who
were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent,
and looked very uncomfortable.
The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to
settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her,
though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed
to make out exactly what they said.
The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a
head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had
never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin
at HIS time of life.
The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be
beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense.
The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about
it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round.
(It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so
grave and anxious.)
Alice could think of nothing else to say but `It belongs to the
Duchess: you'd better ask HER about it.'
`She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: `fetch
her here.' And the executioner went off like an arrow.
The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and,
by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely
disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down
looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.
CHAPTER IX
The Mock Turtle's Story
`You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old
thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately
into Alice's, and they walked off together.
Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and
thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had
made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.
`When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very
hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT
ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that
makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at
having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them
sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar
and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish
people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you
know--'
She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a
little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear.
`You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you
forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that
is, but I shall remember it in a bit.'
`Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark.
`Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a
moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up
closer to Alice's side as she spoke.
Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first,
because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was
exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder,
and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not
like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could.
`The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of
keeping up the conversation a little.
`'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh,
'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"'
`Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody
minding their own business!'
`Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess,
digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added,
`and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the
sounds will take care of themselves."'
`How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to
herself.
`I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your
waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm
doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the
experiment?'
`HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all
anxious to have the experiment tried.
`Very true,' said the Duchess: `flamingoes and mustard both
bite. And the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock
together."'
`Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked.
`Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: `what a clear way you
have of putting things!'
`It's a mineral, I THINK,' said Alice.
`Of course it is,' said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree
to everything that Alice said; `there's a large mustard-mine near
here. And the moral of that is--"The more there is of mine, the
less there is of yours."'
`Oh, I know!' exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this
last remark, `it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it
is.'
`I quite agree with you,' said the Duchess; `and the moral of
that is--"Be what you would seem to be"--or if you'd like it put
more simply--"Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than
what it might appear to others that what you were or might have
been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared
to them to be otherwise."'
`I think I should understand that better,' Alice said very
politely, `if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it
as you say it.'
`That's nothing to what I could say if I chose,' the Duchess
replied, in a pleased tone.
`Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,'
said Alice.
`Oh, don't talk about trouble!' said the Duchess. `I make you
a present of everything I've said as yet.'
`A cheap sort of present!' thought Alice. `I'm glad they don't
give birthday presents like that!' But she did not venture to
say it out loud.
`Thinking again?' the Duchess asked, with another dig of her
sharp little chin.
`I've a right to think,' said Alice sharply, for she was
beginning to feel a little worried.
`Just about as much right,' said the Duchess, `as pigs have to fly;
and the m--'
But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died
away, even in the middle of her favourite word `moral,' and the
arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up,
and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded,
frowning like a thunderstorm.
`A fine day, your Majesty!' the Duchess began in a low, weak
voice.
`Now, I give you fair warning,' shouted the Queen, stamping on
the ground as she spoke; `either you or your head must be off,
and that in about half no time! Take your choice!'
The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment.
`Let's go on with the game,' the Queen said to Alice; and Alice
was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her
back to the croquet-ground.
The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence,
and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her,
they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a
moment's delay would cost them their lives.
All the time they were playing the Queen never left off
quarrelling with the other players, and shouting `Off with his
head!' or `Off with her head!' Those whom she sentenced were
taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave
off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour
or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the
King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of
execution.
Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to
Alice, `Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?'
`No,' said Alice. `I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is.'
`It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,' said the Queen.
`I never saw one, or heard of one,' said Alice.
`Come on, then,' said the Queen, `and he shall tell you his
history,'
As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low
voice, to the company generally, `You are all pardoned.' `Come,
THAT'S a good thing!' she said to herself, for she had felt quite
unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered.
They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the
sun. (IF you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.)
`Up, lazy thing!' said the Queen, `and take this young lady to
see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and
see after some executions I have ordered'; and she walked off,
leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like
the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would
be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage
Queen: so she waited.
The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the
Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. `What fun!'
said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice.
`What IS the fun?' said Alice.
`Why, SHE,' said the Gryphon. `It's all her fancy, that: they
never executes nobody, you know. Come on!'
`Everybody says "come on!" here,' thought Alice, as she went
slowly after it: `I never was so ordered about in all my life,
never!'
They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the
distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and,
as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart
would break. She pitied him deeply. `What is his sorrow?' she
asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the
same words as before, `It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got
no sorrow, you know. Come on!'
So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with
large eyes full of tears, but said nothing.
`This here young lady,' said the Gryphon, `she wants for to
know your history, she do.'
`I'll tell it her,' said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow
tone: `sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've
finished.'
So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice
thought to herself, `I don't see how he can EVEN finish, if he
doesn't begin.' But she waited patiently.
`Once,' said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, `I was
a real Turtle.'
These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only
by an occasional exclamation of `Hjckrrh!' from the Gryphon, and
the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very
nearly getting up and saying, `Thank you, sir, for your
interesting story,' but she could not help thinking there MUST be
more to come, so she sat still and said nothing.
`When we were little,' the Mock Turtle went on at last, more
calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, `we went to
school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call
him Tortoise--'
`Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?' Alice asked.
`We called him Tortoise because he taught us,' said the Mock
Turtle angrily: `really you are very dull!'
`You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple
question,' added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and
looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At
last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, `Drive on, old fellow!
Don't be all day about it!' and he went on in these words:
`Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe
it--'
`I never said I didn't!' interrupted Alice.
`You did,' said the Mock Turtle.
`Hold your tongue!' added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak
again. The Mock Turtle went on.
`We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school
every day--'
`I'VE been to a day-school, too,' said Alice; `you needn't be
so proud as all that.'
`With extras?' asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.
`Yes,' said Alice, `we learned French and music.'
`And washing?' said the Mock Turtle.
`Certainly not!' said Alice indignantly.
`Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock
Turtle in a tone of great relief. `Now at OURS they had at the
end of the bill, "French, music, AND WASHING--extra."'
`You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; `living at the
bottom of the sea.'
`I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a
sigh. `I only took the regular course.'
`What was that?' inquired Alice.
`Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock
Turtle replied; `and then the different branches of Arithmetic--
Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.'
`I never heard of "Uglification,"' Alice ventured to say. `What is it?'
The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. `What! Never
heard of uglifying!' it exclaimed. `You know what to beautify is,
I suppose?'
`Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: `it means--to--make--anything--prettier.'
`Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, `if you don't know what to
uglify is, you ARE a simpleton.'
Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about
it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said `What else had you
to learn?'
`Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting
off the subjects on his flappers, `--Mystery, ancient and modern,
with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old
conger-eel, that used to come once a week: HE taught us
Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.'
`What was THAT like?' said Alice.
`Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: `I'm
too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.'
`Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: `I went to the Classics
master, though. He was an old crab, HE was.'
`I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: `he
taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say.'
`So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn;
and both creatures hid their faces in their paws.
`And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a
hurry to change the subject.
`Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: `nine the
next, and so on.'
`What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice.
`That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon
remarked: `because they lessen from day to day.'
This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a
little before she made her next remark. `Then the eleventh day
must have been a holiday?'
`Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle.
`And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly.
`That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a
very decided tone: `tell her something about the games now.'
CHAPTER X
The Lobster Quadrille
The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper
across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for
a minute or two sobs choked his voice. `Same as if he had a bone
in his throat,' said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him
and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered
his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on
again:--
`You may not have lived much under the sea--' (`I haven't,' said Alice)--
`and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--'
(Alice began to say `I once tasted--' but checked herself hastily,
and said `No, never') `--so you can have no idea what a delightful
thing a Lobster Quadrille is!'
`No, indeed,' said Alice. `What sort of a dance is it?'
`Why,' said the Gryphon, `you first form into a line along the sea-shore--'
`Two lines!' cried the Mock Turtle. `Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on;
then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--'
`THAT generally takes some time,' interrupted the Gryphon.
`--you advance twice--'
`Each with a lobster as a partner!' cried the Gryphon.
`Of course,' the Mock Turtle said: `advance twice, set to
partners--'
`--change lobsters, and retire in same order,' continued the
Gryphon.
`Then, you know,' the Mock Turtle went on, `you throw the--'
`The lobsters!' shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.
`--as far out to sea as you can--'
`Swim after them!' screamed the Gryphon.
`Turn a somersault in the sea!' cried the Mock Turtle,
capering wildly about.
`Change lobsters again!' yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.
`Back to land again, and that's all the first figure,' said the
Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures,
who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat
down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice.
`It must be a very pretty dance,' said Alice timidly.
`Would you like to see a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle.
`Very much indeed,' said Alice.
`Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the
Gryphon. `We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall
sing?'
`Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. `I've forgotten the words.'
So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now
and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and
waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle
sang this, very slowly and sadly:--
`"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail.
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my
tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the
dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the
dance?
"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to
sea!"
But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look
askance--
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the
dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join
the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join
the dance.
`"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France--
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the
dance?"'
`Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,' said
Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: `and I do so
like that curious song about the whiting!'
`Oh, as to the whiting,' said the Mock Turtle, `they--you've
seen them, of course?'
`Yes,' said Alice, `I've often seen them at dinn--' she
checked herself hastily.
`I don't know where Dinn may be,' said the Mock Turtle, `but
if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're
like.'
`I believe so,' Alice replied thoughtfully. `They have their
tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs.'
`You're wrong about the crumbs,' said the Mock Turtle:
`crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails
in their mouths; and the reason is--' here the Mock Turtle
yawned and shut his eyes.--`Tell her about the reason and all
that,' he said to the Gryphon.
`The reason is,' said the Gryphon, `that they WOULD go with
the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So
they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in
their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all.'
`Thank you,' said Alice, `it's very interesting. I never knew
so much about a whiting before.'
`I can tell you more than that, if you like,' said the
Gryphon. `Do you know why it's called a whiting?'
`I never thought about it,' said Alice. `Why?'
`IT DOES THE BOOTS AND SHOES.' the Gryphon replied very
solemnly.
Alice was thoroughly puzzled. `Does the boots and shoes!' she
repeated in a wondering tone.
`Why, what are YOUR shoes done with?' said the Gryphon. `I
mean, what makes them so shiny?'
Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she
gave her answer. `They're done with blacking, I believe.'
`Boots and shoes under the sea,' the Gryphon went on in a deep
voice, `are done with a whiting. Now you know.'
`And what are they made of?' Alice asked in a tone of great
curiosity.
`Soles and eels, of course,' the Gryphon replied rather
impatiently: `any shrimp could have told you that.'
`If I'd been the whiting,' said Alice, whose thoughts were
still running on the song, `I'd have said to the porpoise, "Keep
back, please: we don't want YOU with us!"'
`They were obliged to have him with them,' the Mock Turtle
said: `no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.'
`Wouldn't it really?' said Alice in a tone of great surprise.
`Of course not,' said the Mock Turtle: `why, if a fish came
to ME, and told me he was going a journey, I should say "With
what porpoise?"'
`Don't you mean "purpose"?' said Alice.
`I mean what I say,' the Mock Turtle replied in an offended
tone. And the Gryphon added `Come, let's hear some of YOUR
adventures.'
`I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning,'
said Alice a little timidly: `but it's no use going back to
yesterday, because I was a different person then.'
`Explain all that,' said the Mock Turtle.
`No, no! The adventures first,' said the Gryphon in an
impatient tone: `explanations take such a dreadful time.'
So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when
she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about
it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on
each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so VERY wide, but she
gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly
quiet till she got to the part about her repeating `YOU ARE OLD,
FATHER WILLIAM,' to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming
different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said
`That's very curious.'
`It's all about as curious as it can be,' said the Gryphon.
`It all came different!' the Mock Turtle repeated
thoughtfully. `I should like to hear her try and repeat
something now. Tell her to begin.' He looked at the Gryphon as
if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice.
`Stand up and repeat "'TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD,"' said
the Gryphon.
`How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat
lessons!' thought Alice; `I might as well be at school at once.'
However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so
full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was
saying, and the words came very queer indeed:--
`'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
"You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.'
[later editions continued as follows
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.]
`That's different from what I used to say when I was a child,'
said the Gryphon.
`Well, I never heard it before,' said the Mock Turtle; `but it
sounds uncommon nonsense.'
Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her
hands, wondering if anything would EVER happen in a natural way
again.
`I should like to have it explained,' said the Mock Turtle.
`She can't explain it,' said the Gryphon hastily. `Go on with
the next verse.'
`But about his toes?' the Mock Turtle persisted. `How COULD
he turn them out with his nose, you know?'
`It's the first position in dancing.' Alice said; but was
dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the
subject.
`Go on with the next verse,' the Gryphon repeated impatiently:
`it begins "I passed by his garden."'
Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would
all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:--
`I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--'
[later editions continued as follows
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet--]
`What IS the use of repeating all that stuff,' the Mock Turtle
interrupted, `if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far
the most confusing thing I ever heard!'
`Yes, I think you'd better leave off,' said the Gryphon: and
Alice was only too glad to do so.
`Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?' the
Gryphon went on. `Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you
a song?'
`Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,'
Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather
offended tone, `Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her
"Turtle Soup," will you, old fellow?'
The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes
choked with sobs, to sing this:--
`Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!
`Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!'
`Chorus again!' cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had
just begun to repeat it, when a cry of `The trial's beginning!'
was heard in the distance.
`Come on!' cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand,
it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song.
`What trial is it?' Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon
only answered `Come on!' and ran the faster, while more and more
faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the
melancholy words:--
`Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!'
CHAPTER XI
Who Stole the Tarts?
The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when
they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts
of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards:
the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on
each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit,
with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the
other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large
dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice
quite hungry to look at them--`I wish they'd get the trial done,'
she thought, `and hand round the refreshments!' But there seemed
to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about
her, to pass away the time.
Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had
read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that
she knew the name of nearly everything there. `That's the
judge,' she said to herself, `because of his great wig.'
The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown
over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he
did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly
not becoming.
`And that's the jury-box,' thought Alice, `and those twelve
creatures,' (she was obliged to say `creatures,' you see, because
some of them were animals, and some were birds,) `I suppose they
are the jurors.' She said this last word two or three times over
to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and
rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the
meaning of it at all. However, `jury-men' would have done just
as well.
The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates.
`What are they doing?' Alice whispered to the Gryphon. `They
can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial's begun.'
`They're putting down their names,' the Gryphon whispered in
reply, `for fear they should forget them before the end of the
trial.'
`Stupid things!' Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but
she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, `Silence in
the court!' and the King put on his spectacles and looked
anxiously round, to make out who was talking.
Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their
shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down `stupid things!'
on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them
didn't know how to spell `stupid,' and that he had to ask his
neighbour to tell him. `A nice muddle their slates'll be in
before the trial's over!' thought Alice.
One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course,
Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got
behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it
away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was
Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of
it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write
with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very
little use, as it left no mark on the slate.
`Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.
On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and
then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:--
`The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
All on a summer day:
The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
And took them quite away!'
`Consider your verdict,' the King said to the jury.
`Not yet, not yet!' the Rabbit hastily interrupted. `There's
a great deal to come before that!'
`Call the first witness,' said the King; and the White Rabbit
blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, `First
witness!'
The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in
one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. `I beg
pardon, your Majesty,' he began, `for bringing these in: but I
hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for.'
`You ought to have finished,' said the King. `When did you
begin?'
The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into
the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. `Fourteenth of March, I
think it was,' he said.
`Fifteenth,' said the March Hare.
`Sixteenth,' added the Dormouse.
`Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury
eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then
added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence.
`Take off your hat,' the King said to the Hatter.
`It isn't mine,' said the Hatter.
`Stolen!' the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who
instantly made a memorandum of the fact.
`I keep them to sell,' the Hatter added as an explanation;
`I've none of my own. I'm a hatter.'
Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the
Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted.
`Give your evidence,' said the King; `and don't be nervous, or
I'll have you executed on the spot.'
This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept
shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the
Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his
teacup instead of the bread-and-butter.
Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which
puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was
beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she
would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she
decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for
her.
`I wish you wouldn't squeeze so.' said the Dormouse, who was
sitting next to her. `I can hardly breathe.'
`I can't help it,' said Alice very meekly: `I'm growing.'
`You've no right to grow here,' said the Dormouse.
`Don't talk nonsense,' said Alice more boldly: `you know
you're growing too.'
`Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,' said the Dormouse:
`not in that ridiculous fashion.' And he got up very sulkily
and crossed over to the other side of the court.
All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the
Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to
one of the officers of the court, `Bring me the list of the
singers in the last concert!' on which the wretched Hatter
trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.
`Give your evidence,' the King repeated angrily, `or I'll have
you executed, whether you're nervous or not.'
`I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' the Hatter began, in a
trembling voice, `--and I hadn't begun my tea--not above a week
or so--and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin--and
the twinkling of the tea--'
`The twinkling of the what?' said the King.
`It began with the tea,' the Hatter replied.
`Of course twinkling begins with a T!' said the King sharply.
`Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!'
`I'm a poor man,' the Hatter went on, `and most things
twinkled after that--only the March Hare said--'
`I didn't!' the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.
`You did!' said the Hatter.
`I deny it!' said the March Hare.
`He denies it,' said the King: `leave out that part.'
`Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said--' the Hatter went on,
looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the
Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep.
`After that,' continued the Hatter, `I cut some more bread-
and-butter--'
`But what did the Dormouse say?' one of the jury asked.
`That I can't remember,' said the Hatter.
`You MUST remember,' remarked the King, `or I'll have you
executed.'
The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter,
and went down on one knee. `I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' he
began.
`You're a very poor speaker,' said the King.
Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately
suppressed by the officers of the court. (As that is rather a
hard word, I will just explain to you how it was done. They had
a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings:
into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat
upon it.)
`I'm glad I've seen that done,' thought Alice. `I've so often
read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, "There was some
attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the
officers of the court," and I never understood what it meant
till now.'
`If that's all you know about it, you may stand down,'
continued the King.
`I can't go no lower,' said the Hatter: `I'm on the floor, as
it is.'
`Then you may SIT down,' the King replied.
Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.
`Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!' thought Alice. `Now we
shall get on better.'
`I'd rather finish my tea,' said the Hatter, with an anxious
look at the Queen, who was reading the list of singers.
`You may go,' said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the
court, without even waiting to put his shoes on.
`--and just take his head off outside,' the Queen added to one
of the officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the
officer could get to the door.
`Call the next witness!' said the King.
The next witness was the Duchess's cook. She carried the
pepper-box in her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before
she got into the court, by the way the people near the door began
sneezing all at once.
`Give your evidence,' said the King.
`Shan't,' said the cook.
The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a
low voice, `Your Majesty must cross-examine THIS witness.'
`Well, if I must, I must,' the King said, with a melancholy
air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till
his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, `What
are tarts made of?'
`Pepper, mostly,' said the cook.
`Treacle,' said a sleepy voice behind her.
`Collar that Dormouse,' the Queen shrieked out. `Behead that
Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch
him! Off with his whiskers!'
For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the
Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down
again, the cook had disappeared.
`Never mind!' said the King, with an air of great relief.
`Call the next witness.' And he added in an undertone to the
Queen, `Really, my dear, YOU must cross-examine the next witness.
It quite makes my forehead ache!'
Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list,
feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like,
`--for they haven't got much evidence YET,' she said to herself.
Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top
of his shrill little voice, the name `Alice!'
CHAPTER XII
Alice's Evidence
`Here!' cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the
moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she
jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with
the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads
of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding
her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset
the week before.
`Oh, I BEG your pardon!' she exclaimed in a tone of great
dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could,
for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and
she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once
and put back into the jury-box, or they would die.
`The trial cannot proceed,' said the King in a very grave
voice, `until all the jurymen are back in their proper places--
ALL,' he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as
he said do.
Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she
had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing
was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable
to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; `not that
it signifies much,' she said to herself; `I should think it
would be QUITE as much use in the trial one way up as the other.'
As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of
being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and
handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write
out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed
too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open,
gazing up into the roof of the court.
`What do you know about this business?' the King said to
Alice.
`Nothing,' said Alice.
`Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King.
`Nothing whatever,' said Alice.
`That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury.
They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when
the White Rabbit interrupted: `UNimportant, your Majesty means,
of course,' he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and
making faces at him as he spoke.
`UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and
went on to himself in an undertone, `important--unimportant--
unimportant--important--' as if he were trying which word
sounded best.
Some of the jury wrote it down `important,' and some
`unimportant.' Alice could see this, as she was near enough to
look over their slates; `but it doesn't matter a bit,' she
thought to herself.
At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily
writing in his note-book, cackled out `Silence!' and read out
from his book, `Rule Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE
HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.'
Everybody looked at Alice.
`I'M not a mile high,' said Alice.
`You are,' said the King.
`Nearly two miles high,' added the Queen.
`Well, I shan't go, at any rate,' said Alice: `besides,
that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now.'
`It's the oldest rule in the book,' said the King.
`Then it ought to be Number One,' said Alice.
The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily.
`Consider your verdict,' he said to the jury, in a low, trembling
voice.
`There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,' said
the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; `this paper has
just been picked up.'
`What's in it?' said the Queen.
`I haven't opened it yet,' said the White Rabbit, `but it seems
to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody.'
`It must have been that,' said the King, `unless it was
written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know.'
`Who is it directed to?' said one of the jurymen.
`It isn't directed at all,' said the White Rabbit; `in fact,
there's nothing written on the OUTSIDE.' He unfolded the paper
as he spoke, and added `It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set
of verses.'
`Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?' asked another of
the jurymen.
`No, they're not,' said the White Rabbit, `and that's the
queerest thing about it.' (The jury all looked puzzled.)
`He must have imitated somebody else's hand,' said the King.
(The jury all brightened up again.)
`Please your Majesty,' said the Knave, `I didn't write it, and
they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end.'
`If you didn't sign it,' said the King, `that only makes the
matter worse. You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you'd
have signed your name like an honest man.'
There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the
first really clever thing the King had said that day.
`That PROVES his guilt,' said the Queen.
`It proves nothing of the sort!' said Alice. `Why, you don't
even know what they're about!'
`Read them,' said the King.
The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. `Where shall I begin,
please your Majesty?' he asked.
`Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, `and go on
till you come to the end: then stop.'
These were the verses the White Rabbit read:--
`They told me you had been to her,
And mentioned me to him:
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.
He sent them word I had not gone
(We know it to be true):
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.
My notion was that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.
Don't let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.'
`That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,'
said the King, rubbing his hands; `so now let the jury--'
`If any one of them can explain it,' said Alice, (she had
grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit
afraid of interrupting him,) `I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't
believe there's an atom of meaning in it.'
The jury all wrote down on their slates, `SHE doesn't believe
there's an atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to
explain the paper.
`If there's no meaning in it,' said the King, `that saves a
world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And
yet I don't know,' he went on, spreading out the verses on his
knee, and looking at them with one eye; `I seem to see some
meaning in them, after all. "--SAID I COULD NOT SWIM--" you
can't swim, can you?' he added, turning to the Knave.
The Knave shook his head sadly. `Do I look like it?' he said.
(Which he certainly did NOT, being made entirely of cardboard.)
`All right, so far,' said the King, and he went on muttering
over the verses to himself: `"WE KNOW IT TO BE TRUE--" that's
the jury, of course-- "I GAVE HER ONE, THEY GAVE HIM TWO--" why,
that must be what he did with the tarts, you know--'
`But, it goes on "THEY ALL RETURNED FROM HIM TO YOU,"' said
Alice.
`Why, there they are!' said the King triumphantly, pointing to
the tarts on the table. `Nothing can be clearer than THAT.
Then again--"BEFORE SHE HAD THIS FIT--" you never had fits, my
dear, I think?' he said to the Queen.
`Never!' said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the
Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off
writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no
mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was
trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.)
`Then the words don't FIT you,' said the King, looking round
the court with a smile. There was a dead silence.
`It's a pun!' the King added in an offended tone, and
everybody laughed, `Let the jury consider their verdict,' the
King said, for about the twentieth time that day.
`No, no!' said the Queen. `Sentence first--verdict afterwards.'
`Stuff and nonsense!' said Alice loudly. `The idea of having
the sentence first!'
`Hold your tongue!' said the Queen, turning purple.
`I won't!' said Alice.
`Off with her head!' the Queen shouted at the top of her voice.
Nobody moved.
`Who cares for you?' said Alice, (she had grown to her full
size by this time.) `You're nothing but a pack of cards!'
At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying
down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half
of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on
the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently
brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the
trees upon her face.
`Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister; `Why, what a long
sleep you've had!'
`Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told
her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange
Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and
when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, `It WAS a
curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's
getting late.' So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she
ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.
But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her
head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of
little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began
dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:--
First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the
tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes
were looking up into hers--she could hear the very tones of her
voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back
the wandering hair that WOULD always get into her eyes--and
still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place
around her became alive the strange creatures of her little
sister's dream.
The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried
by--the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the
neighbouring pool--she could hear the rattle of the teacups as
the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal,
and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate
guests to execution--once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the
Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it--once
more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard's
slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs,
filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable
Mock Turtle.
So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in
Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and
all would change to dull reality--the grass would be only
rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the
reeds--the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-
bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd
boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and
all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the
confused clamour of the busy farm-yard--while the lowing of the
cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's
heavy sobs.
Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of
hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how
she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and
loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about
her other little children, and make THEIR eyes bright and eager
with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of
Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their
simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys,
remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.
THE END#19,436,756textThe Tell-Tale Heart
BY EDGAR ALLEN POE
TRUE!—NERVOUS—VERY, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who's there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”#19,436,713textThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by
L. Frank Baum
Contents
Introduction
1. The Cyclone
2. The Council with the Munchkins
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
4. The Road Through the Forest
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
6. The Cowardly Lion
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
10. The Guardian of the Gates
11. The Emerald City of Oz
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
13. The Rescue
14. The Winged Monkeys
15. The Discovery of Oz the Terrible
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
18. Away to the South
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
20. The Dainty China Country
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
22. The Country of the Quadlings
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
24. Home Again
Introduction
Folklore, legends, myths and fairy tales have followed childhood
through the ages, for every healthy youngster has a wholesome and
instinctive love for stories fantastic, marvelous and manifestly
unreal. The winged fairies of Grimm and Andersen have brought more
happiness to childish hearts than all other human creations.
Yet the old time fairy tale, having served for generations, may now be
classed as "historical" in the children's library; for the time has
come for a series of newer "wonder tales" in which the stereotyped
genie, dwarf and fairy are eliminated, together with all the horrible
and blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a
fearsome moral to each tale. Modern education includes morality;
therefore the modern child seeks only entertainment in its wonder tales
and gladly dispenses with all disagreeable incident.
Having this thought in mind, the story of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"
was written solely to please children of today. It aspires to being a
modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are retained and
the heartaches and nightmares are left out.
L. Frank Baum
Chicago, April, 1900.
THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ
1. The Cyclone
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle
Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their
house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon
many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one
room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for
the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry
and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in
another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a
small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family
could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to
crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the
middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark
hole.
When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see
nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a
house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of
the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a
gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was
not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until
they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house
had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed
it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.
When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun
and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her
eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks
and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never
smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt
Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream
and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice
reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder
that she could find anything to laugh at.
Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and
did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to
his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.
It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray
as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black
dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on
either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and
Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.
Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the
doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than
usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at
the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes.
From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry
and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the
coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the
south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the
grass coming from that direction also.
Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up.
"There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife. "I'll go look
after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and
horses were kept.
Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of
the danger close at hand.
"Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed. "Run for the cellar!"
Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and the girl
started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap
door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark
hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to follow her aunt.
When she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the
wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat
down suddenly upon the floor.
Then a strange thing happened.
The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the
air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.
The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the
exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is
generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of
the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top
of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles
away as easily as you could carry a feather.
It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy
found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around,
and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were
being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.
Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there,
barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to
see what would happen.
Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first
the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his
ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air
was keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole,
caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward
closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.
Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright;
but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about
her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she
would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours
passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved
to wait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she
crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and
Toto followed and lay down beside her.
In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind,
Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
2. The Council with the Munchkins
She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had
not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was,
the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and
Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally.
Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it
dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the
little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran
and opened the door.
The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes
growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.
The cyclone had set the house down very gently--for a cyclone--in the
midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of
greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious
fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with
rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes.
A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between
green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl
who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.
While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights,
she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had
ever seen. They were not as big as the grown folk she had always been
used to; but neither were they very small. In fact, they seemed about
as tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her age, although
they were, so far as looks go, many years older.
Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed. They wore
round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with
little bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved. The
hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat was white, and she
wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders. Over it were
sprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds. The
men were dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore
well-polished boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops. The men,
Dorothy thought, were about as old as Uncle Henry, for two of them had
beards. But the little woman was doubtless much older. Her face was
covered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked rather
stiffly.
When these people drew near the house where Dorothy was standing in the
doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to
come farther. But the little old woman walked up to Dorothy, made a
low bow and said, in a sweet voice:
"You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins.
We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the
East, and for setting our people free from bondage."
Dorothy listened to this speech with wonder. What could the little
woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she had
killed the Wicked Witch of the East? Dorothy was an innocent, harmless
little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home;
and she had never killed anything in all her life.
But the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said,
with hesitation, "You are very kind, but there must be some mistake. I
have not killed anything."
"Your house did, anyway," replied the little old woman, with a laugh,
"and that is the same thing. See!" she continued, pointing to the
corner of the house. "There are her two feet, still sticking out from
under a block of wood."
Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed, just
under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were
sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in
dismay. "The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?"
"There is nothing to be done," said the little woman calmly.
"But who was she?" asked Dorothy.
"She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I said," answered the little
woman. "She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years,
making them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free,
and are grateful to you for the favor."
"Who are the Munchkins?" inquired Dorothy.
"They are the people who live in this land of the East
where the Wicked Witch ruled."
"Are you a Munchkin?" asked Dorothy.
"No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the North.
When they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins sent a swift
messenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch of the North."
"Oh, gracious!" cried Dorothy. "Are you a real witch?"
"Yes, indeed," answered the little woman. "But I am a good witch, and
the people love me. I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who
ruled here, or I should have set the people free myself."
"But I thought all witches were wicked," said the girl, who was half
frightened at facing a real witch. "Oh, no, that is a great mistake.
There were only four witches in all the Land of Oz, and two of them,
those who live in the North and the South, are good witches. I know
this is true, for I am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken.
Those who dwelt in the East and the West were, indeed, wicked witches;
but now that you have killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch
in all the Land of Oz--the one who lives in the West."
"But," said Dorothy, after a moment's thought, "Aunt Em has told me
that the witches were all dead--years and years ago."
"Who is Aunt Em?" inquired the little old woman.
"She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from."
The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed
and her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and said, "I do not
know where Kansas is, for I have never heard that country mentioned
before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?"
"Oh, yes," replied Dorothy.
"Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I believe there
are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. But,
you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off
from all the rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and
wizards amongst us."
"Who are the wizards?" asked Dorothy.
"Oz himself is the Great Wizard," answered the Witch, sinking her voice
to a whisper. "He is more powerful than all the rest of us together.
He lives in the City of Emeralds."
Dorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the Munchkins,
who had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and pointed to the
corner of the house where the Wicked Witch had been lying.
"What is it?" asked the little old woman, and looked, and began to
laugh. The feet of the dead Witch had disappeared entirely, and
nothing was left but the silver shoes.
"She was so old," explained the Witch of the North, "that she dried up
quickly in the sun. That is the end of her. But the silver shoes are
yours, and you shall have them to wear." She reached down and picked up
the shoes, and after shaking the dust out of them handed them to
Dorothy.
"The Witch of the East was proud of those silver shoes," said one of
the Munchkins, "and there is some charm connected with them; but what
it is we never knew."
Dorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on the table.
Then she came out again to the Munchkins and said:
"I am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for I am sure they will
worry about me. Can you help me find my way?"
The Munchkins and the Witch first looked at one another, and then at
Dorothy, and then shook their heads.
"At the East, not far from here," said one, "there is a great desert,
and none could live to cross it."
"It is the same at the South," said another, "for I have been there and
seen it. The South is the country of the Quadlings."
"I am told," said the third man, "that it is the same at the West. And
that country, where the Winkies live, is ruled by the Wicked Witch of
the West, who would make you her slave if you passed her way."
"The North is my home," said the old lady, "and at its edge is the same
great desert that surrounds this Land of Oz. I'm afraid, my dear, you
will have to live with us."
Dorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all these
strange people. Her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted Munchkins,
for they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and began to weep
also. As for the little old woman, she took off her cap and balanced
the point on the end of her nose, while she counted "One, two, three"
in a solemn voice. At once the cap changed to a slate, on which was
written in big, white chalk marks:
"LET DOROTHY GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS"
The little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having read the
words on it, asked, "Is your name Dorothy, my dear?"
"Yes," answered the child, looking up and drying her tears.
"Then you must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps Oz will help you."
"Where is this city?" asked Dorothy.
"It is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by Oz, the
Great Wizard I told you of."
"Is he a good man?" inquired the girl anxiously.
"He is a good Wizard. Whether he is a man or not I cannot tell, for I
have never seen him."
"How can I get there?" asked Dorothy.
"You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that is
sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible. However, I will
use all the magic arts I know of to keep you from harm."
"Won't you go with me?" pleaded the girl, who had begun to look upon
the little old woman as her only friend.
"No, I cannot do that," she replied, "but I will give you my kiss, and
no one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by the Witch of
the North."
She came close to Dorothy and kissed her gently on the forehead. Where
her lips touched the girl they left a round, shining mark, as Dorothy
found out soon after.
"The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick," said the
Witch, "so you cannot miss it. When you get to Oz do not be afraid of
him, but tell your story and ask him to help you. Good-bye, my dear."
The three Munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant journey,
after which they walked away through the trees. The Witch gave Dorothy
a friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel three times, and
straightway disappeared, much to the surprise of little Toto, who
barked after her loudly enough when she had gone, because he had been
afraid even to growl while she stood by.
But Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear
in just that way, and was not surprised in the least.
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
When Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went to
the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter.
She gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the shelf she carried it
down to the little brook and filled it with clear, sparkling water.
Toto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the birds sitting
there. Dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious fruit hanging
from the branches that she gathered some of it, finding it just what
she wanted to help out her breakfast.
Then she went back to the house, and having helped herself and Toto to
a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready for
the journey to the City of Emeralds.
Dorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and was
hanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham, with checks of white
and blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with many washings,
it was still a pretty frock. The girl washed herself carefully,
dressed herself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink sunbonnet on
her head. She took a little basket and filled it with bread from the
cupboard, laying a white cloth over the top. Then she looked down at
her feet and noticed how old and worn her shoes were.
"They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto," she said. And
Toto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged his
tail to show he knew what she meant.
At that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that had
belonged to the Witch of the East.
"I wonder if they will fit me," she said to Toto. "They would be just
the thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out."
She took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones, which
fitted her as well as if they had been made for her.
Finally she picked up her basket.
"Come along, Toto," she said. "We will go to the Emerald City and ask
the Great Oz how to get back to Kansas again."
She closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the pocket
of her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly behind her, she
started on her journey.
There were several roads nearby, but it did not take her long to find
the one paved with yellow bricks. Within a short time she was walking
briskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes tinkling merrily on
the hard, yellow road-bed. The sun shone bright and the birds sang
sweetly, and Dorothy did not feel nearly so bad as you might think a
little girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her own
country and set down in the midst of a strange land.
She was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country
was about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the road,
painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and
vegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were good farmers and
able to raise large crops. Once in a while she would pass a house, and
the people came out to look at her and bow low as she went by; for
everyone knew she had been the means of destroying the Wicked Witch and
setting them free from bondage. The houses of the Munchkins were
odd-looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big dome for a roof.
All were painted blue, for in this country of the East blue was the
favorite color.
Toward evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and began to
wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather
larger than the rest. On the green lawn before it many men and women
were dancing. Five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible, and
the people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was
loaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other
good things to eat.
The people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to
pass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest
Munchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to
celebrate their freedom from the bondage of the Wicked Witch.
Dorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich Munchkin
himself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat upon a settee and watched
the people dance.
When Boq saw her silver shoes he said, "You must be a great sorceress."
"Why?" asked the girl.
"Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the Wicked Witch.
Besides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses
wear white."
"My dress is blue and white checked," said Dorothy, smoothing out the
wrinkles in it.
"It is kind of you to wear that," said Boq. "Blue is the color of the
Munchkins, and white is the witch color. So we know you are a friendly
witch."
Dorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed to
think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary
little girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange land.
When she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into the house,
where he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it. The sheets were made
of blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in them till morning, with
Toto curled up on the blue rug beside her.
She ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby, who played
with Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way that
greatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to all the people,
for they had never seen a dog before.
"How far is it to the Emerald City?" the girl asked.
"I do not know," answered Boq gravely, "for I have never been there.
It is better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they have business
with him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City, and it will take
you many days. The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must
pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of
your journey."
This worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the Great Oz
could help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to turn
back.
She bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of
yellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would
stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road
and sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not
far away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds
from the ripe corn.
Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the
Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes,
nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed
blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on his head,
and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded,
which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old
boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the
figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck
up its back.
While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the
Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her.
She thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the
scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its
head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence
and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked.
"Good day," said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.
"Did you speak?" asked the girl, in wonder.
"Certainly," answered the Scarecrow. "How do you do?"
"I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Dorothy politely. "How do you
do?"
"I'm not feeling well," said the Scarecrow, with a smile, "for it is
very tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows."
"Can't you get down?" asked Dorothy.
"No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away
the pole I shall be greatly obliged to you."
Dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole, for,
being stuffed with straw, it was quite light.
"Thank you very much," said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down on
the ground. "I feel like a new man."
Dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man
speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.
"Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and
yawned. "And where are you going?"
"My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the Emerald
City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas."
"Where is the Emerald City?" he inquired. "And who is Oz?"
"Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise.
"No, indeed. I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have
no brains at all," he answered sadly.
"Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Do you think," he asked, "if I go to the Emerald City with you, that
Oz would give me some brains?"
"I cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me, if you like.
If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you
are now."
"That is true," said the Scarecrow. "You see," he continued
confidentially, "I don't mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed,
because I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin
into me, it doesn't matter, for I can't feel it. But I do not want
people to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw
instead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything?"
"I understand how you feel," said the little girl, who was truly sorry
for him. "If you will come with me I'll ask Oz to do all he can for
you."
"Thank you," he answered gratefully.
They walked back to the road. Dorothy helped him over the fence, and
they started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City.
Toto did not like this addition to the party at first. He smelled
around the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of rats
in the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the
Scarecrow.
"Don't mind Toto," said Dorothy to her new friend. "He never bites."
"Oh, I'm not afraid," replied the Scarecrow. "He can't hurt the straw.
Do let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind it, for I can't
get tired. I'll tell you a secret," he continued, as he walked along.
"There is only one thing in the world I am afraid of."
"What is that?" asked Dorothy; "the Munchkin farmer who made you?"
"No," answered the Scarecrow; "it's a lighted match."
4. The Road Through the Forest
After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so
difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks,
which were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed, they were broken or
missing altogether, leaving holes that Toto jumped across and Dorothy
walked around. As for the Scarecrow, having no brains, he walked
straight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length
on the hard bricks. It never hurt him, however, and Dorothy would pick
him up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing
merrily at his own mishap.
The farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther
back. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther
they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became.
At noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and Dorothy
opened her basket and got out some bread. She offered a piece to the
Scarecrow, but he refused.
"I am never hungry," he said, "and it is a lucky thing I am not, for my
mouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so I could eat,
the straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the
shape of my head."
Dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on
eating her bread.
"Tell me something about yourself and the country you came from," said
the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him all
about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone
had carried her to this queer Land of Oz.
The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "I cannot understand why
you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry,
gray place you call Kansas."
"That is because you have no brains" answered the girl. "No matter how
dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would
rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful.
There is no place like home."
The Scarecrow sighed.
"Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads were
stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the
beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is
fortunate for Kansas that you have brains."
"Won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?" asked the child.
The Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered:
"My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was
only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that
time is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer made my head, one
of the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that I heard what
was going on. There was another Munchkin with him, and the first thing
I heard was the farmer saying, 'How do you like those ears?'
"'They aren't straight,'" answered the other.
"'Never mind,'" said the farmer. "'They are ears just the same,'"
which was true enough.
"'Now I'll make the eyes,'" said the farmer. So he painted my right
eye, and as soon as it was finished I found myself looking at him and
at everything around me with a great deal of curiosity, for this was my
first glimpse of the world.
"'That's a rather pretty eye,'" remarked the Munchkin who was watching
the farmer. "'Blue paint is just the color for eyes.'
"'I think I'll make the other a little bigger,'" said the farmer. And
when the second eye was done I could see much better than before. Then
he made my nose and my mouth. But I did not speak, because at that
time I didn't know what a mouth was for. I had the fun of watching
them make my body and my arms and legs; and when they fastened on my
head, at last, I felt very proud, for I thought I was just as good a
man as anyone.
"'This fellow will scare the crows fast enough,' said the farmer. 'He
looks just like a man.'
"'Why, he is a man,' said the other, and I quite agreed with him. The
farmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up on a
tall stick, where you found me. He and his friend soon after walked
away and left me alone.
"I did not like to be deserted this way. So I tried to walk after
them. But my feet would not touch the ground, and I was forced to stay
on that pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I had nothing to think
of, having been made such a little while before. Many crows and other
birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew
away again, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this pleased me and made me
feel that I was quite an important person. By and by an old crow flew
near me, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder
and said:
"'I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner.
Any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.'
Then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The
other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too,
so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me.
"I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow
after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, 'If you only had
brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a
better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having
in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.'
"After the crows had gone I thought this over, and decided I would try
hard to get some brains. By good luck you came along and pulled me off
the stake, and from what you say I am sure the Great Oz will give me
brains as soon as we get to the Emerald City."
"I hope so," said Dorothy earnestly, "since you seem anxious to have
them."
"Oh, yes; I am anxious," returned the Scarecrow. "It is such an
uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool."
"Well," said the girl, "let us go." And she handed the basket to the
Scarecrow.
There were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land was rough
and untilled. Toward evening they came to a great forest, where the
trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the
road of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the
branches shut out the daylight; but the travelers did not stop, and
went on into the forest.
"If this road goes in, it must come out," said the Scarecrow, "and as
the Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever
it leads us."
"Anyone would know that," said Dorothy.
"Certainly; that is why I know it," returned the Scarecrow. "If it
required brains to figure it out, I never should have said it."
After an hour or so the light faded away, and they found themselves
stumbling along in the darkness. Dorothy could not see at all, but
Toto could, for some dogs see very well in the dark; and the Scarecrow
declared he could see as well as by day. So she took hold of his arm
and managed to get along fairly well.
"If you see any house, or any place where we can pass the night," she
said, "you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable walking in the
dark."
Soon after the Scarecrow stopped.
"I see a little cottage at the right of us," he said, "built of logs
and branches. Shall we go there?"
"Yes, indeed," answered the child. "I am all tired out."
So the Scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached the
cottage, and Dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves in one
corner. She lay down at once, and with Toto beside her soon fell into
a sound sleep. The Scarecrow, who was never tired, stood up in another
corner and waited patiently until morning came.
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
When Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and Toto had
long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels. She sat up and
looked around her. There was the Scarecrow, still standing patiently in his corner,
waiting for her.
"We must go and search for water," she said to him.
"Why do you want water?" he asked.
"To wash my face clean after the dust of the road, and to drink, so the
dry bread will not stick in my throat."
"It must be inconvenient to be made of flesh," said the Scarecrow
thoughtfully, "for you must sleep, and eat and drink. However, you
have brains, and it is worth a lot of bother to be able to think
properly."
They left the cottage and walked through the trees until they found a
little spring of clear water, where Dorothy drank and bathed and ate
her breakfast. She saw there was not much bread left in the basket,
and the girl was thankful the Scarecrow did not have to eat anything,
for there was scarcely enough for herself and Toto for the day.
When she had finished her meal, and was about to go back to the road of
yellow brick, she was startled to hear a deep groan near by.
"What was that?" she asked timidly.
"I cannot imagine," replied the Scarecrow; "but we can go and see."
Just then another groan reached their ears, and the sound seemed to
come from behind them. They turned and walked through the forest a few
steps, when Dorothy discovered something shining in a ray of sunshine
that fell between the trees. She ran to the place and then stopped
short, with a little cry of surprise.
One of the big trees had been partly chopped through, and standing
beside it, with an uplifted axe in his hands, was a man made entirely
of tin. His head and arms and legs were jointed upon his body, but he
stood perfectly motionless, as if he could not stir at all.
Dorothy looked at him in amazement, and so did the Scarecrow, while
Toto barked sharply and made a snap at the tin legs, which hurt his
teeth.
"Did you groan?" asked Dorothy.
"Yes," answered the tin man, "I did. I've been groaning for more than
a year, and no one has ever heard me before or come to help me."
"What can I do for you?" she inquired softly, for she was moved by the
sad voice in which the man spoke.
"Get an oil-can and oil my joints," he answered. "They are rusted so
badly that I cannot move them at all; if I am well oiled I shall soon
be all right again. You will find an oil-can on a shelf in my cottage."
Dorothy at once ran back to the cottage and found the oil-can, and then
she returned and asked anxiously, "Where are your joints?"
"Oil my neck, first," replied the Tin Woodman. So she oiled it, and as
it was quite badly rusted the Scarecrow took hold of the tin head and
moved it gently from side to side until it worked freely, and then the
man could turn it himself.
"Now oil the joints in my arms," he said. And Dorothy oiled them and
the Scarecrow bent them carefully until they were quite free from rust
and as good as new.
The Tin Woodman gave a sigh of satisfaction and lowered his axe, which
he leaned against the tree.
"This is a great comfort," he said. "I have been holding that axe in
the air ever since I rusted, and I'm glad to be able to put it down at
last. Now, if you will oil the joints of my legs, I shall be all right
once more."
So they oiled his legs until he could move them freely; and he thanked
them again and again for his release, for he seemed a very polite
creature, and very grateful.
"I might have stood there always if you had not come along," he said;
"so you have certainly saved my life. How did you happen to be here?"
"We are on our way to the Emerald City to see the Great Oz," she
answered, "and we stopped at your cottage to pass the night."
"Why do you wish to see Oz?" he asked.
"I want him to send me back to Kansas, and the Scarecrow wants him to
put a few brains into his head," she replied.
The Tin Woodman appeared to think deeply for a moment. Then he said:
"Do you suppose Oz could give me a heart?"
"Why, I guess so," Dorothy answered. "It would be as easy as to give
the Scarecrow brains."
"True," the Tin Woodman returned. "So, if you will allow me to join
your party, I will also go to the Emerald City and ask Oz to help me."
"Come along," said the Scarecrow heartily, and Dorothy added that she
would be pleased to have his company. So the Tin Woodman shouldered
his axe and they all passed through the forest until they came to the
road that was paved with yellow brick.
The Tin Woodman had asked Dorothy to put the oil-can in her basket.
"For," he said, "if I should get caught in the rain, and rust again, I
would need the oil-can badly."
It was a bit of good luck to have their new comrade join the party, for
soon after they had begun their journey again they came to a place
where the trees and branches grew so thick over the road that the
travelers could not pass. But the Tin Woodman set to work with his axe
and chopped so well that soon he cleared a passage for the entire party.
Dorothy was thinking so earnestly as they walked along that she did not
notice when the Scarecrow stumbled into a hole and rolled over to the
side of the road. Indeed he was obliged to call to her to help him up
again.
"Why didn't you walk around the hole?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"I don't know enough," replied the Scarecrow cheerfully. "My head is
stuffed with straw, you know, and that is why I am going to Oz to ask
him for some brains."
"Oh, I see," said the Tin Woodman. "But, after all, brains are not the
best things in the world."
"Have you any?" inquired the Scarecrow.
"No, my head is quite empty," answered the Woodman. "But once I had
brains, and a heart also; so, having tried them both, I should much
rather have a heart."
"And why is that?" asked the Scarecrow.
"I will tell you my story, and then you will know."
So, while they were walking through the forest, the Tin Woodman told
the following story:
"I was born the son of a woodman who chopped down trees in the forest
and sold the wood for a living. When I grew up, I too became a
woodchopper, and after my father died I took care of my old mother as
long as she lived. Then I made up my mind that instead of living alone
I would marry, so that I might not become lonely.
"There was one of the Munchkin girls who was so beautiful that I soon
grew to love her with all my heart. She, on her part, promised to
marry me as soon as I could earn enough money to build a better house
for her; so I set to work harder than ever. But the girl lived with an
old woman who did not want her to marry anyone, for she was so lazy she
wished the girl to remain with her and do the cooking and the
housework. So the old woman went to the Wicked Witch of the East, and
promised her two sheep and a cow if she would prevent the marriage.
Thereupon the Wicked Witch enchanted my axe, and when I was chopping
away at my best one day, for I was anxious to get the new house and my
wife as soon as possible, the axe slipped all at once and cut off my
left leg.
"This at first seemed a great misfortune, for I knew a one-legged man
could not do very well as a wood-chopper. So I went to a tinsmith and
had him make me a new leg out of tin. The leg worked very well, once I
was used to it. But my action angered the Wicked Witch of the East,
for she had promised the old woman I should not marry the pretty
Munchkin girl. When I began chopping again, my axe slipped and cut off
my right leg. Again I went to the tinsmith, and again he made me a leg
out of tin. After this the enchanted axe cut off my arms, one after
the other; but, nothing daunted, I had them replaced with tin ones.
The Wicked Witch then made the axe slip and cut off my head, and at
first I thought that was the end of me. But the tinsmith happened to
come along, and he made me a new head out of tin.
"I thought I had beaten the Wicked Witch then, and I worked harder than
ever; but I little knew how cruel my enemy could be. She thought of a
new way to kill my love for the beautiful Munchkin maiden, and made my
axe slip again, so that it cut right through my body, splitting me into
two halves. Once more the tinsmith came to my help and made me a body
of tin, fastening my tin arms and legs and head to it, by means of
joints, so that I could move around as well as ever. But, alas! I had
now no heart, so that I lost all my love for the Munchkin girl, and did
not care whether I married her or not. I suppose she is still living
with the old woman, waiting for me to come after her.
"My body shone so brightly in the sun that I felt very proud of it and
it did not matter now if my axe slipped, for it could not cut me.
There was only one danger--that my joints would rust; but I kept an
oil-can in my cottage and took care to oil myself whenever I needed it.
However, there came a day when I forgot to do this, and, being caught
in a rainstorm, before I thought of the danger my joints had rusted,
and I was left to stand in the woods until you came to help me. It was
a terrible thing to undergo, but during the year I stood there I had
time to think that the greatest loss I had known was the loss of my
heart. While I was in love I was the happiest man on earth; but no one
can love who has not a heart, and so I am resolved to ask Oz to give me
one. If he does, I will go back to the Munchkin maiden and marry her."
Both Dorothy and the Scarecrow had been greatly interested in the story
of the Tin Woodman, and now they knew why he was so anxious to get a
new heart.
"All the same," said the Scarecrow, "I shall ask for brains instead of
a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had
one."
"I shall take the heart," returned the Tin Woodman; "for brains do not
make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world."
Dorothy did not say anything, for she was puzzled to know which of her
two friends was right, and she decided if she could only get back to
Kansas and Aunt Em, it did not matter so much whether the Woodman had
no brains and the Scarecrow no heart, or each got what he wanted.
What worried her most was that the bread was nearly gone, and another
meal for herself and Toto would empty the basket. To be sure, neither
the Woodman nor the Scarecrow ever ate anything, but she was not made
of tin nor straw, and could not live unless she was fed.
6. The Cowardly Lion
All this time Dorothy and her companions had been walking through the
thick woods. The road was still paved with yellow brick, but these
were much covered by dried branches and dead leaves from the trees, and
the walking was not at all good.
There were few birds in this part of the forest, for birds love the
open country where there is plenty of sunshine. But now and then there
came a deep growl from some wild animal hidden among the trees. These
sounds made the little girl's heart beat fast, for she did not know
what made them; but Toto knew, and he walked close to Dorothy's side,
and did not even bark in return.
"How long will it be," the child asked of the Tin Woodman, "before we
are out of the forest?"
"I cannot tell," was the answer, "for I have never been to the Emerald
City. But my father went there once, when I was a boy, and he said it
was a long journey through a dangerous country, although nearer to the
city where Oz dwells the country is beautiful. But I am not afraid so
long as I have my oil-can, and nothing can hurt the Scarecrow, while
you bear upon your forehead the mark of the Good Witch's kiss, and that
will protect you from harm."
"But Toto!" said the girl anxiously. "What will protect him?"
"We must protect him ourselves if he is in danger," replied the Tin
Woodman.
Just as he spoke there came from the forest a terrible roar, and the
next moment a great Lion bounded into the road. With one blow of his
paw he sent the Scarecrow spinning over and over to the edge of the
road, and then he struck at the Tin Woodman with his sharp claws. But,
to the Lion's surprise, he could make no impression on the tin,
although the Woodman fell over in the road and lay still.
Little Toto, now that he had an enemy to face, ran barking toward the
Lion, and the great beast had opened his mouth to bite the dog, when
Dorothy, fearing Toto would be killed, and heedless of danger, rushed
forward and slapped the Lion upon his nose as hard as she could, while
she cried out:
"Don't you dare to bite Toto! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a
big beast like you, to bite a poor little dog!"
"I didn't bite him," said the Lion, as he rubbed his nose with his paw
where Dorothy had hit it.
"No, but you tried to," she retorted. "You are nothing but a big
coward."
"I know it," said the Lion, hanging his head in shame. "I've always
known it. But how can I help it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. To think of your striking a stuffed man, like
the poor Scarecrow!"
"Is he stuffed?" asked the Lion in surprise, as he watched her pick up
the Scarecrow and set him upon his feet, while she patted him into
shape again.
"Of course he's stuffed," replied Dorothy, who was still angry.
"That's why he went over so easily," remarked the Lion. "It astonished
me to see him whirl around so. Is the other one stuffed also?"
"No," said Dorothy, "he's made of tin." And she helped the Woodman up
again.
"That's why he nearly blunted my claws," said the Lion. "When they
scratched against the tin it made a cold shiver run down my back. What
is that little animal you are so tender of?"
"He is my dog, Toto," answered Dorothy.
"Is he made of tin, or stuffed?" asked the Lion.
"Neither. He's a--a--a meat dog," said the girl.
"Oh! He's a curious animal and seems remarkably small, now that I look
at him. No one would think of biting such a little thing, except a
coward like me," continued the Lion sadly.
"What makes you a coward?" asked Dorothy, looking at the great beast in
wonder, for he was as big as a small horse.
"It's a mystery," replied the Lion. "I suppose I was born that way.
All the other animals in the forest naturally expect me to be brave,
for the Lion is everywhere thought to be the King of Beasts. I learned
that if I roared very loudly every living thing was frightened and got
out of my way. Whenever I've met a man I've been awfully scared; but I
just roared at him, and he has always run away as fast as he could go.
If the elephants and the tigers and the bears had ever tried to fight
me, I should have run myself--I'm such a coward; but just as soon as
they hear me roar they all try to get away from me, and of course I let
them go."
"But that isn't right. The King of Beasts shouldn't be a coward," said
the Scarecrow.
"I know it," returned the Lion, wiping a tear from his eye with the tip
of his tail. "It is my great sorrow, and makes my life very unhappy.
But whenever there is danger, my heart begins to beat fast."
"Perhaps you have heart disease," said the Tin Woodman.
"It may be," said the Lion.
"If you have," continued the Tin Woodman, "you ought to be glad, for it
proves you have a heart. For my part, I have no heart; so I cannot
have heart disease."
"Perhaps," said the Lion thoughtfully, "if I had no heart I should not
be a coward."
"Have you brains?" asked the Scarecrow.
"I suppose so. I've never looked to see," replied the Lion.
"I am going to the Great Oz to ask him to give me some," remarked the
Scarecrow, "for my head is stuffed with straw."
"And I am going to ask him to give me a heart," said the Woodman.
"And I am going to ask him to send Toto and me back to Kansas," added
Dorothy.
"Do you think Oz could give me courage?" asked the Cowardly Lion.
"Just as easily as he could give me brains," said the Scarecrow.
"Or give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"Or send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"Then, if you don't mind, I'll go with you," said the Lion, "for my
life is simply unbearable without a bit of courage."
"You will be very welcome," answered Dorothy, "for you will help to
keep away the other wild beasts. It seems to me they must be more
cowardly than you are if they allow you to scare them so easily."
"They really are," said the Lion, "but that doesn't make me any braver,
and as long as I know myself to be a coward I shall be unhappy."
So once more the little company set off upon the journey, the Lion
walking with stately strides at Dorothy's side. Toto did not approve of
this new comrade at first, for he could not forget how nearly he had
been crushed between the Lion's great jaws. But after a time he became
more at ease, and presently Toto and the Cowardly Lion had grown to be
good friends.
During the rest of that day there was no other adventure to mar the
peace of their journey. Once, indeed, the Tin Woodman stepped upon a
beetle that was crawling along the road, and killed the poor little
thing. This made the Tin Woodman very unhappy, for he was always
careful not to hurt any living creature; and as he walked along he wept
several tears of sorrow and regret. These tears ran slowly down his
face and over the hinges of his jaw, and there they rusted. When
Dorothy presently asked him a question the Tin Woodman could not open
his mouth, for his jaws were tightly rusted together. He became
greatly frightened at this and made many motions to Dorothy to relieve
him, but she could not understand. The Lion was also puzzled to know
what was wrong. But the Scarecrow seized the oil-can from Dorothy's
basket and oiled the Woodman's jaws, so that after a few moments he
could talk as well as before.
"This will serve me a lesson," said he, "to look where I step. For if
I should kill another bug or beetle I should surely cry again, and
crying rusts my jaws so that I cannot speak."
Thereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road, and
when he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as not to
harm it. The Tin Woodman knew very well he had no heart, and therefore
he took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything.
"You people with hearts," he said, "have something to guide you, and
need never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very
careful. When Oz gives me a heart of course I needn't mind so much."
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
They were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the
forest, for there were no houses near. The tree made a good, thick
covering to protect them from the dew, and the Tin Woodman chopped a
great pile of wood with his axe and Dorothy built a splendid fire that
warmed her and made her feel less lonely. She and Toto ate the last of
their bread, and now she did not know what they would do for breakfast.
"If you wish," said the Lion, "I will go into the forest and kill a
deer for you. You can roast it by the fire, since your tastes are so
peculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you will have a very
good breakfast."
"Don't! Please don't," begged the Tin Woodman. "I should certainly
weep if you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would rust again."
But the Lion went away into the forest and found his own supper, and no
one ever knew what it was, for he didn't mention it. And the Scarecrow
found a tree full of nuts and filled Dorothy's basket with them, so
that she would not be hungry for a long time. She thought this was
very kind and thoughtful of the Scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at
the awkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts. His
padded hands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped
almost as many as he put in the basket. But the Scarecrow did not mind
how long it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep
away from the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and
burn him up. So he kept a good distance away from the flames, and only
came near to cover Dorothy with dry leaves when she lay down to sleep.
These kept her very snug and warm, and she slept soundly until morning.
When it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling
brook, and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City.
This was to be an eventful day for the travelers. They had hardly been
walking an hour when they saw before them a great ditch that crossed
the road and divided the forest as far as they could see on either
side. It was a very wide ditch, and when they crept up to the edge and
looked into it they could see it was also very deep, and there were
many big, jagged rocks at the bottom. The sides were so steep that
none of them could climb down, and for a moment it seemed that their
journey must end.
"What shall we do?" asked Dorothy despairingly.
"I haven't the faintest idea," said the Tin Woodman, and the Lion shook
his shaggy mane and looked thoughtful.
But the Scarecrow said, "We cannot fly, that is certain. Neither can
we climb down into this great ditch. Therefore, if we cannot jump over
it, we must stop where we are."
"I think I could jump over it," said the Cowardly Lion, after measuring
the distance carefully in his mind.
"Then we are all right," answered the Scarecrow, "for you can carry us
all over on your back, one at a time."
"Well, I'll try it," said the Lion. "Who will go first?"
"I will," declared the Scarecrow, "for, if you found that you could not
jump over the gulf, Dorothy would be killed, or the Tin Woodman badly
dented on the rocks below. But if I am on your back it will not matter
so much, for the fall would not hurt me at all."
"I am terribly afraid of falling, myself," said the Cowardly Lion, "but
I suppose there is nothing to do but try it. So get on my back and we
will make the attempt."
The Scarecrow sat upon the Lion's back, and the big beast walked to the
edge of the gulf and crouched down.
"Why don't you run and jump?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Because that isn't the way we Lions do these things," he replied.
Then giving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely
on the other side. They were all greatly pleased to see how easily he
did it, and after the Scarecrow had got down from his back the Lion
sprang across the ditch again.
Dorothy thought she would go next; so she took Toto in her arms and
climbed on the Lion's back, holding tightly to his mane with one hand.
The next moment it seemed as if she were flying through the air; and
then, before she had time to think about it, she was safe on the other
side. The Lion went back a third time and got the Tin Woodman, and
then they all sat down for a few moments to give the beast a chance to
rest, for his great leaps had made his breath short, and he panted like
a big dog that has been running too long.
They found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked dark and
gloomy. After the Lion had rested they started along the road of
yellow brick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if ever they
would come to the end of the woods and reach the bright sunshine again.
To add to their discomfort, they soon heard strange noises in the
depths of the forest, and the Lion whispered to them that it was in
this part of the country that the Kalidahs lived.
"What are the Kalidahs?" asked the girl.
"They are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads like
tigers," replied the Lion, "and with claws so long and sharp that they
could tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto. I'm terribly
afraid of the Kalidahs."
"I'm not surprised that you are," returned Dorothy. "They must be
dreadful beasts."
The Lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another gulf
across the road. But this one was so broad and deep that the Lion knew
at once he could not leap across it.
So they sat down to consider what they should do, and after serious
thought the Scarecrow said:
"Here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch. If the Tin Woodman
can chop it down, so that it will fall to the other side, we can walk
across it easily."
"That is a first-rate idea," said the Lion. "One would almost suspect
you had brains in your head, instead of straw."
The Woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that the tree
was soon chopped nearly through. Then the Lion put his strong front
legs against the tree and pushed with all his might, and slowly the big
tree tipped and fell with a crash across the ditch, with its top
branches on the other side.
They had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl
made them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them
two great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers.
"They are the Kalidahs!" said the Cowardly Lion, beginning to tremble.
"Quick!" cried the Scarecrow. "Let us cross over."
So Dorothy went first, holding Toto in her arms, the Tin Woodman
followed, and the Scarecrow came next. The Lion, although he was
certainly afraid, turned to face the Kalidahs, and then he gave so loud
and terrible a roar that Dorothy screamed and the Scarecrow fell over
backward, while even the fierce beasts stopped short and looked at him
in surprise.
But, seeing they were bigger than the Lion, and remembering that there
were two of them and only one of him, the Kalidahs again rushed
forward, and the Lion crossed over the tree and turned to see what they
would do next. Without stopping an instant the fierce beasts also
began to cross the tree. And the Lion said to Dorothy:
"We are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with their sharp
claws. But stand close behind me, and I will fight them as long as I
am alive."
"Wait a minute!" called the Scarecrow. He had been thinking what was
best to be done, and now he asked the Woodman to chop away the end of
the tree that rested on their side of the ditch. The Tin Woodman began
to use his axe at once, and, just as the two Kalidahs were nearly
across, the tree fell with a crash into the gulf, carrying the ugly,
snarling brutes with it, and both were dashed to pieces on the sharp
rocks at the bottom.
"Well," said the Cowardly Lion, drawing a long breath of relief, "I see
we are going to live a little while longer, and I am glad of it, for it
must be a very uncomfortable thing not to be alive. Those creatures
frightened me so badly that my heart is beating yet."
"Ah," said the Tin Woodman sadly, "I wish I had a heart to beat."
This adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to get out of
the forest, and they walked so fast that Dorothy became tired, and had
to ride on the Lion's back. To their great joy the trees became
thinner the farther they advanced, and in the afternoon they suddenly
came upon a broad river, flowing swiftly just before them. On the
other side of the water they could see the road of yellow brick running
through a beautiful country, with green meadows dotted with bright
flowers and all the road bordered with trees hanging full of delicious
fruits. They were greatly pleased to see this delightful country
before them.
"How shall we cross the river?" asked Dorothy.
"That is easily done," replied the Scarecrow. "The Tin Woodman must
build us a raft, so we can float to the other side."
So the Woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees to make
a raft, and while he was busy at this the Scarecrow found on the
riverbank a tree full of fine fruit. This pleased Dorothy, who had
eaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal of the ripe
fruit.
But it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious and
untiring as the Tin Woodman, and when night came the work was not done.
So they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until
the morning; and Dorothy dreamed of the Emerald City, and of the good
Wizard Oz, who would soon send her back to her own home again.
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and
full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and
plums from the trees beside the river. Behind them was the dark forest
they had passed safely through, although they had suffered many
discouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that
seemed to beckon them on to the Emerald City.
To be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this beautiful land.
But the raft was nearly done, and after the Tin Woodman had cut a few
more logs and fastened them together with wooden pins, they were ready
to start. Dorothy sat down in the middle of the raft and held Toto in
her arms. When the Cowardly Lion stepped upon the raft it tipped
badly, for he was big and heavy; but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
stood upon the other end to steady it, and they had long poles in their
hands to push the raft through the water.
They got along quite well at first, but when they reached the middle of
the river the swift current swept the raft downstream, farther and
farther away from the road of yellow brick. And the water grew so deep
that the long poles would not touch the bottom.
"This is bad," said the Tin Woodman, "for if we cannot get to the land
we shall be carried into the country of the Wicked Witch of the West,
and she will enchant us and make us her slaves."
"And then I should get no brains," said the Scarecrow.
"And I should get no courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"And I should get no heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"And I should never get back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"We must certainly get to the Emerald City if we can," the Scarecrow
continued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole that it stuck fast in
the mud at the bottom of the river. Then, before he could pull it out
again--or let go--the raft was swept away, and the poor Scarecrow was left
clinging to the pole in the middle of the river.
"Good-bye!" he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave
him. Indeed, the Tin Woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered
that he might rust, and so dried his tears on Dorothy's apron.
Of course this was a bad thing for the Scarecrow.
"I am now worse off than when I first met Dorothy," he thought. "Then,
I was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where I could make-believe scare
the crows, at any rate. But surely there is no use for a Scarecrow
stuck on a pole in the middle of a river. I am afraid I shall never
have any brains, after all!"
Down the stream the raft floated, and the poor Scarecrow was left far
behind. Then the Lion said:
"Something must be done to save us. I think I can swim to the shore
and pull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to the tip of my
tail."
So he sprang into the water, and the Tin Woodman caught fast hold of
his tail. Then the Lion began to swim with all his might toward the
shore. It was hard work, although he was so big; but by and by they
were drawn out of the current, and then Dorothy took the Tin Woodman's
long pole and helped push the raft to the land.
They were all tired out when they reached the shore at last and stepped
off upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew that the stream had
carried them a long way past the road of yellow brick that led to the
Emerald City.
"What shall we do now?" asked the Tin Woodman, as the Lion lay down on
the grass to let the sun dry him.
"We must get back to the road, in some way," said Dorothy.
"The best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we come to the
road again," remarked the Lion.
So, when they were rested, Dorothy picked up her basket and they
started along the grassy bank, to the road from which the river had
carried them. It was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and
fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry
for the poor Scarecrow, they could have been very happy.
They walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping once to
pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman cried out:
"Look!"
Then they all looked at the river and saw the Scarecrow perched upon
his pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad.
"What can we do to save him?" asked Dorothy.
The Lion and the Woodman both shook their heads, for they did not know.
So they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at the Scarecrow
until a Stork flew by, who, upon seeing them, stopped to rest at the
water's edge.
"Who are you and where are you going?" asked the Stork.
"I am Dorothy," answered the girl, "and these are my friends, the Tin
Woodman and the Cowardly Lion; and we are going to the Emerald City."
"This isn't the road," said the Stork, as she twisted her long neck and
looked sharply at the queer party.
"I know it," returned Dorothy, "but we have lost the Scarecrow, and are
wondering how we shall get him again."
"Where is he?" asked the Stork.
"Over there in the river," answered the little girl.
"If he wasn't so big and heavy I would get him for you," remarked the
Stork.
"He isn't heavy a bit," said Dorothy eagerly, "for he is stuffed with
straw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall thank you ever
and ever so much."
"Well, I'll try," said the Stork, "but if I find he is too heavy to
carry I shall have to drop him in the river again."
So the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she came to
where the Scarecrow was perched upon his pole. Then the Stork with her
great claws grabbed the Scarecrow by the arm and carried him up into
the air and back to the bank, where Dorothy and the Lion and the Tin
Woodman and Toto were sitting.
When the Scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he was so
happy that he hugged them all, even the Lion and Toto; and as they
walked along he sang "Tol-de-ri-de-oh!" at every step, he felt so gay.
"I was afraid I should have to stay in the river forever," he said,
"but the kind Stork saved me, and if I ever get any brains I shall find
the Stork again and do her some kindness in return."
"That's all right," said the Stork, who was flying along beside them.
"I always like to help anyone in trouble. But I must go now, for my
babies are waiting in the nest for me. I hope you will find the
Emerald City and that Oz will help you."
"Thank you," replied Dorothy, and then the kind Stork flew into the air
and was soon out of sight.
They walked along listening to the singing of the brightly colored
birds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became so thick that
the ground was carpeted with them. There were big yellow and white and
blue and purple blossoms, besides great clusters of scarlet poppies,
which were so brilliant in color they almost dazzled Dorothy's eyes.
"Aren't they beautiful?" the girl asked, as she breathed in the spicy
scent of the bright flowers.
"I suppose so," answered the Scarecrow. "When I have brains, I shall
probably like them better."
"If I only had a heart, I should love them," added the Tin Woodman.
"I always did like flowers," said the Lion. "They seem so helpless
and frail. But there are none in the forest so bright as these."
They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer
and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the
midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when
there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that
anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried
away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But
Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red
flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy
and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.
But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.
"We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,"
he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until
Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and
she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.
"What shall we do?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"If we leave her here she will die," said the Lion. "The smell of the
flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open,
and the dog is asleep already."
It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not
troubled by the scent of the flowers.
"Run fast," said the Scarecrow to the Lion, "and get out of this deadly
flower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us,
but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried."
So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go.
In a moment he was out of sight.
"Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her," said the Scarecrow.
So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy's lap, and then they
made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms
and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.
On and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly
flowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed the bend
of the river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion, lying fast
asleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong for the huge
beast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short distance
from the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in
beautiful green fields before them.
"We can do nothing for him," said the Tin Woodman, sadly; "for he is
much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever,
and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last."
"I'm sorry," said the Scarecrow. "The Lion was a very good comrade for
one so cowardly. But let us go on."
They carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far
enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the
poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass
and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
"We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now," remarked the
Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, "for we have come nearly as far
as the river carried us away."
The Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and
turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange
beast come bounding over the grass toward them. It was, indeed, a
great yellow Wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be chasing
something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was
wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed
like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman saw that running
before the beast was a little gray field mouse, and although he had no
heart he knew it was wrong for the Wildcat to try to kill such a
pretty, harmless creature.
So the Woodman raised his axe, and as the Wildcat ran by he gave it a
quick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body, and it
rolled over at his feet in two pieces.
The field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short;
and coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice:
"Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life."
"Don't speak of it, I beg of you," replied the Woodman. "I have no
heart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a
friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse."
"Only a mouse!" cried the little animal, indignantly. "Why, I am a
Queen--the Queen of all the Field Mice!"
"Oh, indeed," said the Woodman, making a bow.
"Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in
saving my life," added the Queen.
At that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their
little legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they
exclaimed:
"Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage
to escape the great Wildcat?" They all bowed so low to the little
Queen that they almost stood upon their heads.
"This funny tin man," she answered, "killed the Wildcat and saved my
life. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest
wish."
"We will!" cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they
scampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and
seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped
right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase
mice when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it.
But the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight,
while he called to the mice, "Come back! Come back! Toto shall not
hurt you."
At this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from underneath a
clump of grass and asked, in a timid voice, "Are you sure he will not
bite us?"
"I will not let him," said the Woodman; "so do not be afraid."
One by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again,
although he tried to get out of the Woodman's arms, and would have
bitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one
of the biggest mice spoke.
"Is there anything we can do," it asked, "to repay you for saving the
life of our Queen?"
"Nothing that I know of," answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow, who
had been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed
with straw, said, quickly, "Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the
Cowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed."
"A Lion!" cried the little Queen. "Why, he would eat us all up."
"Oh, no," declared the Scarecrow; "this Lion is a coward."
"Really?" asked the Mouse.
"He says so himself," answered the Scarecrow, "and he would never hurt
anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I promise
that he shall treat you all with kindness."
"Very well," said the Queen, "we trust you. But what shall we do?"
"Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to
obey you?"
"Oh, yes; there are thousands," she replied.
"Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each
one bring a long piece of string."
The Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at
once and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they ran
away in every direction as fast as possible.
"Now," said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, "you must go to those
trees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the Lion."
So the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon
made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all
the leaves and branches. He fastened it together with wooden pegs and
made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree trunk. So fast
and so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the
truck was all ready for them.
They came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big
mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a
piece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke
from her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished to
find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing
around and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about
everything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said:
"Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen."
Dorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a curtsy, after which she
became quite friendly with the little girl.
The Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the
truck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was
tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck. Of
course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who
were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed, they were
able to pull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to
the place where the Lion lay asleep.
After a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed
to get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people
the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies
too long they also would fall asleep.
At first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir
the heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed
from behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out
of the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet,
fresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers.
Dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving
her companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big Lion she
was glad he had been rescued.
Then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away
through the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last
to leave.
"If ever you need us again," she said, "come out into the field and
call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy
held Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her.
After this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and
the Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she
ate for her dinner.
10. The Guardian of the Gate
It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain
among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance;
but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad
to find himself still alive.
"I ran as fast as I could," he said, sitting down and yawning, "but the
flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?"
Then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved
him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said:
"I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little
things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as
mice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what
shall we do now?"
"We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again," said
Dorothy, "and then we can keep on to the Emerald City."
So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again,
they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through
the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road
of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where the
Great Oz dwelt.
The road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was
beautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far
behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades.
Once more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were
painted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer
evidently lived, that also was painted green. They passed by several
of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the
doors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no
one came near them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of
which they were very much afraid. The people were all dressed in
clothing of a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like
those of the Munchkins.
"This must be the Land of Oz," said Dorothy, "and we are surely getting
near the Emerald City."
"Yes," answered the Scarecrow. "Everything is green here, while in the
country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the people
do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins, and I'm afraid we shall
be unable to find a place to pass the night."
"I should like something to eat besides fruit," said the girl, "and I'm
sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and talk to
the people."
So, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, Dorothy walked boldly up
to the door and knocked.
A woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said, "What do you
want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?"
"We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us," answered
Dorothy; "and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you
for the world."
"Is he tame?" asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.
"Oh, yes," said the girl, "and he is a great coward, too. He will be
more afraid of you than you are of him."
"Well," said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep
at the Lion, "if that is the case you may come in, and I will give you
some supper and a place to sleep."
So they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two
children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the
couch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a
company, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked:
"Where are you all going?"
"To the Emerald City," said Dorothy, "to see the Great Oz."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the man. "Are you sure that Oz will see you?"
"Why not?" she replied.
"Why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence. I
have been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and
wonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz,
nor do I know of any living person who has seen him."
"Does he never go out?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Never. He sits day after day in the great Throne Room of his Palace,
and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face."
"What is he like?" asked the girl.
"That is hard to tell," said the man thoughtfully. "You see, Oz is a
Great Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he
looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say
he looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a
brownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real Oz
is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell."
"That is very strange," said Dorothy, "but we must try, in some way, to
see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing."
"Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?" asked the man.
"I want him to give me some brains," said the Scarecrow eagerly.
"Oh, Oz could do that easily enough," declared the man. "He has more
brains than he needs."
"And I want him to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"That will not trouble him," continued the man, "for Oz has a large
collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes."
"And I want him to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his Throne Room," said the man,
"which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running
over. He will be glad to give you some."
"And I want him to send me back to Kansas," said Dorothy.
"Where is Kansas?" asked the man, with surprise.
"I don't know," replied Dorothy sorrowfully, "but it is my home, and
I'm sure it's somewhere."
"Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find
Kansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be a
hard task; for the Great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and he
usually has his own way. But what do YOU want?" he continued, speaking
to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not
speak.
The woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered
around the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of
scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal.
The Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it
was made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of
everything, and was glad to get a good supper again.
The woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside
her, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be
disturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and
kept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep.
The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way,
and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them.
"That must be the Emerald City," said Dorothy.
As they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it
seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it
was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the
City. It was high and thick and of a bright green color.
In front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big
gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even
the painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy.
There was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and
heard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly
open, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched
room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds.
Before them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins.
He was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his
skin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box.
When he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked, "What do you wish
in the Emerald City?"
"We came here to see the Great Oz," said Dorothy.
The man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it
over.
"It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz," he said,
shaking his head in perplexity. "He is powerful and terrible, and if
you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of
the Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant."
"But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one," replied the
Scarecrow; "it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good
Wizard."
"So he is," said the green man, "and he rules the Emerald City wisely
and well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from
curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his
face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see the
Great Oz I must take you to his Palace. But first you must put on the
spectacles."
"Why?" asked Dorothy.
"Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the
Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City must
wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz so
ordered it when the City was first built, and I have the only key that
will unlock them."
He opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with
spectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses in
them. The Guardian of the Gates found a pair that would just fit
Dorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands
fastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they
were locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the
Guardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy
could not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not wish
to be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing.
Then the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin
Woodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked fast
with the key.
Then the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them he
was ready to show them to the Palace. Taking a big golden key from a
peg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all followed him
through the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.
11. The Wonderful City of Oz
Even with eyes protected by the green spectacles, Dorothy and her
friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful City.
The streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble
and studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds. They walked over a
pavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined
together were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the
brightness of the sun. The window panes were of green glass; even the
sky above the City had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green.
There were many people--men, women, and children--walking about, and
these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins. They
looked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering
eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when
they saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them. Many shops stood in the
street, and Dorothy saw that everything in them was green. Green candy
and green pop corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green
hats, and green clothes of all sorts. At one place a man was selling
green lemonade, and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that
they paid for it with green pennies.
There seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried
things around in little green carts, which they pushed before them.
Everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous.
The Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until they came
to a big building, exactly in the middle of the City, which was the
Palace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier before the door,
dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard.
"Here are strangers," said the Guardian of the Gates to him, "and they
demand to see the Great Oz."
"Step inside," answered the soldier, "and I will carry your message to
him."
So they passed through the Palace Gates and were led into a big room
with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds. The
soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering
this room, and when they were seated he said politely:
"Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of the
Throne Room and tell Oz you are here."
They had to wait a long time before the soldier returned. When, at
last, he came back, Dorothy asked:
"Have you seen Oz?"
"Oh, no," returned the soldier; "I have never seen him. But I spoke to
him as he sat behind his screen and gave him your message. He said he
will grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must
enter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day.
Therefore, as you must remain in the Palace for several days, I will
have you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your
journey."
"Thank you," replied the girl; "that is very kind of Oz."
The soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl,
dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely
green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she
said, "Follow me and I will show you your room."
So Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and taking the
dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up
three flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the
Palace. It was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft
comfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet
counterpane. There was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that
shot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a
beautifully carved green marble basin. Beautiful green flowers stood
in the windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books.
When Dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer
green pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny.
In a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and
velvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly.
"Make yourself perfectly at home," said the green girl, "and if you
wish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send for you tomorrow
morning."
She left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she also led
to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant
part of the Palace. Of course this politeness was wasted on the
Scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood
stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning.
It would not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so
he remained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its
web in a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most
wonderful rooms in the world. The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from
force of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not
being able to sleep, he passed the night moving his joints up and down
to make sure they kept in good working order. The Lion would have
preferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being
shut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so
he sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred
himself asleep in a minute.
The next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch
Dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns, made of
green brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a
green ribbon around Toto's neck, and they started for the Throne Room
of the Great Oz.
First they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen
of the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These people had nothing
to do but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the
Throne Room every morning, although they were never permitted to see
Oz. As Dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them
whispered:
"Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible?"
"Of course," answered the girl, "if he will see me."
"Oh, he will see you," said the soldier who had taken her message to
the Wizard, "although he does not like to have people ask to see him.
Indeed, at first he was angry and said I should send you back where you
came from. Then he asked me what you looked like, and when I mentioned
your silver shoes he was very much interested. At last I told him
about the mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to
his presence."
Just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy, "That is the
signal. You must go into the Throne Room alone."
She opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and found
herself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with a high
arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with
large emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof was a
great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a
wonderful manner.
But what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green marble
that stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a chair and
sparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the center of the chair
was an enormous Head, without a body to support it or any arms or legs
whatever. There was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and a nose
and mouth, and was much bigger than the head of the biggest giant.
As Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned slowly
and looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth moved, and
Dorothy heard a voice say:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
It was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big
Head; so she took courage and answered:
"I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help."
The eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute. Then said the
voice:
"Where did you get the silver shoes?"
"I got them from the Wicked Witch of the East, when my house fell on
her and killed her," she replied.
"Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?" continued the voice.
"That is where the Good Witch of the North kissed me when she bade me
good-bye and sent me to you," said the girl.
Again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the
truth. Then Oz asked, "What do you wish me to do?"
"Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are," she
answered earnestly. "I don't like your country, although it is so
beautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over my
being away so long."
The eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and
down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see
every part of the room. And at last they looked at Dorothy again.
"Why should I do this for you?" asked Oz.
"Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard
and I am only a little girl."
"But you were strong enough to kill the Wicked Witch of the East," said
Oz.
"That just happened," returned Dorothy simply; "I could not help it."
"Well," said the Head, "I will give you my answer. You have no right
to expect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something for me
in return. In this country everyone must pay for everything he gets.
If you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do
something for me first. Help me and I will help you."
"What must I do?" asked the girl.
"Kill the Wicked Witch of the West," answered Oz.
"But I cannot!" exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised.
"You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes, which
bear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left in all
this land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send you back to
Kansas--but not before."
The little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the
eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the Great Oz
felt that she could help him if she would.
"I never killed anything, willingly," she sobbed. "Even if I wanted
to, how could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great and
Terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?"
"I do not know," said the Head; "but that is my answer, and until the
Wicked Witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt again. Remember
that the Witch is Wicked--tremendously Wicked--and ought to be killed.
Now go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task."
Sorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where the Lion
and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to hear what Oz had
said to her. "There is no hope for me," she said sadly, "for Oz will
not send me home until I have killed the Wicked Witch of the West; and
that I can never do."
Her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so Dorothy
went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.
The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the
Scarecrow and said:
"Come with me, for Oz has sent for you."
So the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great Throne
Room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely Lady.
She was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green
locks a crown of jewels. Growing from her shoulders were wings,
gorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest
breath of air reached them.
When the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would
let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly,
and said:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
Now the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had
told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely.
"I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have no
brains, and I come to you praying that you will put brains in my head
instead of straw, so that I may become as much a man as any other in
your dominions."
"Why should I do this for you?" asked the Lady.
"Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me,"
answered the Scarecrow.
"I never grant favors without some return," said Oz; "but this much I
will promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of the West, I
will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you
will be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz."
"I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch," said the Scarecrow, in
surprise.
"So I did. I don't care who kills her. But until she is dead I will
not grant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again until you have
earned the brains you so greatly desire."
The Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what
Oz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the Great Wizard
was not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely Lady.
"All the same," said the Scarecrow, "she needs a heart as much as the
Tin Woodman."
On the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Tin
Woodman and said:
"Oz has sent for you. Follow me."
So the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne Room. He
did not know whether he would find Oz a lovely Lady or a Head, but he
hoped it would be the lovely Lady. "For," he said to himself, "if it
is the head, I am sure I shall not be given a heart, since a head has
no heart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me. But if it is the
lovely Lady I shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves
said to be kindly hearted."
But when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw neither the
Head nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a most terrible Beast.
It was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly
strong enough to hold its weight. The Beast had a head like that of a
rhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face. There were five
long arms growing out of its body, and it also had five long, slim
legs. Thick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more
dreadful-looking monster could not be imagined. It was fortunate the
Tin Woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud
and fast from terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all
afraid, although he was much disappointed.
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," spoke the Beast, in a voice that was
one great roar. "Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
"I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart, and
cannot love. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as other men
are."
"Why should I do this?" demanded the Beast.
"Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request," answered the
Woodman.
Oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly: "If you indeed desire a
heart, you must earn it."
"How?" asked the Woodman.
"Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West," replied the Beast.
"When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then give you the
biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the Land of Oz."
So the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and
tell them of the terrible Beast he had seen. They all wondered greatly
at the many forms the Great Wizard could take upon himself, and the
Lion said:
"If he is a Beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my loudest, and so
frighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if he is the lovely
Lady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my
bidding. And if he is the great Head, he will be at my mercy; for I
will roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us
what we desire. So be of good cheer, my friends, for all will yet be
well."
The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the Lion to
the great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz.
The Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to
his surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce and
glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought was
that Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when he
tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his
whiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door.
Then a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these were the
words it spoke:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"
And the Lion answered, "I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. I
came to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may
become the King of Beasts, as men call me."
"Why should I give you courage?" demanded Oz.
"Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to
grant my request," answered the Lion.
The Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said, "Bring
me proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will give you
courage. But as long as the Witch lives, you must remain a coward."
The Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and
while he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became so
furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room. He was
glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible
interview with the Wizard.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy sadly.
"There is only one thing we can do," returned the Lion, "and that is to
go to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked Witch, and destroy
her."
"But suppose we cannot?" said the girl.
"Then I shall never have courage," declared the Lion.
"And I shall never have brains," added the Scarecrow.
"And I shall never have a heart," spoke the Tin Woodman.
"And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry," said Dorothy,
beginning to cry.
"Be careful!" cried the green girl. "The tears will fall on your green
silk gown and spot it."
So Dorothy dried her eyes and said, "I suppose we must try it; but I am
sure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again."
"I will go with you; but I'm too much of a coward to kill the Witch,"
said the Lion.
"I will go too," declared the Scarecrow; "but I shall not be of much
help to you, I am such a fool."
"I haven't the heart to harm even a Witch," remarked the Tin Woodman;
"but if you go I certainly shall go with you."
Therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning,
and the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his
joints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw
and Dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better. The
green girl, who was very kind to them, filled Dorothy's basket with
good things to eat, and fastened a little bell around Toto's neck with
a green ribbon.
They went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when
they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the
back yard of the Palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a
green egg.
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
The soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the
Emerald City until they reached the room where the Guardian of the
Gates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back
in his great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends.
"Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked Dorothy.
"There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "No one ever
wishes to go that way."
"How, then, are we to find her?" inquired the girl.
"That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in
the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her
slaves."
"Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her."
"Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates. "No one has
ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves
of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and
fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where
the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her."
They thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the West,
walking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies
and buttercups. Dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put
on in the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer
green, but pure white. The ribbon around Toto's neck had also lost its
green color and was as white as Dorothy's dress.
The Emerald City was soon left far behind. As they advanced the ground
became rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor houses in this
country of the West, and the ground was untilled.
In the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there were no
trees to offer them shade; so that before night Dorothy and Toto and
the Lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and fell asleep, with
the Woodman and the Scarecrow keeping watch.
Now the Wicked Witch of the West had but one eye, yet that was as
powerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere. So, as she sat in
the door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw Dorothy
lying asleep, with her friends all about her. They were a long
distance off, but the Wicked Witch was angry to find them in her
country; so she blew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck.
At once there came running to her from all directions a pack of great
wolves. They had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth.
"Go to those people," said the Witch, "and tear them to pieces."
"Are you not going to make them your slaves?" asked the leader of the
wolves.
"No," she answered, "one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and
another a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into
small pieces."
"Very well," said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed
by the others.
It was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and heard
the wolves coming.
"This is my fight," said the Woodman, "so get behind me and I will meet
them as they come."
He seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of
the wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf's
head from its body, so that it immediately died. As soon as he could
raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp
edge of the Tin Woodman's weapon. There were forty wolves, and forty
times a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap
before the Woodman.
Then he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said, "It
was a good fight, friend."
They waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little girl was
quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the
Tin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for saving them and sat down
to breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey.
Now this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her castle
and looked out with her one eye that could see far off. She saw all
her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her
country. This made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver
whistle twice.
Straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough
to darken the sky.
And the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow, "Fly at once to the
strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces."
The wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her
companions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.
But the Scarecrow said, "This is my battle, so lie down beside me and
you will not be harmed."
So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up
and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were
frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare
to come any nearer. But the King Crow said:
"It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out."
The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and
twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and
the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty
times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead
beside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they
went upon their journey.
When the Wicked Witch looked out again and saw all her crows lying in a
heap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three times upon her
silver whistle.
Forthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a swarm of
black bees came flying toward her.
"Go to the strangers and sting them to death!" commanded the Witch, and
the bees turned and flew rapidly until they came to where Dorothy and
her friends were walking. But the Woodman had seen them coming, and
the Scarecrow had decided what to do.
"Take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the dog and
the Lion," he said to the Woodman, "and the bees cannot sting them."
This the Woodman did, and as Dorothy lay close beside the Lion and held
Toto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely.
The bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so they flew
at him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting
the Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when their stings are
broken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick
about the Woodman, like little heaps of fine coal.
Then Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin Woodman
put the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was as good as
ever. So they started upon their journey once more.
The Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little
heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and
gnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were
the Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the
strangers and destroy them.
The Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were
told. So they marched away until they came near to Dorothy. Then the
Lion gave a great roar and sprang towards them, and the poor Winkies
were so frightened that they ran back as fast as they could.
When they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them well with a
strap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to
think what she should do next. She could not understand how all her
plans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful
Witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to
act.
There was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of diamonds and
rubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm. Whoever owned
it could call three times upon the Winged Monkeys, who would obey any
order they were given. But no person could command these strange
creatures more than three times. Twice already the Wicked Witch had
used the charm of the Cap. Once was when she had made the Winkies her
slaves, and set herself to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys
had helped her do this. The second time was when she had fought
against the Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the
West. The Winged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once
more could she use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not like
to do so until all her other powers were exhausted. But now that her
fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and
her slaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion, she saw there was
only one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends.
So the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and placed it
upon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly:
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!"
Next she stood upon her right foot and said:
"Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!"
After this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice:
"Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"
Now the charm began to work. The sky was darkened, and a low rumbling
sound was heard in the air. There was a rushing of many wings, a great
chattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the dark sky to show
the Wicked Witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys, each with a pair of
immense and powerful wings on his shoulders.
One, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader. He flew
close to the Witch and said, "You have called us for the third and last
time. What do you command?"
"Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except
the Lion," said the Wicked Witch. "Bring that beast to me, for I have
a mind to harness him like a horse, and make him work."
"Your commands shall be obeyed," said the leader. Then, with a great
deal of chattering and noise, the Winged Monkeys flew away to the place
where Dorothy and her friends were walking.
Some of the Monkeys seized the Tin Woodman and carried him through the
air until they were over a country thickly covered with sharp rocks.
Here they dropped the poor Woodman, who fell a great distance to the
rocks, where he lay so battered and dented that he could neither move
nor groan.
Others of the Monkeys caught the Scarecrow, and with their long fingers
pulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head. They made his hat
and boots and clothes into a small bundle and threw it into the top
branches of a tall tree.
The remaining Monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around the Lion and
wound many coils about his body and head and legs, until he was unable
to bite or scratch or struggle in any way. Then they lifted him up and
flew away with him to the Witch's castle, where he was placed in a
small yard with a high iron fence around it, so that he could not
escape.
But Dorothy they did not harm at all. She stood, with Toto in her
arms, watching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it would soon
be her turn. The leader of the Winged Monkeys flew up to her, his
long, hairy arms stretched out and his ugly face grinning terribly; but
he saw the mark of the Good Witch's kiss upon her forehead and stopped
short, motioning the others not to touch her.
"We dare not harm this little girl," he said to them, "for she is
protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of
Evil. All we can do is to carry her to the castle of the Wicked Witch
and leave her there."
So, carefully and gently, they lifted Dorothy in their arms and carried
her swiftly through the air until they came to the castle, where they
set her down upon the front doorstep. Then the leader said to the
Witch:
"We have obeyed you as far as we were able. The Tin Woodman and the
Scarecrow are destroyed, and the Lion is tied up in your yard. The
little girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms.
Your power over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again."
Then all the Winged Monkeys, with much laughing and chattering and
noise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight.
The Wicked Witch was both surprised and worried when she saw the mark
on Dorothy's forehead, for she knew well that neither the Winged
Monkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way. She looked
down at Dorothy's feet, and seeing the Silver Shoes, began to tremble
with fear, for she knew what a powerful charm belonged to them. At
first the Witch was tempted to run away from Dorothy; but she happened
to look into the child's eyes and saw how simple the soul behind them
was, and that the little girl did not know of the wonderful power the
Silver Shoes gave her. So the Wicked Witch laughed to herself, and
thought, "I can still make her my slave, for she does not know how to
use her power." Then she said to Dorothy, harshly and severely:
"Come with me; and see that you mind everything I tell you, for if you
do not I will make an end of you, as I did of the Tin Woodman and the
Scarecrow."
Dorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in her castle
until they came to the kitchen, where the Witch bade her clean the pots
and kettles and sweep the floor and keep the fire fed with wood.
Dorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as hard as
she could; for she was glad the Wicked Witch had decided not to kill
her.
With Dorothy hard at work, the Witch thought she would go into the
courtyard and harness the Cowardly Lion like a horse; it would amuse
her, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she wished to
go to drive. But as she opened the gate the Lion gave a loud roar and
bounded at her so fiercely that the Witch was afraid, and ran out and
shut the gate again.
"If I cannot harness you," said the Witch to the Lion, speaking through
the bars of the gate, "I can starve you. You shall have nothing to eat
until you do as I wish."
So after that she took no food to the imprisoned Lion; but every day
she came to the gate at noon and asked, "Are you ready to be harnessed
like a horse?"
And the Lion would answer, "No. If you come in this yard, I will bite
you."
The reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was that
every night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him food from
the cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of
straw, and Dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft,
shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some
way to escape. But they could find no way to get out of the castle,
for it was constantly guarded by the yellow Winkies, who were the
slaves of the Wicked Witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told
them.
The girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch
threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in
her hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike Dorothy, because
of the mark upon her forehead. The child did not know this, and was
full of fear for herself and Toto. Once the Witch struck Toto a blow
with her umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg
in return. The Witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was
so wicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before.
Dorothy's life became very sad as she grew to understand that it would
be harder than ever to get back to Kansas and Aunt Em again. Sometimes
she would cry bitterly for hours, with Toto sitting at her feet and
looking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry he was for
his little mistress. Toto did not really care whether he was in Kansas
or the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him; but he knew the
little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.
Now the Wicked Witch had a great longing to have for her own the Silver
Shoes which the girl always wore. Her bees and her crows and her
wolves were lying in heaps and drying up, and she had used up all the
power of the Golden Cap; but if she could only get hold of the Silver
Shoes, they would give her more power than all the other things she had
lost. She watched Dorothy carefully, to see if she ever took off her
shoes, thinking she might steal them. But the child was so proud of
her pretty shoes that she never took them off except at night and when
she took her bath. The Witch was too much afraid of the dark to dare
go in Dorothy's room at night to take the shoes, and her dread of water
was greater than her fear of the dark, so she never came near when
Dorothy was bathing. Indeed, the old Witch never touched water, nor
ever let water touch her in any way.
But the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of a
trick that would give her what she wanted. She placed a bar of iron in
the middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the
iron invisible to human eyes. So that when Dorothy walked across the
floor she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at
full length. She was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver
Shoes came off; and before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched
it away and put it on her own skinny foot.
The wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick, for
as long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of their
charm, and Dorothy could not use it against her, even had she known how
to do so.
The little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes, grew
angry, and said to the Witch, "Give me back my shoe!"
"I will not," retorted the Witch, "for it is now my shoe, and not
yours."
"You are a wicked creature!" cried Dorothy. "You have no right to take
my shoe from me."
"I shall keep it, just the same," said the Witch, laughing at her, "and
someday I shall get the other one from you, too."
This made Dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket of water
that stood near and dashed it over the Witch, wetting her from head to
foot.
Instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as
Dorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall
away.
"See what you have done!" she screamed. "In a minute I shall melt
away."
"I'm very sorry, indeed," said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to see
the Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes.
"Didn't you know water would be the end of me?" asked the Witch, in a
wailing, despairing voice.
"Of course not," answered Dorothy. "How should I?"
"Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will have the
castle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought
a little girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked
deeds. Look out--here I go!"
With these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass
and began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor. Seeing
that she had really melted away to nothing, Dorothy drew another bucket
of water and threw it over the mess. She then swept it all out the
door. After picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left
of the old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on
her foot again. Then, being at last free to do as she chose, she ran
out to the courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West
had come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange
land.
13. The Rescue
The Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked Witch had
been melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once unlocked the gate
of his prison and set him free. They went in together to the castle,
where Dorothy's first act was to call all the Winkies together and tell
them that they were no longer slaves.
There was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they had been
made to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch, who had
always treated them with great cruelty. They kept this day as a
holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and
dancing.
"If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only with us,"
said the Lion, "I should be quite happy."
"Don't you suppose we could rescue them?" asked the girl anxiously.
"We can try," answered the Lion.
So they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would help to
rescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would be delighted
to do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them free from
bondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked as if they
knew the most, and they all started away. They traveled that day and
part of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the Tin
Woodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him, but the
blade was rusted and the handle broken off short.
The Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to
the Yellow Castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the
sad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking sober and sorry.
When they reached the castle Dorothy said to the Winkies:
"Are any of your people tinsmiths?"
"Oh, yes. Some of us are very good tinsmiths," they told her.
"Then bring them to me," she said. And when the tinsmiths came,
bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired, "Can you
straighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him back into
shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?"
The tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then answered that
they thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever. So
they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and
worked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and
bending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body
and head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he was straightened out into
his old form, and his joints worked as well as ever. To be sure, there
were several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as
the Woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all.
When, at last, he walked into Dorothy's room and thanked her for
rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and Dorothy
had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his
joints would not be rusted. At the same time her own tears fell thick
and fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears
did not need to be wiped away. As for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so
often with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was
obliged to go out into the courtyard and hold it in the sun till it
dried.
"If we only had the Scarecrow with us again," said the Tin Woodman,
when Dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened, "I
should be quite happy."
"We must try to find him," said the girl.
So she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and
part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of
which the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow's clothes.
It was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could
climb it; but the Woodman said at once, "I'll chop it down, and then we
can get the Scarecrow's clothes."
Now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman himself,
another of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of
solid gold and fitted it to the Woodman's axe, instead of the old
broken handle. Others polished the blade until all the rust was
removed and it glistened like burnished silver.
As soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a short
time the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the Scarecrow's clothes
fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground.
Dorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to the
castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and behold!
here was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over
again for saving him.
Now that they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a few happy
days at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything they needed to
make them comfortable.
But one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said, "We must go back to
Oz, and claim his promise."
"Yes," said the Woodman, "at last I shall get my heart."
"And I shall get my brains," added the Scarecrow joyfully.
"And I shall get my courage," said the Lion thoughtfully.
"And I shall get back to Kansas," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands.
"Oh, let us start for the Emerald City tomorrow!"
This they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies together
and bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have them go, and
they had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they begged him to stay
and rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West. Finding they were
determined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion each a golden
collar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet studded with
diamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick,
to keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they offered a
silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels.
Every one of the travelers made the Winkies a pretty speech in return,
and all shook hands with them until their arms ached.
Dorothy went to the Witch's cupboard to fill her basket with food for
the journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried it on her own
head and found that it fitted her exactly. She did not know anything
about the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so
she made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket.
Then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the Emerald
City; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to
carry with them.
14. The Winged Monkeys
You will remember there was no road--not even a pathway--between the
castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four
travelers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so
sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to
find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow
daisies than it was being carried. They knew, of course, they must go
straight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right
way. But at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know
which was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were
lost in the great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night
the moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the sweet
smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning--all but the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman.
The next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if
they were quite sure which way they were going.
"If we walk far enough," said Dorothy, "I am sure we shall sometime
come to some place."
But day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but
the scarlet fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit.
"We have surely lost our way," he said, "and unless we find it again in
time to reach the Emerald City, I shall never get my brains."
"Nor I my heart," declared the Tin Woodman. "It seems to me I can
scarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a very long
journey."
"You see," said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper, "I haven't the
courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all."
Then Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked at her
companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto found that
for the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly
that flew past his head. So he put out his tongue and panted and
looked at Dorothy as if to ask what they should do next.
"Suppose we call the field mice," she suggested. "They could probably
tell us the way to the Emerald City."
"To be sure they could," cried the Scarecrow. "Why didn't we think of
that before?"
Dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck
since the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a few minutes they
heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small gray mice came
running up to her. Among them was the Queen herself, who asked, in her
squeaky little voice:
"What can I do for my friends?"
"We have lost our way," said Dorothy. "Can you tell us where the
Emerald City is?"
"Certainly," answered the Queen; "but it is a great way off, for you
have had it at your backs all this time." Then she noticed Dorothy's
Golden Cap, and said, "Why don't you use the charm of the Cap, and call
the Winged Monkeys to you? They will carry you to the City of Oz in
less than an hour."
"I didn't know there was a charm," answered Dorothy, in surprise.
"What is it?"
"It is written inside the Golden Cap," replied the Queen of the Mice.
"But if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we must run away, for
they are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us."
"Won't they hurt me?" asked the girl anxiously.
"Oh, no. They must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!" And she
scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her.
Dorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written upon
the lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the
directions carefully and put the Cap upon her head.
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" she said, standing on her left foot.
"What did you say?" asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what she was
doing.
"Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Dorothy went on, standing this time on her
right foot.
"Hello!" replied the Tin Woodman calmly.
"Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!" said Dorothy, who was now standing on both feet.
This ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering
and flapping of wings, as the band of Winged Monkeys flew up to them.
The King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked, "What is your command?"
"We wish to go to the Emerald City," said the child, "and we have lost
our way."
"We will carry you," replied the King, and no sooner had he spoken than
two of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her.
Others took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and the Lion, and one little
Monkey seized Toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to
bite him.
The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at first, for
they remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had treated them before;
but they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air
quite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and
woods far below them.
Dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest Monkeys,
one of them the King himself. They had made a chair of their hands and
were careful not to hurt her.
"Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?" she asked.
"That is a long story," answered the King, with a winged laugh; "but as
we have a long journey before us, I will pass the time by telling you
about it, if you wish."
"I shall be glad to hear it," she replied.
"Once," began the leader, "we were a free people, living happily in the
great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and
doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps some
of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull
the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing
nuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were careless and
happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day. This was
many years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule over this
land.
"There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess, who
was also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help the
people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good. Her name
was Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great
blocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that
she could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much
too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise. At last,
however, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his
years. Gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she
would make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used
all her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any
woman could wish. When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called,
was said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly
beauty was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to
make everything ready for the wedding.
"My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys which
lived in the forest near Gayelette's palace, and the old fellow loved a
joke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding, my
grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking
beside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and
purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could
do. At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in
their arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then
dropped him into the water.
"'Swim out, my fine fellow,' cried my grandfather, 'and see if the
water has spotted your clothes.' Quelala was much too wise not to
swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune. He
laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore.
But when Gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and
velvet all ruined by the river.
"The princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it. She had
all the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that
their wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had
treated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my grandfather pleaded
hard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in the river with their wings
tied, and Quelala said a kind word for them also; so that Gayelette
finally spared them, on condition that the Winged Monkeys should ever
after do three times the bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This
Cap had been made for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to
have cost the princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and
all the other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how
it happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the
Golden Cap, whosoever he may be."
"And what became of them?" asked Dorothy, who had been greatly
interested in the story.
"Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap," replied the Monkey,
"he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his bride could not
bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he
had married her and ordered us always to keep where she could never
again set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we were glad to do, for we
were all afraid of her.
"This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into the
hands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the Winkies,
and afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the West. Now the
Golden Cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your
wishes upon us."
As the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down and saw the
green, shining walls of the Emerald City before them. She wondered at
the rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the journey was over.
The strange creatures set the travelers down carefully before the gate
of the City, the King bowed low to Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away,
followed by all his band.
"That was a good ride," said the little girl.
"Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles," replied the Lion. "How
lucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap!"
15. The Discovery of Oz, the Terrible
The four travelers walked up to the great gate of Emerald City and rang
the bell. After ringing several times, it was opened by the same
Guardian of the Gates they had met before.
"What! are you back again?" he asked, in surprise.
"Do you not see us?" answered the Scarecrow.
"But I thought you had gone to visit the Wicked Witch of the West."
"We did visit her," said the Scarecrow.
"And she let you go again?" asked the man, in wonder.
"She could not help it, for she is melted," explained the Scarecrow.
"Melted! Well, that is good news, indeed," said the man. "Who melted
her?"
"It was Dorothy," said the Lion gravely.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the man, and he bowed very low indeed before
her.
Then he led them into his little room and locked the spectacles from
the great box on all their eyes, just as he had done before. Afterward
they passed on through the gate into the Emerald City. When the people
heard from the Guardian of the Gates that Dorothy had melted the Wicked
Witch of the West, they all gathered around the travelers and followed
them in a great crowd to the Palace of Oz.
The soldier with the green whiskers was still on guard before the door,
but he let them in at once, and they were again met by the beautiful
green girl, who showed each of them to their old rooms at once, so they
might rest until the Great Oz was ready to receive them.
The soldier had the news carried straight to Oz that Dorothy and the
other travelers had come back again, after destroying the Wicked Witch;
but Oz made no reply. They thought the Great Wizard would send for
them at once, but he did not. They had no word from him the next day,
nor the next, nor the next. The waiting was tiresome and wearing, and
at last they grew vexed that Oz should treat them in so poor a fashion,
after sending them to undergo hardships and slavery. So the Scarecrow
at last asked the green girl to take another message to Oz, saying if
he did not let them in to see him at once they would call the Winged
Monkeys to help them, and find out whether he kept his promises or not.
When the Wizard was given this message he was so frightened that he
sent word for them to come to the Throne Room at four minutes after
nine o'clock the next morning. He had once met the Winged Monkeys in
the Land of the West, and he did not wish to meet them again.
The four travelers passed a sleepless night, each thinking of the gift
Oz had promised to bestow on him. Dorothy fell asleep only once, and
then she dreamed she was in Kansas, where Aunt Em was telling her how
glad she was to have her little girl at home again.
Promptly at nine o'clock the next morning the green-whiskered soldier
came to them, and four minutes later they all went into the Throne Room
of the Great Oz.
Of course each one of them expected to see the Wizard in the shape he
had taken before, and all were greatly surprised when they looked about
and saw no one at all in the room. They kept close to the door and
closer to one another, for the stillness of the empty room was more
dreadful than any of the forms they had seen Oz take.
Presently they heard a solemn Voice, that seemed to come from somewhere
near the top of the great dome, and it said:
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Why do you seek me?"
They looked again in every part of the room, and then, seeing no one,
Dorothy asked, "Where are you?"
"I am everywhere," answered the Voice, "but to the eyes of common
mortals I am invisible. I will now seat myself upon my throne, that
you may converse with me." Indeed, the Voice seemed just then to come
straight from the throne itself; so they walked toward it and stood in
a row while Dorothy said:
"We have come to claim our promise, O Oz."
"What promise?" asked Oz.
"You promised to send me back to Kansas when the Wicked Witch was
destroyed," said the girl.
"And you promised to give me brains," said the Scarecrow.
"And you promised to give me a heart," said the Tin Woodman.
"And you promised to give me courage," said the Cowardly Lion.
"Is the Wicked Witch really destroyed?" asked the Voice, and Dorothy
thought it trembled a little.
"Yes," she answered, "I melted her with a bucket of water."
"Dear me," said the Voice, "how sudden! Well, come to me tomorrow, for
I must have time to think it over."
"You've had plenty of time already," said the Tin Woodman angrily.
"We shan't wait a day longer," said the Scarecrow.
"You must keep your promises to us!" exclaimed Dorothy.
The Lion thought it might be as well to frighten the Wizard, so he gave
a large, loud roar, which was so fierce and dreadful that Toto jumped
away from him in alarm and tipped over the screen that stood in a
corner. As it fell with a crash they looked that way, and the next
moment all of them were filled with wonder. For they saw, standing in
just the spot the screen had hidden, a little old man, with a bald head
and a wrinkled face, who seemed to be as much surprised as they were.
The Tin Woodman, raising his axe, rushed toward the little man and
cried out, "Who are you?"
"I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," said the little man, in a trembling
voice. "But don't strike me--please don't--and I'll do anything you
want me to."
Our friends looked at him in surprise and dismay.
"I thought Oz was a great Head," said Dorothy.
"And I thought Oz was a lovely Lady," said the Scarecrow.
"And I thought Oz was a terrible Beast," said the Tin Woodman.
"And I thought Oz was a Ball of Fire," exclaimed the Lion.
"No, you are all wrong," said the little man meekly. "I have been
making believe."
"Making believe!" cried Dorothy. "Are you not a Great Wizard?"
"Hush, my dear," he said. "Don't speak so loud, or you will be
overheard--and I should be ruined. I'm supposed to be a Great Wizard."
"And aren't you?" she asked.
"Not a bit of it, my dear; I'm just a common man."
"You're more than that," said the Scarecrow, in a grieved tone; "you're
a humbug."
"Exactly so!" declared the little man, rubbing his hands together as if
it pleased him. "I am a humbug."
"But this is terrible," said the Tin Woodman. "How shall I ever get my
heart?"
"Or I my courage?" asked the Lion.
"Or I my brains?" wailed the Scarecrow, wiping the tears from his eyes
with his coat sleeve.
"My dear friends," said Oz, "I pray you not to speak of these little
things. Think of me, and the terrible trouble I'm in at being found
out."
"Doesn't anyone else know you're a humbug?" asked Dorothy.
"No one knows it but you four--and myself," replied Oz. "I have fooled
everyone so long that I thought I should never be found out. It was a
great mistake my ever letting you into the Throne Room. Usually I will
not see even my subjects, and so they believe I am something terrible."
"But, I don't understand," said Dorothy, in bewilderment. "How was it
that you appeared to me as a great Head?"
"That was one of my tricks," answered Oz. "Step this way, please, and
I will tell you all about it."
He led the way to a small chamber in the rear of the Throne Room, and
they all followed him. He pointed to one corner, in which lay the
great Head, made out of many thicknesses of paper, and with a carefully
painted face.
"This I hung from the ceiling by a wire," said Oz. "I stood behind the
screen and pulled a thread, to make the eyes move and the mouth open."
"But how about the voice?" she inquired.
"Oh, I am a ventriloquist," said the little man. "I can throw the
sound of my voice wherever I wish, so that you thought it was coming
out of the Head. Here are the other things I used to deceive you." He
showed the Scarecrow the dress and the mask he had worn when he seemed
to be the lovely Lady. And the Tin Woodman saw that his terrible Beast
was nothing but a lot of skins, sewn together, with slats to keep their
sides out. As for the Ball of Fire, the false Wizard had hung that
also from the ceiling. It was really a ball of cotton, but when oil
was poured upon it the ball burned fiercely.
"Really," said the Scarecrow, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself for
being such a humbug."
"I am--I certainly am," answered the little man sorrowfully; "but it
was the only thing I could do. Sit down, please, there are plenty of
chairs; and I will tell you my story."
So they sat down and listened while he told the following tale.
"I was born in Omaha--"
"Why, that isn't very far from Kansas!" cried Dorothy.
"No, but it's farther from here," he said, shaking his head at her
sadly. "When I grew up I became a ventriloquist, and at that I was
very well trained by a great master. I can imitate any kind of a bird
or beast." Here he mewed so like a kitten that Toto pricked up his
ears and looked everywhere to see where she was. "After a time,"
continued Oz, "I tired of that, and became a balloonist."
"What is that?" asked Dorothy.
"A man who goes up in a balloon on circus day, so as to draw a crowd of
people together and get them to pay to see the circus," he explained.
"Oh," she said, "I know."
"Well, one day I went up in a balloon and the ropes got twisted, so
that I couldn't come down again. It went way up above the clouds, so
far that a current of air struck it and carried it many, many miles
away. For a day and a night I traveled through the air, and on the
morning of the second day I awoke and found the balloon floating over a
strange and beautiful country.
"It came down gradually, and I was not hurt a bit. But I found myself
in the midst of a strange people, who, seeing me come from the clouds,
thought I was a great Wizard. Of course I let them think so, because
they were afraid of me, and promised to do anything I wished them to.
"Just to amuse myself, and keep the good people busy, I ordered them to
build this City, and my Palace; and they did it all willingly and well.
Then I thought, as the country was so green and beautiful, I would call
it the Emerald City; and to make the name fit better I put green
spectacles on all the people, so that everything they saw was green."
"But isn't everything here green?" asked Dorothy.
"No more than in any other city," replied Oz; "but when you wear green
spectacles, why of course everything you see looks green to you. The
Emerald City was built a great many years ago, for I was a young man
when the balloon brought me here, and I am a very old man now. But my
people have worn green glasses on their eyes so long that most of them
think it really is an Emerald City, and it certainly is a beautiful
place, abounding in jewels and precious metals, and every good thing
that is needed to make one happy. I have been good to the people, and
they like me; but ever since this Palace was built, I have shut myself
up and would not see any of them.
"One of my greatest fears was the Witches, for while I had no magical
powers at all I soon found out that the Witches were really able to do
wonderful things. There were four of them in this country, and they
ruled the people who live in the North and South and East and West.
Fortunately, the Witches of the North and South were good, and I knew
they would do me no harm; but the Witches of the East and West were
terribly wicked, and had they not thought I was more powerful than they
themselves, they would surely have destroyed me. As it was, I lived in
deadly fear of them for many years; so you can imagine how pleased I
was when I heard your house had fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East.
When you came to me, I was willing to promise anything if you would
only do away with the other Witch; but, now that you have melted her, I
am ashamed to say that I cannot keep my promises."
"I think you are a very bad man," said Dorothy.
"Oh, no, my dear; I'm really a very good man, but I'm a very bad
Wizard, I must admit."
"Can't you give me brains?" asked the Scarecrow.
"You don't need them. You are learning something every day. A baby
has brains, but it doesn't know much. Experience is the only thing
that brings knowledge, and the longer you are on earth the more
experience you are sure to get."
"That may all be true," said the Scarecrow, "but I shall be very
unhappy unless you give me brains."
The false Wizard looked at him carefully.
"Well," he said with a sigh, "I'm not much of a magician, as I said;
but if you will come to me tomorrow morning, I will stuff your head
with brains. I cannot tell you how to use them, however; you must find
that out for yourself."
"Oh, thank you--thank you!" cried the Scarecrow. "I'll find a way to
use them, never fear!"
"But how about my courage?" asked the Lion anxiously.
"You have plenty of courage, I am sure," answered Oz. "All you need is
confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid
when it faces danger. The True courage is in facing danger when you
are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty."
"Perhaps I have, but I'm scared just the same," said the Lion. "I
shall really be very unhappy unless you give me the sort of courage
that makes one forget he is afraid."
"Very well, I will give you that sort of courage tomorrow," replied Oz.
"How about my heart?" asked the Tin Woodman.
"Why, as for that," answered Oz, "I think you are wrong to want a
heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in
luck not to have a heart."
"That must be a matter of opinion," said the Tin Woodman. "For my
part, I will bear all the unhappiness without a murmur, if you will
give me the heart."
"Very well," answered Oz meekly. "Come to me tomorrow and you shall
have a heart. I have played Wizard for so many years that I may as
well continue the part a little longer."
"And now," said Dorothy, "how am I to get back to Kansas?"
"We shall have to think about that," replied the little man. "Give me
two or three days to consider the matter and I'll try to find a way to
carry you over the desert. In the meantime you shall all be treated as
my guests, and while you live in the Palace my people will wait upon
you and obey your slightest wish. There is only one thing I ask in
return for my help--such as it is. You must keep my secret and tell no
one I am a humbug."
They agreed to say nothing of what they had learned, and went back to
their rooms in high spirits. Even Dorothy had hope that "The Great and
Terrible Humbug," as she called him, would find a way to send her back
to Kansas, and if he did she was willing to forgive him everything.
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
Next morning the Scarecrow said to his friends:
"Congratulate me. I am going to Oz to get my brains at last. When I
return I shall be as other men are."
"I have always liked you as you were," said Dorothy simply.
"It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow," he replied. "But surely you
will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain
is going to turn out." Then he said good-bye to them all in a cheerful
voice and went to the Throne Room, where he rapped upon the door.
"Come in," said Oz.
The Scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by the
window, engaged in deep thought.
"I have come for my brains," remarked the Scarecrow, a little uneasily.
"Oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please," replied Oz. "You must
excuse me for taking your head off, but I shall have to do it in order
to put your brains in their proper place."
"That's all right," said the Scarecrow. "You are quite welcome to take
my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on
again."
So the Wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw. Then he
entered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which he mixed
with a great many pins and needles. Having shaken them together
thoroughly, he filled the top of the Scarecrow's head with the mixture
and stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold it in place.
When he had fastened the Scarecrow's head on his body again he said to
him, "Hereafter you will be a great man, for I have given you a lot of
bran-new brains."
The Scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his
greatest wish, and having thanked Oz warmly he went back to his friends.
Dorothy looked at him curiously. His head was quite bulged out at the
top with brains.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I feel wise indeed," he answered earnestly. "When I get used to my
brains I shall know everything."
"Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?" asked the
Tin Woodman.
"That is proof that he is sharp," remarked the Lion.
"Well, I must go to Oz and get my heart," said the Woodman. So he
walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.
"Come in," called Oz, and the Woodman entered and said, "I have come
for my heart."
"Very well," answered the little man. "But I shall have to cut a hole
in your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place. I hope it
won't hurt you."
"Oh, no," answered the Woodman. "I shall not feel it at all."
So Oz brought a pair of tinsmith's shears and cut a small, square hole
in the left side of the Tin Woodman's breast. Then, going to a chest
of drawers, he took out a pretty heart, made entirely of silk and
stuffed with sawdust.
"Isn't it a beauty?" he asked.
"It is, indeed!" replied the Woodman, who was greatly pleased. "But is
it a kind heart?"
"Oh, very!" answered Oz. He put the heart in the Woodman's breast and
then replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly together where it
had been cut.
"There," said he; "now you have a heart that any man might be proud of.
I'm sorry I had to put a patch on your breast, but it really couldn't
be helped."
"Never mind the patch," exclaimed the happy Woodman. "I am very
grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness."
"Don't speak of it," replied Oz.
Then the Tin Woodman went back to his friends, who wished him every joy
on account of his good fortune.
The Lion now walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.
"Come in," said Oz.
"I have come for my courage," announced the Lion, entering the room.
"Very well," answered the little man; "I will get it for you."
He went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took down a
square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a green-gold
dish, beautifully carved. Placing this before the Cowardly Lion, who
sniffed at it as if he did not like it, the Wizard said:
"Drink."
"What is it?" asked the Lion.
"Well," answered Oz, "if it were inside of you, it would be courage.
You know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this
really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore
I advise you to drink it as soon as possible."
The Lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty.
"How do you feel now?" asked Oz.
"Full of courage," replied the Lion, who went joyfully back to his
friends to tell them of his good fortune.
Oz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion exactly what they thought
they wanted. "How can I help being a humbug," he said, "when all these
people make me do things that everybody knows can't be done? It was
easy to make the Scarecrow and the Lion and the Woodman happy, because
they imagined I could do anything. But it will take more than
imagination to carry Dorothy back to Kansas, and I'm sure I don't know
how it can be done."
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
For three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad days for
the little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and
contented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in
his head; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one
could understand them but himself. When the Tin Woodman walked about
he felt his heart rattling around in his breast; and he told Dorothy he
had discovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the one he
had owned when he was made of flesh. The Lion declared he was afraid
of nothing on earth, and would gladly face an army or a dozen of the
fierce Kalidahs.
Thus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy, who longed
more than ever to get back to Kansas.
On the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when she
entered the Throne Room he greeted her pleasantly:
"Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you out of this
country."
"And back to Kansas?" she asked eagerly.
"Well, I'm not sure about Kansas," said Oz, "for I haven't the faintest
notion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to cross the
desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home."
"How can I cross the desert?" she inquired.
"Well, I'll tell you what I think," said the little man. "You see,
when I came to this country it was in a balloon. You also came through
the air, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe the best way to get
across the desert will be through the air. Now, it is quite beyond my
powers to make a cyclone; but I've been thinking the matter over, and I
believe I can make a balloon."
"How?" asked Dorothy.
"A balloon," said Oz, "is made of silk, which is coated with glue to
keep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace, so it will be
no trouble to make the balloon. But in all this country there is no
gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float."
"If it won't float," remarked Dorothy, "it will be of no use to us."
"True," answered Oz. "But there is another way to make it float, which
is to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn't as good as gas, for if the
air should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert, and we
should be lost."
"We!" exclaimed the girl. "Are you going with me?"
"Yes, of course," replied Oz. "I am tired of being such a humbug. If
I should go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a
Wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.
So I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome.
I'd much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again."
"I shall be glad to have your company," said Dorothy.
"Thank you," he answered. "Now, if you will help me sew the silk
together, we will begin to work on our balloon."
So Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the strips
of silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together. First
there was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and
then a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon
in different shades of the color about them. It took three days to sew
all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of
green silk more than twenty feet long.
Then Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it
airtight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready.
"But we must have a basket to ride in," he said. So he sent the
soldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he
fastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon.
When it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was going to
make a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds. The
news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the
wonderful sight.
Oz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace, and the
people gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman had chopped
a big pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and Oz held the
bottom of the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from
it would be caught in the silken bag. Gradually the balloon swelled
out and rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the
ground.
Then Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice:
"I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the Scarecrow
will rule over you. I command you to obey him as you would me."
The balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to
the ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much
lighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise into
the sky.
"Come, Dorothy!" cried the Wizard. "Hurry up, or the balloon will fly
away."
"I can't find Toto anywhere," replied Dorothy, who did not wish to
leave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd to bark at a
kitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked him up and ran
towards the balloon.
She was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his hands to
help her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes, and the balloon
rose into the air without her.
"Come back!" she screamed. "I want to go, too!"
"I can't come back, my dear," called Oz from the basket. "Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to where
the Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment farther and
farther into the sky.
And that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard,
though he may have reached Omaha safely, and be there now, for all we
know. But the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another:
"Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this
beautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise
Scarecrow to rule over us."
Still, for many days they grieved over the loss of the Wonderful
Wizard, and would not be comforted.
18. Away to the South
Dorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home to Kansas
again; but when she thought it all over she was glad she had not gone
up in a balloon. And she also felt sorry at losing Oz, and so did her
companions.
The Tin Woodman came to her and said:
"Truly I should be ungrateful if I failed to mourn for the man who gave
me my lovely heart. I should like to cry a little because Oz is gone,
if you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that I shall not rust."
"With pleasure," she answered, and brought a towel at once. Then the
Tin Woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the tears
carefully and wiped them away with the towel. When he had finished, he
thanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with his jeweled
oil-can, to guard against mishap.
The Scarecrow was now the ruler of the Emerald City, and although he
was not a Wizard the people were proud of him. "For," they said,
"there is not another city in all the world that is ruled by a stuffed
man." And, so far as they knew, they were quite right.
The morning after the balloon had gone up with Oz, the four travelers
met in the Throne Room and talked matters over. The Scarecrow sat in
the big throne and the others stood respectfully before him.
"We are not so unlucky," said the new ruler, "for this Palace and the
Emerald City belong to us, and we can do just as we please. When I
remember that a short time ago I was up on a pole in a farmer's
cornfield, and that now I am the ruler of this beautiful City, I am
quite satisfied with my lot."
"I also," said the Tin Woodman, "am well-pleased with my new heart;
and, really, that was the only thing I wished in all the world."
"For my part, I am content in knowing I am as brave as any beast that
ever lived, if not braver," said the Lion modestly.
"If Dorothy would only be contented to live in the Emerald City,"
continued the Scarecrow, "we might all be happy together."
"But I don't want to live here," cried Dorothy. "I want to go to
Kansas, and live with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry."
"Well, then, what can be done?" inquired the Woodman.
The Scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the pins
and needles began to stick out of his brains. Finally he said:
"Why not call the Winged Monkeys, and ask them to carry you over the
desert?"
"I never thought of that!" said Dorothy joyfully. "It's just the
thing. I'll go at once for the Golden Cap."
When she brought it into the Throne Room she spoke the magic words, and
soon the band of Winged Monkeys flew in through the open window and
stood beside her.
"This is the second time you have called us," said the Monkey King,
bowing before the little girl. "What do you wish?"
"I want you to fly with me to Kansas," said Dorothy.
But the Monkey King shook his head.
"That cannot be done," he said. "We belong to this country alone, and
cannot leave it. There has never been a Winged Monkey in Kansas yet,
and I suppose there never will be, for they don't belong there. We
shall be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross
the desert. Good-bye."
And with another bow, the Monkey King spread his wings and flew away
through the window, followed by all his band.
Dorothy was ready to cry with disappointment. "I have wasted the charm
of the Golden Cap to no purpose," she said, "for the Winged Monkeys
cannot help me."
"It is certainly too bad!" said the tender-hearted Woodman.
The Scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so horribly
that Dorothy feared it would burst.
"Let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers," he said, "and ask
his advice."
So the soldier was summoned and entered the Throne Room timidly, for
while Oz was alive he never was allowed to come farther than the door.
"This little girl," said the Scarecrow to the soldier, "wishes to cross
the desert. How can she do so?"
"I cannot tell," answered the soldier, "for nobody has ever crossed the
desert, unless it is Oz himself."
"Is there no one who can help me?" asked Dorothy earnestly.
"Glinda might," he suggested.
"Who is Glinda?" inquired the Scarecrow.
"The Witch of the South. She is the most powerful of all the Witches,
and rules over the Quadlings. Besides, her castle stands on the edge
of the desert, so she may know a way to cross it."
"Glinda is a Good Witch, isn't she?" asked the child.
"The Quadlings think she is good," said the soldier, "and she is kind
to everyone. I have heard that Glinda is a beautiful woman, who knows
how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived."
"How can I get to her castle?" asked Dorothy.
"The road is straight to the South," he answered, "but it is said to be
full of dangers to travelers. There are wild beasts in the woods, and
a race of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country.
For this reason none of the Quadlings ever come to the Emerald City."
The soldier then left them and the Scarecrow said:
"It seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing Dorothy can do is
to travel to the Land of the South and ask Glinda to help her. For, of
course, if Dorothy stays here she will never get back to Kansas."
"You must have been thinking again," remarked the Tin Woodman.
"I have," said the Scarecrow.
"I shall go with Dorothy," declared the Lion, "for I am tired of your
city and long for the woods and the country again. I am really a wild
beast, you know. Besides, Dorothy will need someone to protect her."
"That is true," agreed the Woodman. "My axe may be of service to her;
so I also will go with her to the Land of the South."
"When shall we start?" asked the Scarecrow.
"Are you going?" they asked, in surprise.
"Certainly. If it wasn't for Dorothy I should never have had brains.
She lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the
Emerald City. So my good luck is all due to her, and I shall never
leave her until she starts back to Kansas for good and all."
"Thank you," said Dorothy gratefully. "You are all very kind to me.
But I should like to start as soon as possible."
"We shall go tomorrow morning," returned the Scarecrow. "So now let us
all get ready, for it will be a long journey."
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
The next morning Dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye, and
they all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers, who had
walked with them as far as the gate. When the Guardian of the Gate saw
them again he wondered greatly that they could leave the beautiful City
to get into new trouble. But he at once unlocked their spectacles,
which he put back into the green box, and gave them many good wishes to
carry with them.
"You are now our ruler," he said to the Scarecrow; "so you must come
back to us as soon as possible."
"I certainly shall if I am able," the Scarecrow replied; "but I must
help Dorothy to get home, first."
As Dorothy bade the good-natured Guardian a last farewell she said:
"I have been very kindly treated in your lovely City, and everyone has
been good to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am."
"Don't try, my dear," he answered. "We should like to keep you with
us, but if it is your wish to return to Kansas, I hope you will find a
way." He then opened the gate of the outer wall, and they walked forth
and started upon their journey.
The sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces toward the
Land of the South. They were all in the best of spirits, and laughed
and chatted together. Dorothy was once more filled with the hope of
getting home, and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were glad to be of
use to her. As for the Lion, he sniffed the fresh air with delight and
whisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at being in the country
again, while Toto ran around them and chased the moths and butterflies,
barking merrily all the time.
"City life does not agree with me at all," remarked the Lion, as they
walked along at a brisk pace. "I have lost much flesh since I lived
there, and now I am anxious for a chance to show the other beasts how
courageous I have grown."
They now turned and took a last look at the Emerald City. All they
could see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the green walls, and
high up above everything the spires and dome of the Palace of Oz.
"Oz was not such a bad Wizard, after all," said the Tin Woodman, as he
felt his heart rattling around in his breast.
"He knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too," said the
Scarecrow.
"If Oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me," added the
Lion, "he would have been a brave man."
Dorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he
had done his best, so she forgave him. As he said, he was a good man,
even if he was a bad Wizard.
The first day's journey was through the green fields and bright flowers
that stretched about the Emerald City on every side. They slept that
night on the grass, with nothing but the stars over them; and they
rested very well indeed.
In the morning they traveled on until they came to a thick wood. There
was no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the right and
left as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not dare change
the direction of their journey for fear of getting lost. So they
looked for the place where it would be easiest to get into the forest.
The Scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big tree with
such wide-spreading branches that there was room for the party to pass
underneath. So he walked forward to the tree, but just as he came
under the first branches they bent down and twined around him, and the
next minute he was raised from the ground and flung headlong among his
fellow travelers.
This did not hurt the Scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he looked
rather dizzy when Dorothy picked him up.
"Here is another space between the trees," called the Lion.
"Let me try it first," said the Scarecrow, "for it doesn't hurt me to
get thrown about." He walked up to another tree, as he spoke, but its
branches immediately seized him and tossed him back again.
"This is strange," exclaimed Dorothy. "What shall we do?"
"The trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us, and stop our
journey," remarked the Lion.
"I believe I will try it myself," said the Woodman, and shouldering his
axe, he marched up to the first tree that had handled the Scarecrow so
roughly. When a big branch bent down to seize him the Woodman chopped
at it so fiercely that he cut it in two. At once the tree began
shaking all its branches as if in pain, and the Tin Woodman passed
safely under it.
"Come on!" he shouted to the others. "Be quick!" They all ran forward
and passed under the tree without injury, except Toto, who was caught
by a small branch and shaken until he howled. But the Woodman promptly
chopped off the branch and set the little dog free.
The other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back, so they
made up their minds that only the first row of trees could bend down
their branches, and that probably these were the policemen of the
forest, and given this wonderful power in order to keep strangers out
of it.
The four travelers walked with ease through the trees until they came
to the farther edge of the wood. Then, to their surprise, they found
before them a high wall which seemed to be made of white china. It was
smooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy.
"I will make a ladder," said the Tin Woodman, "for we certainly must
climb over the wall."
20. The Dainty China Country
While the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the
forest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk.
The Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay beside him.
The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him:
"I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of."
"Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the
Woodman. "When we have climbed over it, we shall know what is on the
other side."
After a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but the Tin
Woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose. The
Scarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that the
ladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he
was so awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him
from falling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the
Scarecrow said, "Oh, my!"
"Go on," exclaimed Dorothy.
So the Scarecrow climbed farther up and sat down on the top of the
wall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried, "Oh, my!" just as the
Scarecrow had done.
Then Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy made him
be still.
The Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came last; but
both of them cried, "Oh, my!" as soon as they looked over the wall.
When they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall, they looked
down and saw a strange sight.
Before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and
shining and white as the bottom of a big platter. Scattered around
were many houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest
colors. These houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching
only as high as Dorothy's waist. There were also pretty little barns,
with china fences around them; and many cows and sheep and horses and
pigs and chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups.
But the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer
country. There were milkmaids and shepherdesses, with brightly colored
bodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most
gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in
knee breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and
golden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jeweled crowns upon
their heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns
in ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall,
pointed caps. And, strangest of all, these people were all made of
china, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of
them was no higher than Dorothy's knee.
No one did so much as look at the travelers at first, except one little
purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and
barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again.
"How shall we get down?" asked Dorothy.
They found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the
Scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that
the hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they took pains
not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet. When all were
safely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body was quite
flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again.
"We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side,"
said Dorothy, "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except
due South."
They began walking through the country of the china people, and the
first thing they came to was a china milkmaid milking a china cow. As
they drew near, the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool,
the pail, and even the milkmaid herself, and all fell on the china
ground with a great clatter.
Dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg off, and
that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor
milkmaid had a nick in her left elbow.
"There!" cried the milkmaid angrily. "See what you have done! My cow
has broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender's shop and have
it glued on again. What do you mean by coming here and frightening my
cow?"
"I'm very sorry," returned Dorothy. "Please forgive us."
But the pretty milkmaid was much too vexed to make any answer. She
picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping
on three legs. As she left them the milkmaid cast many reproachful
glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked
elbow close to her side.
Dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap.
"We must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted Woodman, "or we
may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it."
A little farther on Dorothy met a most beautifully dressed young
Princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run
away.
Dorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her. But
the china girl cried out:
"Don't chase me! Don't chase me!"
She had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped and said,
"Why not?"
"Because," answered the Princess, also stopping, a safe distance away,
"if I run I may fall down and break myself."
"But could you not be mended?" asked the girl.
"Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know,"
replied the Princess.
"I suppose not," said Dorothy.
"Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns," continued the china lady,
"who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has broken himself so
often that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn't look at all
pretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for yourself."
Indeed, a jolly little clown came walking toward them, and Dorothy
could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and
green he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way
and showing plainly that he had been mended in many places.
The Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his
cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily, he said:
"My lady fair,
Why do you stare
At poor old Mr. Joker?
You're quite as stiff
And prim as if
You'd eaten up a poker!"
"Be quiet, sir!" said the Princess. "Can't you see these are
strangers, and should be treated with respect?"
"Well, that's respect, I expect," declared the Clown, and immediately
stood upon his head.
"Don't mind Mr. Joker," said the Princess to Dorothy. "He is
considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish."
"Oh, I don't mind him a bit," said Dorothy. "But you are so
beautiful," she continued, "that I am sure I could love you dearly.
Won't you let me carry you back to Kansas, and stand you on Aunt Em's
mantel? I could carry you in my basket."
"That would make me very unhappy," answered the china Princess. "You
see, here in our country we live contentedly, and can talk and move
around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our joints
at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty. Of
course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantels and
cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter
here in our own country."
"I would not make you unhappy for all the world!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"So I'll just say good-bye."
"Good-bye," replied the Princess.
They walked carefully through the china country. The little animals
and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers
would break them, and after an hour or so the travelers reached the
other side of the country and came to another china wall.
It was not so high as the first, however, and by standing upon the
Lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the Lion
gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he
jumped, he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to
pieces.
"That was too bad," said Dorothy, "but really I think we were lucky in
not doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow's leg and a
church. They are all so brittle!"
"They are, indeed," said the Scarecrow, "and I am thankful I am made of
straw and cannot be easily damaged. There are worse things in the
world than being a Scarecrow."
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
After climbing down from the china wall the travelers found themselves
in a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and covered with
tall, rank grass. It was difficult to walk without falling into muddy
holes, for the grass was so thick that it hid them from sight.
However, by carefully picking their way, they got safely along until
they reached solid ground. But here the country seemed wilder than
ever, and after a long and tiresome walk through the underbrush they
entered another forest, where the trees were bigger and older than any
they had ever seen.
"This forest is perfectly delightful," declared the Lion, looking
around him with joy. "Never have I seen a more beautiful place."
"It seems gloomy," said the Scarecrow.
"Not a bit of it," answered the Lion. "I should like to live here all
my life. See how soft the dried leaves are under your feet and how
rich and green the moss is that clings to these old trees. Surely no
wild beast could wish a pleasanter home."
"Perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now," said Dorothy.
"I suppose there are," returned the Lion, "but I do not see any of them
about."
They walked through the forest until it became too dark to go any
farther. Dorothy and Toto and the Lion lay down to sleep, while the
Woodman and the Scarecrow kept watch over them as usual.
When morning came, they started again. Before they had gone far they
heard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals. Toto
whimpered a little, but none of the others was frightened, and they
kept along the well-trodden path until they came to an opening in the
wood, in which were gathered hundreds of beasts of every variety.
There were tigers and elephants and bears and wolves and foxes and all
the others in the natural history, and for a moment Dorothy was afraid.
But the Lion explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he
judged by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble.
As he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at once the
great assemblage hushed as if by magic. The biggest of the tigers came
up to the Lion and bowed, saying:
"Welcome, O King of Beasts! You have come in good time to fight our
enemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest once more."
"What is your trouble?" asked the Lion quietly.
"We are all threatened," answered the tiger, "by a fierce enemy which
has lately come into this forest. It is a most tremendous monster,
like a great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and legs as long
as a tree trunk. It has eight of these long legs, and as the monster
crawls through the forest he seizes an animal with a leg and drags it
to his mouth, where he eats it as a spider does a fly. Not one of us
is safe while this fierce creature is alive, and we had called a
meeting to decide how to take care of ourselves when you came among us."
The Lion thought for a moment.
"Are there any other lions in this forest?" he asked.
"No; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all. And,
besides, they were none of them nearly so large and brave as you."
"If I put an end to your enemy, will you bow down to me and obey me as
King of the Forest?" inquired the Lion.
"We will do that gladly," returned the tiger; and all the other beasts
roared with a mighty roar: "We will!"
"Where is this great spider of yours now?" asked the Lion.
"Yonder, among the oak trees," said the tiger, pointing with his
forefoot.
"Take good care of these friends of mine," said the Lion, "and I will
go at once to fight the monster."
He bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do battle
with the enemy.
The great spider was lying asleep when the Lion found him, and it
looked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust. Its legs
were quite as long as the tiger had said, and its body covered with
coarse black hair. It had a great mouth, with a row of sharp teeth a
foot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy body by a neck as
slender as a wasp's waist. This gave the Lion a hint of the best way
to attack the creature, and as he knew it was easier to fight it asleep
than awake, he gave a great spring and landed directly upon the
monster's back. Then, with one blow of his heavy paw, all armed with
sharp claws, he knocked the spider's head from its body. Jumping down,
he watched it until the long legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was
quite dead.
The Lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the forest were
waiting for him and said proudly:
"You need fear your enemy no longer."
Then the beasts bowed down to the Lion as their King, and he promised
to come back and rule over them as soon as Dorothy was safely on her
way to Kansas.
22. The Country of the Quadlings
The four travelers passed through the rest of the forest in safety, and
when they came out from its gloom saw before them a steep hill, covered
from top to bottom with great pieces of rock.
"That will be a hard climb," said the Scarecrow, "but we must get over
the hill, nevertheless."
So he led the way and the others followed. They had nearly reached the
first rock when they heard a rough voice cry out, "Keep back!"
"Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow.
Then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said, "This
hill belongs to us, and we don't allow anyone to cross it."
"But we must cross it," said the Scarecrow. "We're going to the
country of the Quadlings."
"But you shall not!" replied the voice, and there stepped from behind
the rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen.
He was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was flat at the
top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. But he had no arms
at all, and, seeing this, the Scarecrow did not fear that so helpless a
creature could prevent them from climbing the hill. So he said, "I'm
sorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether
you like it or not," and he walked boldly forward.
As quick as lightning the man's head shot forward and his neck
stretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck the
Scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the
hill. Almost as quickly as it came the head went back to the body, and
the man laughed harshly as he said, "It isn't as easy as you think!"
A chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and Dorothy
saw hundreds of the armless Hammer-Heads upon the hillside, one behind
every rock.
The Lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the Scarecrow's
mishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder, he dashed up
the hill.
Again a head shot swiftly out, and the great Lion went rolling down the
hill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball.
Dorothy ran down and helped the Scarecrow to his feet, and the Lion
came up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said, "It is
useless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can withstand them."
"What can we do, then?" she asked.
"Call the Winged Monkeys," suggested the Tin Woodman. "You have still
the right to command them once more."
"Very well," she answered, and putting on the Golden Cap she uttered
the magic words. The Monkeys were as prompt as ever, and in a few
moments the entire band stood before her.
"What are your commands?" inquired the King of the Monkeys, bowing low.
"Carry us over the hill to the country of the Quadlings," answered the
girl.
"It shall be done," said the King, and at once the Winged Monkeys
caught the four travelers and Toto up in their arms and flew away with
them. As they passed over the hill the Hammer-Heads yelled with
vexation, and shot their heads high in the air, but they could not
reach the Winged Monkeys, which carried Dorothy and her comrades safely
over the hill and set them down in the beautiful country of the
Quadlings.
"This is the last time you can summon us," said the leader to Dorothy;
"so good-bye and good luck to you."
"Good-bye, and thank you very much," returned the girl; and the Monkeys
rose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling.
The country of the Quadlings seemed rich and happy. There was field
upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between,
and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them. The fences
and houses and bridges were all painted bright red, just as they had
been painted yellow in the country of the Winkies and blue in the
country of the Munchkins. The Quadlings themselves, who were short and
fat and looked chubby and good-natured, were dressed all in red, which
showed bright against the green grass and the yellowing grain.
The Monkeys had set them down near a farmhouse, and the four travelers
walked up to it and knocked at the door. It was opened by the farmer's
wife, and when Dorothy asked for something to eat the woman gave them
all a good dinner, with three kinds of cake and four kinds of cookies,
and a bowl of milk for Toto.
"How far is it to the Castle of Glinda?" asked the child.
"It is not a great way," answered the farmer's wife. "Take the road to
the South and you will soon reach it."
Thanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the fields
and across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a very
beautiful Castle. Before the gates were three young girls, dressed in
handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as Dorothy
approached, one of them said to her:
"Why have you come to the South Country?"
"To see the Good Witch who rules here," she answered. "Will you take
me to her?"
"Let me have your name, and I will ask Glinda if she will receive you."
They told who they were, and the girl soldier went into the Castle.
After a few moments she came back to say that Dorothy and the others
were to be admitted at once.
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of
the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the
Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself
into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his
joints.
When they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl
into a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies.
She was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was a rich
red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her
dress was pure white but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly
upon the little girl.
"What can I do for you, my child?" she asked.
Dorothy told the Witch all her story: how the cyclone had brought her
to the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions, and of the
wonderful adventures they had met with.
"My greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt
Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that
will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this
year than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it."
Glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving
little girl.
"Bless your dear heart," she said, "I am sure I can tell you of a way
to get back to Kansas." Then she added, "But, if I do, you must give
me the Golden Cap."
"Willingly!" exclaimed Dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to me now, and
when you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys three times."
"And I think I shall need their service just those three times,"
answered Glinda, smiling.
Dorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to the
Scarecrow, "What will you do when Dorothy has left us?"
"I will return to the Emerald City," he replied, "for Oz has made me
its ruler and the people like me. The only thing that worries me is
how to cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads."
"By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys to carry
you to the gates of the Emerald City," said Glinda, "for it would be a
shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler."
"Am I really wonderful?" asked the Scarecrow.
"You are unusual," replied Glinda.
Turning to the Tin Woodman, she asked, "What will become of you when
Dorothy leaves this country?"
He leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said, "The Winkies
were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the Wicked
Witch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I could get back again to
the Country of the West, I should like nothing better than to rule over
them forever."
"My second command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda "will be that
they carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your brain may not
be so large to look at as those of the Scarecrow, but you are really
brighter than he is--when you are well polished--and I am sure you will
rule the Winkies wisely and well."
Then the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked, "When Dorothy
has returned to her own home, what will become of you?"
"Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads," he answered, "lies a grand old
forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their King. If
I could only get back to this forest, I would pass my life very happily
there."
"My third command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "shall be to
carry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers of the
Golden Cap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys, that he and his
band may thereafter be free for evermore."
The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good
Witch earnestly for her kindness; and Dorothy exclaimed:
"You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have not yet
told me how to get back to Kansas."
"Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert," replied Glinda.
"If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em
the very first day you came to this country."
"But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!" cried the
Scarecrow. "I might have passed my whole life in the farmer's
cornfield."
"And I should not have had my lovely heart," said the Tin Woodman. "I
might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world."
"And I should have lived a coward forever," declared the Lion, "and no
beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me."
"This is all true," said Dorothy, "and I am glad I was of use to these
good friends. But now that each of them has had what he most desired,
and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule besides, I think I should
like to go back to Kansas."
"The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And
one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to
any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in
the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together
three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go."
"If that is so," said the child joyfully, "I will ask them to carry me
back to Kansas at once."
She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him, patting his
big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in
a way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed
body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face,
and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her
loving comrades.
Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little
girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she
had shown to her friends and herself.
Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last
good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times,
saying:
"Take me home to Aunt Em!"
Instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she
could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears.
The Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly
that she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where
she was.
At length, however, she sat up and looked about her.
"Good gracious!" she cried.
For she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just before her
was the new farmhouse Uncle Henry built after the cyclone had carried
away the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the cows in the barnyard,
and Toto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn,
barking furiously.
Dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet. For the
Silver Shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were
lost forever in the desert.
24. Home Again
Aunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she
looked up and saw Dorothy running toward her.
"My darling child!" she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and
covering her face with kisses. "Where in the world did you come from?"
"From the Land of Oz," said Dorothy gravely. "And here is Toto, too.
And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be at home again!"#19,220,925text1606
THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH
by William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personae
DUNCAN, King of Scotland
MACBETH, Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, a general in the King's
army
LADY MACBETH, his wife
MACDUFF, Thane of Fife, a nobleman of Scotland
LADY MACDUFF, his wife
MALCOLM, elder son of Duncan
DONALBAIN, younger son of Duncan
BANQUO, Thane of Lochaber, a general in the King's army
FLEANCE, his son
LENNOX, nobleman of Scotland
ROSS, nobleman of Scotland
MENTEITH nobleman of Scotland
ANGUS, nobleman of Scotland
CAITHNESS, nobleman of Scotland
SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces
YOUNG SIWARD, his son
SEYTON, attendant to Macbeth
HECATE, Queen of the Witches
The Three Witches
Boy, Son of Macduff
Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth
An English Doctor
A Scottish Doctor
A Sergeant
A Porter
An Old Man
The Ghost of Banquo and other Apparitions
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murtherers, Attendants,
and Messengers
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SCENE: Scotland and England
ACT I. SCENE I.
A desert place. Thunder and lightning.
Enter three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun.
FIRST WITCH. Where the place?
SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath.
THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth.
FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin.
ALL. Paddock calls. Anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A camp near Forres. Alarum within.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants,
meeting a bleeding Sergeant.
DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report,
As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt
The newest state.
MALCOLM. This is the sergeant
Who like a good and hardy soldier fought
'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!
Say to the King the knowledge of the broil
As thou didst leave it.
SERGEANT. Doubtful it stood,
As two spent swimmers that do cling together
And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald-
Worthy to be a rebel, for to that
The multiplying villainies of nature
Do swarm upon him -from the Western Isles
Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied;
And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,
Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak;
For brave Macbeth -well he deserves that name-
Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish'd steel,
Which smoked with bloody execution,
Like Valor's minion carved out his passage
Till he faced the slave,
Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,
Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,
And fix'd his head upon our battlements.
DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! Worthy gentleman!
SERGEANT. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection
Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,
So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come
Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark.
No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd,
Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels,
But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage,
With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men,
Began a fresh assault.
DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this
Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo.?
SERGEANT. Yes,
As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.
If I say sooth, I must report they were
As cannons overcharged with double cracks,
So they
Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe.
Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,
Or memorize another Golgotha,
I cannot tell-
But I am faint; my gashes cry for help.
DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;
They smack of honor both. Go get him surgeons.
Exit Sergeant, attended.
Who comes here?
Enter Ross.
MALCOLM The worthy Thane of Ross.
LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look
That seems to speak things strange.
ROSS. God save the King!
DUNCAN. Whence camest thou, worthy Thane?
ROSS. From Fife, great King,
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky
And fan our people cold.
Norway himself, with terrible numbers,
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict,
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm,
Curbing his lavish spirit; and, to conclude,
The victory fell on us.
DUNCAN. Great happiness!
ROSS. That now
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition;
Nor would we deign him burial of his men
Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's Inch,
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death,
And with his former title greet Macbeth.
ROSS. I'll see it done.
DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A heath. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister?
SECOND WITCH. Killing swine.
THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou?
FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd. "Give me," quoth I.
"Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master the Tiger;
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.
SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind.
FIRST WITCH. Thou'rt kind.
THIRD WITCH. And I another.
FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other,
And the very ports they blow,
All the quarters that they know
I' the shipman's card.
I will drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid;
He shall live a man forbid.
Weary se'nnights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine;
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-toss'd.
Look what I have.
SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me.
FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb,
Wreck'd as homeward he did come. Drum within.
THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come.
ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about,
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
And thrice again, to make up nine.
Peace! The charm's wound up.
Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips. You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
MACBETH. Speak, if you can. What are you?
FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!
THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter!
BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace and great prediction
Of noble having and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not.
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not,
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear
Your favors nor your hate.
FIRST WITCH. Hail!
SECOND WITCH. Hail!
THIRD WITCH. Hail!
FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier.
THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none.
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more.
By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and to be King
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence, or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.
Witches vanish.
BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles as the water has,
And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd?
MACBETH. Into the air, and what seem'd corporal melted
As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd!
BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH. Your children shall be kings.
BANQUO. You shall be King.
MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too. Went it not so?
BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here?
Enter Ross and Angus.
ROSS. The King hath happily received, Macbeth,
The news of thy success; and when he reads
Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight,
His wonders and his praises do contend
Which should be thine or his. Silenced with that,
In viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day,
He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make,
Strange images of death. As thick as hail
Came post with post, and every one did bear
Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense,
And pour'd them down before him.
ANGUS. We are sent
To give thee, from our royal master, thanks;
Only to herald thee into his sight,
Not pay thee.
ROSS. And for an earnest of a greater honor,
He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor.
In which addition, hail, most worthy Thane,
For it is thine.
BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true?
MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives. Why do you dress me
In borrow'd robes?
ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet,
But under heavy judgement bears that life
Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined
With those of Norway, or did line the rebel
With hidden help and vantage, or that with both
He labor'd in his country's wreck, I know not;
But treasons capital, confess'd and proved,
Have overthrown him.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor!
The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus] Thanks for your
pains.
[Aside to Banquo] Do you not hope your children shall be
kings,
When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me
Promised no less to them?
BANQUO. [Aside to Macbeth.] That, trusted home,
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,
Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange;
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence-
Cousins, a word, I pray you.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme-I thank you, gentlemen.
[Aside.] This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature? Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is
But what is not.
BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt.
MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me King, why, chance may
crown me
Without my stir.
BANQUO. New honors come upon him,
Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould
But with the aid of use.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.
MACBETH. Give me your favor; my dull brain was wrought
With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are register'd where every day I turn
The leaf to read them. Let us toward the King.
Think upon what hath chanced, and at more time,
The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak
Our free hearts each to other.
BANQUO. Very gladly.
MACBETH. Till then, enough. Come, friends. Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Forres. The palace.
Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and
Attendants.
DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not
Those in commission yet return'd?
MALCOLM. My liege,
They are not yet come back. But I have spoke
With one that saw him die, who did report
That very frankly he confess'd his treasons,
Implored your Highness' pardon, and set forth
A deep repentance. Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it; he died
As one that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the dearest thing he owed
As 'twere a careless trifle.
DUNCAN. There's no art
To find the mind's construction in the face:
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.
Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.
O worthiest cousin!
The sin of my ingratitude even now
Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before,
That swiftest wing of recompense is slow
To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! Only I have left to say,
More is thy due than more than all can pay.
MACBETH. The service and the loyalty lowe,
In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness' part
Is to receive our duties, and our duties
Are to your throne and state, children and servants,
Which do but what they should, by doing everything
Safe toward your love and honor.
DUNCAN. Welcome hither.
I have begun to plant thee, and will labor
To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,
That hast no less deserved, nor must be known
No less to have done so; let me infold thee
And hold thee to my heart.
BANQUO. There if I grow,
The harvest is your own.
DUNCAN. My plenteous joys,
Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves
In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes,
And you whose places are the nearest, know
We will establish our estate upon
Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter
The Prince of Cumberland; which honor must
Not unaccompanied invest him only,
But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine
On all deservers. From hence to Inverness,
And bind us further to you.
MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not used for you.
I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful
The hearing of my wife with your approach;
So humbly take my leave.
DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor!
MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap,
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. Exit.
DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant,
And in his commendations I am fed;
It is a banquet to me. Let's after him,
Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome.
It is a peerless kinsman. Flourish. Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Inverness. Macbeth's castle.
Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.
LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success, and I have
learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than
mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them
further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished.
Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from
the
King, who all-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title,
before, these weird sisters saluted me and referred me to the
coming on of time with 'Hail, King that shalt be!' This have
I
thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of
greatness,
that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being
ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy
heart,
and farewell."
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature.
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'ldst have, great Glamis,
That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do
Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,
And chastise with the valor of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.
Enter a Messenger.
What is your tidings?
MESSENGER. The King comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it!
Is not thy master with him? who, were't so,
Would have inform'd for preparation.
MESSENGER. So please you, it is true; our Thane is coming.
One of my fellows had the speed of him,
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.
LADY MACBETH. Give him tending;
He brings great news. Exit Messenger.
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, your murthering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, "Hold, hold!"
Enter Macbeth.
Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.
MACBETH. My dearest love,
Duncan comes here tonight.
LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence?
MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes.
LADY MACBETH. O, never
Shall sun that morrow see!
Your face, my Thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it. He that's coming
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night's great business into my dispatch,
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
MACBETH. We will speak further.
LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear;
To alter favor ever is to fear.
Leave all the rest to me. Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Before Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross,
Angus,
and Attendants.
DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
BANQUO. This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle;
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
The air is delicate.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
DUNCAN. See, see, our honor'd hostess!
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble,
Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you
How you shall bid God 'ield us for your pains,
And thank us for your trouble.
LADY MACBETH. All our service
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business to contend
Against those honors deep and broad wherewith
Your Majesty loads our house. For those of old,
And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We rest your hermits.
DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose
To be his purveyor; but he rides well,
And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess,
We are your guest tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,
To make their audit at your Highness' pleasure,
Still to return your own.
DUNCAN. Give me your hand;
Conduct me to mine host. We love him highly,
And shall continue our graces towards him.
By your leave, hostess. Exeunt.
SCENE VII
Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches.
Enter a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service, who
pass over
the stage. Then enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly. If the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch,
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all -here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgement here, that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which being taught return
To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murtherer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued against
The deep damnation of his taking-off,
And pity, like a naked new-born babe
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
How now, what news?
LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd. Why have you left the
chamber?
MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me?
LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has?
MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business:
He hath honor'd me of late, and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people,
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Not cast aside so soon.
LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk
Wherein you dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valor
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would"
Like the poor cat i' the adage?
MACBETH. Prithee, peace!
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.
LADY MACBETH. What beast wast then
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both.
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you. I have given suck and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me-
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums
And dash'd the brains out had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.
MACBETH. If we should fail?
LADY MACBETH. We fail?
But screw your courage to the sticking-place
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep-
Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him- his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince
That memory, the warder of the brain,
Shall be a fume and the receipt of reason
A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
The unguarded Duncan? What not put upon
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?
MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only,
For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males. Will it not be received,
When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,
That they have done't?
LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other,
As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar
Upon his death?
MACBETH. I am settled and bend up
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show:
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Exeunt.
<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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ACT II. SCENE I.
Inverness. Court of Macbeth's castle.
Enter Banquo and Fleance, bearing a torch before him.
BANQUO. How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve.
FLEANCE. I take't 'tis later, sir.
BANQUO. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven,
Their candles are all out. Take thee that too.
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose!
Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.
Give me my sword.
Who's there?
MACBETH. A friend.
BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King's abed.
He hath been in unusual pleasure and
Sent forth great largess to your offices.
This diamond he greets your wife withal,
By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up
In measureless content.
MACBETH. Being unprepared,
Our will became the servant to defect,
Which else should free have wrought.
BANQUO. All's well.
I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:
To you they have show'd some truth.
MACBETH. I think not of them;
Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,
We would spend it in some words upon that business,
If you would grant the time.
BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure.
MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,
It shall make honor for you.
BANQUO. So I lose none
In seeking to augment it, but still keep
My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,
I shall be counsel'd.
MACBETH. Good repose the while.
BANQUO. Thanks, sir, the like to you.
Exeunt Banquo. and Fleance.
MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Exit Servant.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murther,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
A bell rings.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit.
SCENE II.
The same.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me
bold;
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugg'd their
possets
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.
MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there' what, ho!
LADY MACBETH. Alack, I am afraid they have awaked
And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done't.
Enter Macbeth,
My husband!
MACBETH. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?
LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?
MACBETH. When?
LADY MACBETH. Now.
MACBETH. As I descended?
LADY MACBETH. Ay.
MACBETH. Hark!
Who lies i' the second chamber?
LADY MACBETH. Donalbain.
MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looks on his hands.
LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
MACBETH. There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried,
"Murther!"
That they did wake each other. I stood and heard them,
But they did say their prayers and address'd them
Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH. There are two lodged together.
MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen" the other,
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen,"
When they did say, "God bless us!"
LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply.
MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.
LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murther sleep" -the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravel'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast-
LADY MACBETH. What do you mean?
MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house;
"Glamis hath murther'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more."
LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy Thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things. Go, get some water
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there. Go carry them, and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
MACBETH. I'll go no more.
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.
LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt. Exit. Knocking within.
MACBETH. Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
Re-enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking
At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber.
A little water clears us of this deed.
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.] Hark, more
knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us
And show us to be watchers. Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.
Knocking within.
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The same.
Enter a Porter. Knocking within.
PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of Hell
Gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking within.]
Knock, knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub?
Here's
a farmer that hanged himself on th' expectation of plenty.
Come
in time! Have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat fort.
[Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in th' other
devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator that could swear
in
both the scales against either scale, who committed treason
enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. O,
come in, equivocator. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock!
Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for
stealing out of a French hose. Come in, tailor; here you may
roast your goose. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Never at
quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell.
I'll
devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some
of
all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting
bonfire. [Knocking within.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember
the
porter.
Opens the gate.
Enter Macduff and Lennox.
MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
That you do lie so late?
PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and
drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke?
PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery,
sir,
it provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it
takes
away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be
an
equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it
sets
him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him and
disheartens
him; makes him stand to and not stand to; in conclusion,
equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves
him.
MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat on me; but
requited
him for his lie, and, I think, being too strong for him,
though
he took up my legs sometime, yet I made shift to cast him.
MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?
Enter Macbeth.
Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes.
LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir.
MACBETH. morrow, both.
MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?
MACBETH. Not yet.
MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him;
I have almost slipp'd the hour.
MACBETH. I'll bring you to him.
MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you,
But yet 'tis one.
MACBETH. The labor we delight in physics pain.
This is the door.
MACDUFF I'll make so bold to call,
For 'tis my limited service. Exit.
LENNOX. Goes the King hence today?
MACBETH. He does; he did appoint so.
LENNOX. The night has been unruly. Where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death,
And prophesying with accents terrible
Of dire combustion and confused events
New hatch'd to the woeful time. The obscure bird
Clamor'd the livelong night. Some say the earth
Was feverous and did shake.
MACBETH. 'Twas a rough fight.
LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.
Re-enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart
Cannot conceive nor name thee.
MACBETH. LENNOX. What's the matter?
MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
Most sacrilegious murther hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple and stole thence
The life o' the building.
MACBETH. What is't you say? the life?
LENNOX. Mean you his Majesty?
MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak;
See, and then speak yourselves.
Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.
Awake, awake!
Ring the alarum bell. Murther and treason!
Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm, awake!
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on death itself! Up, up, and see
The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo!
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites
To countenance this horror! Ring the bell. Bell rings.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
LADY MACBETH. What's the business,
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!
MACDUFF. O gentle lady,
'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak:
The repetition in a woman's ear
Would murther as it fell.
Enter Banquo.
O Banquo, Banquo!
Our royal master's murther'd.
LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas!
What, in our house?
BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere.
Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself,
And say it is not so.
Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.
MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance,
I had lived a blessed time, for from this instant
There's nothing serious in mortality.
All is but toys; renown and grace is dead,
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.
Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.
DONALBAIN. What is amiss?
MACBETH. You are, and do not know't.
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood
Is stopped, the very source of it is stopp'd.
MACDUFF. Your royal father's murther'd.
MALCOLM. O, by whom?
LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't.
Their hands and faces were all badged with blood;
So were their daggers, which unwiped we found
Upon their pillows.
They stared, and were distracted; no man's life
Was to be trusted with them.
MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.
MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so?
MACBETH. Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
The expedition of my violent love
Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin laced with his golden blood,
And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature
For ruin's wasteful entrance; there, the murtherers,
Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers
Unmannerly breech'd with gore. Who could refrain,
That had a heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make 's love known?
LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho!
MACDUFF. Look to the lady.
MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Why do we hold our tongues,
That most may claim this argument for ours?
DONALBAIN. [Aside to Malcolm.] What should be spoken here,
where
our fate,
Hid in an auger hole, may rush and seize us?
Let's away,
Our tears are not yet brew'd.
MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Nor our strong sorrow
Upon the foot of motion.
BANQUO. Look to the lady.
Lady Macbeth is carried out.
And when we have our naked frailties hid,
That suffer in exposure, let us meet
And question this most bloody piece of work
To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us.
In the great hand of God I stand, and thence
Against the undivulged pretense I fight
Of treasonous malice.
MACDUFF. And so do I.
ALL. So all.
MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness
And meet i' the hall together.
ALL. Well contented.
Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.
MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them.
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office
Which the false man does easy. I'll to England.
DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune
Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are
There's daggers in men's smiles; the near in blood,
The nearer bloody.
MALCOLM. This murtherous shaft that's shot
Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse;
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,
But shift away. There's warrant in that theft
Which steals itself when there's no mercy left.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Outside Macbeth's castle.
Enter Ross with an Old Man.
OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well,
Within the volume of which time I have seen
Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings.
ROSS. Ah, good father,
Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man's act,
Threaten his bloody stage. By the clock 'tis day,
And yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp.
Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame,
That darkness does the face of earth entomb,
When living light should kiss it?
OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural,
Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last
A falcon towering in her pride of place
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.
ROSS. And Duncan's horses-a thing most strange and certain-
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make
War with mankind.
OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other.
ROSS. They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes
That look'd upon't.
Enter Macduff.
Here comes the good Macduff.
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF. Why, see you not?
ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS. Alas, the day!
What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF. They were suborn'd:
Malcolm and Donalbain, the King's two sons,
Are stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them
Suspicion of the deed.
ROSS. 'Gainst nature still!
Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up
Thine own life's means! Then 'tis most like
The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.
MACDUFF. He is already named, and gone to Scone
To be invested.
ROSS. Where is Duncan's body?
MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill,
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors
And guardian of their bones.
ROSS. Will you to Scone?
MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife.
ROSS. Well, I will thither.
MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there.
Adieu,
Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!
ROSS. Farewell, father.
OLD MAN. God's benison go with you and with those
That would make good of bad and friends of foes!
Exeunt.
<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITY
WITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>
ACT III. SCENE I.
Forres. The palace.
Enter Banquo.
BANQUO. Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
As the weird women promised, and I fear
Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said
It should not stand in thy posterity,
But that myself should be the root and father
Of many kings. If there come truth from them
(As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine)
Why, by the verities on thee made good,
May they not be my oracles as well
And set me up in hope? But hush, no more.
Sennet sounds. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth
as Queen, Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.
MACBETH. Here's our chief guest.
LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten,
It had been as a gap in our great feast
And all thing unbecoming.
MACBETH. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir,
And I'll request your presence.
BANQUO. Let your Highness
Command upon me, to the which my duties
Are with a most indissoluble tie
Forever knit.
MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH. We should have else desired your good advice,
Which still hath been both grave and prosperous
In this day's council; but we'll take tomorrow.
Is't far you ride'!
BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time
'Twixt this and supper. Go not my horse the better,
I must become a borrower of the night
For a dark hour or twain.
MACBETH. Fail not our feast.
BANQUO. My lord, I will not.
MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd
In England and in Ireland, not confessing
Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers
With strange invention. But of that tomorrow,
When therewithal we shall have cause of state
Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse; adieu,
Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. Our time does call upon 's.
MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot,
And so I do commend you to their backs.
Farewell. Exit Banquo.
Let every man be master of his time
Till seven at night; to make society
The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself
Till supper time alone. While then, God be with you!
Exeunt all but Macbeth and an Attendant.
Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men
Our pleasure?
ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate.
MACBETH. Bring them before us. Exit Attendant.
To be thus is nothing,
But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo.
Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature
Reigns that which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,
He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor
To act in safety. There is none but he
Whose being I do fear; and under him
My genius is rebuked, as it is said
Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters
When first they put the name of King upon me
And bade them speak to him; then prophet-like
They hail'd him father to a line of kings.
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding. If't be so,
For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind,
For them the gracious Duncan have I murther'd,
Put rancors in the vessel of my peace
Only for them, and mine eternal jewel
Given to the common enemy of man,
To make them kings -the seed of Banquo kings!
Rather than so, come, Fate, into the list,
And champion me to the utterance! Who's there?
Re-enter Attendant, with two Murtherers.
Now go to the door, and stay there till we call.
Exit Attendant.
Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
FIRST MURTHERER. It was, so please your Highness.
MACBETH. Well then, now
Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know
That it was he in the times past which held you
So under fortune, which you thought had been
Our innocent self? This I made good to you
In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you:
How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments,
Who wrought with them, and all things else that might
To half a soul and to a notion crazed
Say, "Thus did Banquo."
FIRST MURTHERER. You made it known to us.
MACBETH. I did so, and went further, which is now
Our point of second meeting. Do you find
Your patience so predominant in your nature,
That you can let this go? Are you so gospel'd,
To pray for this good man and for his issue,
Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave
And beggar'd yours forever?
FIRST MURTHERER. We are men, my liege.
MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men,
As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, waterrugs, and demi-wolves are clept
All by the name of dogs. The valued file
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
The housekeeper, the hunter, every one
According to the gift which bounteous nature
Hath in him closed, whereby he does receive
Particular addition, from the bill
That writes them all alike; and so of men.
Now if you have a station in the file,
Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it,
And I will put that business in your bosoms
Whose execution takes your enemy off,
Grapples you to the heart and love of us,
Who wear our health but sickly in his life,
Which in his death were perfect.
SECOND MURTHERER. I am one, my liege,
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have so incensed that I am reckless what
I do to spite the world.
FIRST MURTHERER. And I another
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it or be rid on't.
MACBETH. Both of you
Know Banquo was your enemy.
BOTH MURTHERERS. True, my lord.
MACBETH. So is he mine, and in such bloody distance
That every minute of his being thrusts
Against my near'st of life; and though I could
With barefaced power sweep him from my sight
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine,
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall
Who I myself struck down. And thence it is
That I to your assistance do make love,
Masking the business from the common eye
For sundry weighty reasons.
SECOND MURTHERER. We shall, my lord,
Perform what you command us.
FIRST MURTHERER. Though our lives-
MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at
most
I will advise you where to plant yourselves,
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
The moment on't; fort must be done tonight
And something from the palace (always thought
That I require a clearness); and with him-
To leave no rubs nor botches in the work-
Fleance his son, that keeps him company,
Whose absence is no less material to me
Than is his father's, must embrace the fate
Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart;
I'll come to you anon.
BOTH MURTHERERS. We are resolved, my lord.
MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight. Abide within.
Exeunt Murtherers.
It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul's flight,
If it find heaven, must find it out tonight. Exit.
SCENE II.
The palace.
Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.
LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court?
SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again tonight.
LADY MACBETH. Say to the King I would attend his leisure
For a few words.
SERVANT. Madam, I will. Exit.
LADY MACBETH. Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content.
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Enter Macbeth.
How now, my lord? Why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making,
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard. What's done is done.
MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it.
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.
LADY MACBETH. Come on,
Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight.
MACBETH. So shall I, love, and so, I pray, be you.
Let your remembrance apply to Banquo;
Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue:
Unsafe the while, that we
Must lave our honors in these flattering streams,
And make our faces vizards to our hearts,
Disguising what they are.
LADY MACBETH. You must leave this.
MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know'st that Banquo and his Fleance lives.
LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne.
MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable.
Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons
The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.
LADY MACBETH. What's to be done?
MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,
And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond
Which keeps me pale! Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood;
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Thou marvel'st at my words, but hold thee still:
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
So, prithee, go with me. Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A park near the palace.
Enter three Murtherers.
FIRST MURTHERER. But who did bid thee join with us?
THIRD MURTHERER. Macbeth.
SECOND MURTHERER. He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers
Our offices and what we have to do
To the direction just.
FIRST MURTHERER. Then stand with us.
The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day;
Now spurs the lated traveler apace
To gain the timely inn, and near approaches
The subject of our watch.
THIRD MURTHERER. Hark! I hear horses.
BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho!
SECOND MURTHERER. Then 'tis he; the rest
That are within the note of expectation
Already are i' the court.
FIRST MURTHERER. His horses go about.
THIRD MURTHERER. Almost a mile, but he does usually-
So all men do -from hence to the palace gate
Make it their walk.
SECOND MURTHERER. A light, a light!
Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.
THIRD MURTHERER. 'Tis he.
FIRST MURTHERER. Stand to't.
BANQUO. It will be rain tonight.
FIRST MURTHERER. Let it come down.
They set upon Banquo.
BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!
Thou mayst revenge. O slave! Dies. Fleance escapes.
THIRD MURTHERER. Who did strike out the light?
FIRST MURTHERER. Wast not the way?
THIRD MURTHERER. There's but one down; the son is fled.
SECOND MURTHERER. We have lost
Best half of our affair.
FIRST MURTHERER. Well, let's away and say how much is done.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A Hall in the palace. A banquet prepared.
Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.
MACBETH. You know your own degrees; sit down. At first
And last the hearty welcome.
LORDS. Thanks to your Majesty.
MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society
And play the humble host.
Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time
We will require her welcome.
LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends,
For my heart speaks they are welcome.
Enter first Murtherer to the door.
MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.
Both sides are even; here I'll sit i' the midst.
Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure
The table round. [Approaches the door.] There's blood upon
thy
face.
MURTHERER. 'Tis Banquo's then.
MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within.
Is he dispatch'd?
MURTHERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats! Yet he's good
That did the like for Fleance. If thou didst it,
Thou art the nonpareil.
MURTHERER. Most royal sir,
Fleance is 'scaped.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Then comes my fit again. I had else been
perfect,
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock,
As broad and general as the casing air;
But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears -But Banquo's safe?
MURTHERER. Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched gashes on his head,
The least a death to nature.
MACBETH. Thanks for that.
There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled
Hath nature that in time will venom breed,
No teeth for the present. Get thee gone. Tomorrow
We'll hear ourselves again.
Exit Murtherer.
LADY MACBETH. My royal lord,
You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold
That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis amaking,
'Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home;
From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony;
Meeting were bare without it.
MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!
Now good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both!
LENNOX. May't please your Highness sit.
The Ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place.
MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd,
Were the graced person of our Banquo present,
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness
Than pity for mischance!
ROSS. His absence, sir,
Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your Highness
To grace us with your royal company?
MACBETH. The table's full.
LENNOX. Here is a place reserved, sir.
MACBETH. Where?
LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your Highness?
MACBETH. Which of you have done this?
LORDS. What, my good lord?
MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it; never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is well.
LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends; my lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep seat.
The fit is momentary; upon a thought
He will again be well. If much you note him,
You shall offend him and extend his passion.
Feed, and regard him not-Are you a man?
MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.
LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fear;
This is the air-drawn dagger which you said
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts,
Impostors to true fear, would well become
A woman's story at a winter's fire,
Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.
MACBETH. Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you?
Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.
If charnel houses and our graves must send
Those that we bury back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites. Exit Ghost.
LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly?
MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him.
LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame!
MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murthers have been perform'd
Too terrible for the ear. The time has been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murthers on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murther is.
LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord,
Your noble friends do lack you.
MACBETH. I do forget.
Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends.
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all;
Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine, fill full.
I drink to the general joy o' the whole table,
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss.
Would he were here! To all and him we thirst,
And all to all.
LORDS. Our duties and the pledge.
Re-enter Ghost.
MACBETH. Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.
LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers,
But as a thing of custom. 'Tis no other,
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
MACBETH. What man dare, I dare.
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble. Or be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword.
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence! Exit Ghost.
Why, so, being gone,
I am a man again. Pray you sit still.
LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good
meeting,
With most admired disorder.
MACBETH. Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder? You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe
When now I think you can behold such sights
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks
When mine is blanch'd with fear.
ROSS. What sights, my lord?
LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;
Question enrages him. At once, good night.
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.
LENNOX. Good night, and better health
Attend his Majesty!
LADY MACBETH. A kind good night to all!
Exeunt all but Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.
MACBETH. will have blood; they say blood will have blood.
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak;
Augures and understood relations have
By maggot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret'st man of blood. What is the night?
LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person
At our great bidding?
LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir?
MACBETH. I hear it by the way, but I will send.
There's not a one of them but in his house
I keep a servant feed. I will tomorrow,
And betimes I will, to the weird sisters.
More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good
All causes shall give way. I am in blood
Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Strange things I have in head that will to hand,
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.
LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use.
We are yet but young in deed. Exeunt.
SCENE V.
A heath. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.
FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? You look angerly.
HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are,
Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth
In riddles and affairs of death,
And I, the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never call'd to bear my part,
Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now. Get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i' the morning. Thither he
Will come to know his destiny.
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms and everything beside.
I am for the air; this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal and a fatal end.
Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground.
And that distill'd by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites
As by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion.
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear.
And you all know security
Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
Music and a song within,
"Come away, come away."
Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. Exit.
FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again.
Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Forres. The palace.
Enter Lennox and another Lord.
LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts,
Which can interpret farther; only I say
Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan
Was pitied of Macbeth; marry, he was dead.
And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,
Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd,
For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late.
Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous
It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain
To kill their gracious father? Damned fact!
How it did grieve Macbeth! Did he not straight,
In pious rage, the two delinquents tear
That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep?
Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too,
For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive
To hear the men deny't. So that, I say,
He has borne all things well; and I do think
That, had he Duncan's sons under his key-
As, an't please heaven, he shall not -they should find
What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance.
But, peace! For from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd
His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear,
Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell
Where he bestows himself?
LORD. The son of Duncan,
From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth,
Lives in the English court and is received
Of the most pious Edward with such grace
That the malevolence of fortune nothing
Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff
Is gone to pray the holy King, upon his aid
To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward;
That by the help of these, with Him above
To ratify the work, we may again
Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights,
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives,
Do faithful homage, and receive free honors-
All which we pine for now. And this report
Hath so exasperate the King that he
Prepares for some attempt of war.
LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff?
LORD. He did, and with an absolute "Sir, not I,"
The cloudy messenger turns me his back,
And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time
That clogs me with this answer."
LENNOX. And that well might
Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance
His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel
Fly to the court of England and unfold
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing
May soon return to this our suffering country
Under a hand accursed!
LORD. I'll send my prayers with him.
Exeunt.
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ACT IV. SCENE I.
A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
SECOND WITCH. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.
THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries, "'Tis time, 'tis time."
FIRST WITCH. Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab.
Add thereto a tiger's chawdron,
For the ingredients of our cawdron.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Enter Hecate to the other three Witches.
HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains,
And everyone shall share i' the gains.
And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.
Music and a song, "Black spirits."
Hecate retires.
SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?
What is't you do?
ALL. A deed without a name.
MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess
(Howeer you come to know it) answer me:
Though you untie the winds and let them fight
Against the churches, though the yesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up,
Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down,
Though castles topple on their warders' heads,
Though palaces and pyramids do slope
Their heads to their foundations, though the treasure
Of nature's germaines tumble all together
Even till destruction sicken, answer me
To what I ask you.
FIRST WITCH. Speak.
SECOND WITCH. Demand.
THIRD WITCH. We'll answer.
FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths,
Or from our masters'?
MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em.
FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood that hath eaten
Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten
From the murtherer's gibbet throw
Into the flame.
ALL. Come, high or low;
Thyself and office deftly show!
Thunder. First Apparition: an armed Head.
MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power-
FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought:
Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
FIRST APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff,
Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.
Descends.
MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;
Thou hast harp'd my fear aright. But one word more-
FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded. Here's another,
More potent than the first.
Thunder. Second Apparition: a bloody Child.
SECOND APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee.
SECOND APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to
scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth. Descends.
MACBETH. Then live, Macduff. What need I fear of thee?
But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live,
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder.
Thunder. Third Apparition: a Child crowned,
with a tree in his hand.
What is this,
That rises like the issue of a king,
And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty?
ALL. Listen, but speak not to't.
THIRD APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are.
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him. Descends.
MACBETH. That will never be.
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good!
Rebellion's head, rise never till the Wood
Of Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art
Can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever
Reign in this kingdom?
ALL. Seek to know no more.
MACBETH. I will be satisfied! Deny me this,
And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.
Why sinks that cauldron, and what noise is this?
Hautboys.
FIRST WITCH. Show!
SECOND WITCH. Show!
THIRD. WITCH. Show!
ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart!
A show of eight Kings, the last with a glass in his hand;
Banquo's Ghost following.
MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo Down!
Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs. And thy hair,
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first.
A third is like the former. Filthy hags!
Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes!
What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet! A seventh! I'll see no more!
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass
Which shows me many more; and some I see
That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry.
Horrible sight! Now I see 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his. What, is this so?
FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so. But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights.
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round,
That this great King may kindly say
Our duties did his welcome pay.
Music. The Witches dance and
then vanish with Hecate.
MACBETH. are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour
Stand ay accursed in the calendar!
Come in, without there!
Enter Lennox.
LENNOX. What's your Grace's will?
MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters?
LENNOX. No, my lord.
MACBETH. Came they not by you?
LENNOX. No indeed, my lord.
MACBETH. Infected be the 'air whereon they ride,
And damn'd all those that trust them! I did hear
The galloping of horse. Who wast came by?
LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word
Macduff is fled to England.
MACBETH. Fled to England?
LENNOX. Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits.
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook
Unless the deed go with it. From this moment
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand. And even now,
To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:
The castle of Macduff I will surprise,
Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o' the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.
But no more sights! -Where are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are. Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Fife. Macduff's castle.
Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.
LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land?
ROSS. You must have patience, madam.
LADY MACDUFF. He had none;
His flight was madness. When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.
ROSS. You know not
Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.
LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom? To leave his wife, to leave his babes,
His mansion, and his titles, in a place
From whence himself does fly? He loves us not;
He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
All is the fear and nothing is the love;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason.
ROSS. My dearest coz,
I pray you, school yourself. But for your husband,
He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows
The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further;
But cruel are the times when we are traitors
And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumor
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear,
But float upon a wild and violent sea
Each way and move. I take my leave of you;
Shall not be long but I'll be here again.
Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward
To what they were before. My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!
LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.
ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace and your discomfort.
I take my leave at once. Exit.
LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead.
And what will you do now? How will you live?
SON. As birds do, Mother.
LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies?
SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they.
LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! Thou'ldst never fear the net nor lime,
The pitfall nor the gin.
SON. Why should I, Mother? Poor birds they are not set for.
My father is not dead, for all your saying.
LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead. How wilt thou do for father?
SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.
SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.
LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit, and yet, i'
faith,
With wit enough for thee.
SON. Was my father a traitor, Mother?
LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was.
SON. What is a traitor?
LADY MACDUFF. Why one that swears and lies.
SON. And be all traitors that do so?
LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor and must be
hanged.
SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?
LADY MACDUFF. Everyone.
SON. Who must hang them?
LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men.
SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars
and
swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.
LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt
thou do
for a father?
SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him; if you would not, it
were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.
LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st!
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,
Though in your state of honor I am perfect.
I doubt some danger does approach you nearly.
If you will take a homely man's advice,
Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.
To fright you thus, methinks I am too savage;
To do worse to you were fell cruelty,
Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!
I dare abide no longer. Exit.
LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly?
I have done no harm. But I remember now
I am in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable, to do good sometime
Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas,
Do I put up that womanly defense,
To say I have done no harm -What are these faces?
Enter Murtherers.
FIRST MURTHERER. Where is your husband?
LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified
Where such as thou mayst find him.
FIRST MURTHERER. He's a traitor.
SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear'd villain!
FIRST MURTHERER. What, you egg!
Stabs him.
Young fry of treachery!
SON. He has kill'd me, Mother.
Run away, I pray you! Dies.
Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murther!"
Exeunt Murtherers, following her.
SCENE III.
England. Before the King's palace.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
MACDUFF. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men
Bestride our downfall'n birthdom. Each new morn
New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolor.
MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wall;
What know, believe; and what I can redress,
As I shall find the time to friend, I will.
What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
Was once thought honest. You have loved him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but something
You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb
To appease an angry god.
MACDUFF. I am not treacherous.
MALCOLM. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon;
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,
Yet grace must still look so.
MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes.
MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left you wife and child,
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,
Without leave-taking? I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonors,
But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,
Whatever I shall think.
MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare not check thee. Wear thou thy wrongs;
The title is affeer'd. Fare thee well, lord.
I would not be the villain that thou think'st
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp
And the rich East to boot.
MALCOLM. Be not offended;
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds. I think withal
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here from gracious England have I offer
Of goodly thousands. But for all this,
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
Shall have more vices than it had before,
More suffer and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed.
MACDUFF. What should he be?
MALCOLM. It is myself I mean, in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state
Esteem him as a lamb, being compared
With my confineless harms.
MACDUFF. Not in the legions
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd
In evils to top Macbeth.
MALCOLM. I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin
That has a name. But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids could not fill up
The cestern of my lust, and my desire
All continent impediments would o'erbear
That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth
Than such an one to reign.
MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours. You may
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be
That vulture in you to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclined.
MALCOLM. With this there grows
In my most ill-composed affection such
A stanchless avarice that, were I King,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands,
Desire his jewels and this other's house,
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more, that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
MACDUFF. This avarice
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will
Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other graces weigh'd.
MALCOLM. But I have none. The king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
I have no relish of them, but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland!
MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak.
I am as I have spoken.
MACDUFF. Fit to govern?
No, not to live. O nation miserable!
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accursed
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!
These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself
Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast,
Thy hope ends here!
MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts
To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath sought to win me
Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous haste. But God above
Deal between thee and me! For even now
I put myself to thy direction and
Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself,
For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman, never was forsworn,
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my faith, would not betray
The devil to his fellow, and delight
No less in truth than life. My first false speaking
Was this upon myself. What I am truly
Is thine and my poor country's to command.
Whither indeed, before thy here-approach,
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men
Already at a point, was setting forth.
Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?
MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
'Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter a Doctor.
MALCOLM. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you?
DOCTOR. Ay, sir, there are a crew of wretched souls
That stay his cure. Their malady convinces
The great assay of art, but at his touch,
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They presently amend.
MALCOLM. I thank you, Doctor. Exit Doctor.
MACDUFF. What's the disease he means?
MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil:
A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often, since my here-remain in England,
I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven,
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,
All swol'n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks
Put on with holy prayers; and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,
And sundry blessings hang about his throne
That speak him full of grace.
Enter Ross.
MACDUFF. See, who comes here?
MALCOLM. My countryman, but yet I know him not.
MACDUFF. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither.
MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove
The means that makes us strangers!
ROSS. Sir, amen.
MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did?
ROSS. Alas, poor country,
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave. Where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy. The dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd for who, and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying or ere they sicken.
MACDUFF. O, relation
Too nice, and yet too true!
MALCOLM. What's the newest grief?
ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Each minute teems a new one.
MACDUFF. How does my wife?
ROSS. Why, well.
MACDUFF. And all my children?
ROSS. Well too.
MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?
ROSS. No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.
MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech. How goest?
ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor
Of many worthy fellows that were out,
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant's power afoot.
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.
MALCOLM. Be't their comfort
We are coming thither. Gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;
An older and a better soldier none
That Christendom gives out.
ROSS. Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.
MACDUFF. What concern they?
The general cause? Or is it a fee-grief
Due to some single breast?
ROSS. No mind that's honest
But in it shares some woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone.
MACDUFF. If it be mine,
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue forever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound
That ever yet they heard.
MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it.
ROSS. Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes
Savagely slaughter'd. To relate the manner
Were, on the quarry of these murther'd deer,
To add the death of you.
MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!
What, man! Neer pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
MACDUFF. My children too?
ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.
MACDUFF. And I must be from thence!
My wife kill'd too?
ROSS. I have said.
MALCOLM. Be comforted.
Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.
MACDUFF. He has no children. All my pretty ones?
Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?
MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man.
MACDUFF. I shall do so,
But I must also feel it as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were
That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!
MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes
And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens,
Cut short all intermission; front to front
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
MALCOLM. This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the King; our power is ready,
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may,
The night is long that never finds the day. Exeunt.
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ACT V. SCENE I.
Dunsinane. Anteroom in the castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentlewoman.
DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no
truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
GENTLEWOMAN. Since his Majesty went into the field, have seen
her
rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her
closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it,
afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this
while
in a most fast sleep.
DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the
benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this
slumbery
agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances,
what, at any time, have you heard her say?
GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her.
DOCTOR. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should.
GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor anyone, having no witness to
confirm my speech.
Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper.
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise, and, upon my
life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
DOCTOR. How came she by that light?
GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her. She has light by her
continually; 'tis her command.
DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open.
GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut.
DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.
GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a
quarter of
an hour.
LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot.
DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks! I will set down what comes from her,
to
satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One- two -why then
'tis
time to do't. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier,
and
afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call
our
power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to
have
had so much blood in him?
DOCTOR. Do you mark that?
LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?
What,
will these hands neer be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no
more
o' that. You mar all with this starting.
DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
that.
Heaven knows what she has known.
LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still. All the
perfumes
of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!
DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the
dignity of the whole body.
DOCTOR. Well, well, well-
GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir.
DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known
those
which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in
their
beds.
LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look not
so
pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come
out
on's grave.
DOCTOR. Even so?
LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate.
Come,
come, come, come, give me your hand.What's done cannot be
undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed.
Exit.
DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed?
GENTLEWOMAN. Directly.
DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her. So good night.
My mind she has mated and amazed my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.
GENTLEWOMAN. Good night, good doctor.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The country near Dunsinane. Drum and colors.
Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.
MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,
His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff.
Revenges burn in them, for their dear causes
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm
Excite the mortified man.
ANGUS. Near Birnam Wood
Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.
CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not; I have a file
Of all the gentry. There is Seward's son
And many unrough youths that even now
Protest their first of manhood.
MENTEITH. What does the tyrant?
CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.
Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him,
Do call it valiant fury; but, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within the belt of rule.
ANGUS. Now does he feel
His secret murthers sticking on his hands,
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
MENTEITH. Who then shall blame
His pester'd senses to recoil and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself for being there?
CAITHNESS. Well, march we on
To give obedience where 'tis truly owed.
Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,
And with him pour we, in our country's purge,
Each drop of us.
LENNOX. Or so much as it needs
To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.
Make we our march towards Birnam. Exeunt marching.
SCENE III.
Dunsinane. A room in the castle.
Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.
MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all!
Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:
"Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman
Shall e'er have power upon thee." Then fly, false Thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures!
The mind I sway by and the heart I bear
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!
Where got'st thou that goose look?
SERVANT. There is ten thousand-
MACBETH. Geese, villain?
SERVANT. Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul! Those linen cheeks of thine
Are counselors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
SERVANT. The English force, so please you.
MACBETH. Take thy face hence. Exit Servant.
Seyton-I am sick at heart,
When I behold- Seyton, I say!- This push
Will cheer me ever or disseat me now.
I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not.
Seyton!
Enter Seyton.
SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure?
MACBETH. What news more?
SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
MACBETH. I'll fight, 'til from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
Give me my armor.
SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet.
MACBETH. I'll put it on.
Send out more horses, skirr the country round,
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armor.
How does your patient, doctor?
DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
MACBETH. Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
DOCTOR. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff.
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.
Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again. Pull't off, I say.
What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug
Would scour these English hence? Hearst thou of them?
DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord, your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.
MACBETH. Bring it after me.
I will not be afraid of death and bane
Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane.
DOCTOR. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here. Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Country near Birnam Wood. Drum and colors.
Enter Malcolm, old Seward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith,
Caithness,
Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.
MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand
That chambers will be safe.
MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing.
SIWARD. What wood is this before us?
MENTEITH. The Wood of Birnam.
MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough,
And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, and make discovery
Err in report of us.
SOLDIERS. It shall be done.
SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant
Keeps still in Dunsinane and will endure
Our setting down before't.
MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope;
For where there is advantage to be given,
Both more and less have given him the revolt,
And none serve with him but constrained things
Whose hearts are absent too.
MACDUFF. Let our just censures
Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious soldiership.
SIWARD. The time approaches
That will with due decision make us know
What we shall say we have and what we owe.
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate.
Towards which advance the war.
Exeunt Marching.
SCENE V.
Dunsinane. Within the castle.
Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum and colors.
MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still, "They come!" Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.
Were they not forced with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home.
A cry of women within.
What is that noise?
SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. Exit.
MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in't. I have supp'd full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.
Re-enter Seyton.
Wherefore was that cry?
SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Enter a Messenger.
Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.
MESSENGER. Gracious my lord,
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.
MACBETH. Well, say, sir.
MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The Wood began to move.
MACBETH. Liar and slave!
MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so.
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.
MACBETH. If thou speak'st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee; if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.
I pull in resolution and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam Wood
Do come to Dunsinane," and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!
If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.
I 'gin to be aweary of the sun
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum bell! Blow, wind! Come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back. Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Dunsinane. Before the castle.
Enter Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, and their Army, with boughs.
Drum and colors.
MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leavy screens throw down,
And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle,
Shall with my cousin, your right noble son,
Lead our first battle. Worthy Macduff and we
Shall take upon 's what else remains to do,
According to our order.
SIWARD. Fare you well.
Do we but find the tyrant's power tonight,
Let us be beaten if we cannot fight.
MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak, give them all breath,
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Dunsinane. Before the castle. Alarums.
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,
But bear-like I must fight the course. What's he
That was not born of woman? Such a one
Am I to fear, or none.
Enter young Siward.
YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name?
MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.
YOUNG SIWARD. No, though thou call'st thyself a hotter name
Than any is in hell.
MACBETH. My name's Macbeth.
YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title
More hateful to mine ear.
MACBETH. No, nor more fearful.
YOUNG SIWARD O Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword
I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.
They fight, and young Seward is slain.
MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.
But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,
Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. Exit.
Alarums. Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face!
If thou best slain and with no stroke of mine,
My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.
I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms
Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth,
Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge,
I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;
By this great clatter, one of greatest note
Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune!
And more I beg not. Exit. Alarums.
Enter Malcolm and old Siward.
SIWARD. This way, my lord; the castle's gently render'd.
The tyrant's people on both sides do fight,
The noble Thanes do bravely in the war,
The day almost itself professes yours,
And little is to do.
MALCOLM. We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle.
Exeunt. Alarum.
SCENE VIII.
Another part of the field.
Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool and die
On mine own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gashes
Do better upon them.
Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. Turn, hell hound, turn!
MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee.
But get thee back, my soul is too much charged
With blood of thine already.
MACDUFF. I have no words.
My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out! They fight.
MACBETH. Thou losest labor.
As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air
With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed.
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.
MACDUFF. Despair thy charm,
And let the angel whom thou still hast served
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.
MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believed
That patter with us in a double sense,
That keep the word of promise to our ear
And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee.
MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward,
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time.
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,
"Here may you see the tyrant."
MACBETH. I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
And to be baited with the rabble's curse.
Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou opposed, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!"
Exeunt fighting. Alarums.
SCENE IX.
Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old
Siward, Ross,
the other Thanes, and Soldiers.
MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.
SIWARD. Some must go off, and yet, by these I see,
So great a day as this is cheaply bought.
MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt.
He only lived but till he was a man,
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.
SIWARD. Then he is dead?
ROSS. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measured by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
SIWARD. Had he his hurts before?
ROSS. Ay, on the front.
SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death.
And so his knell is knoll'd.
MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow,
And that I'll spend for him.
SIWARD. He's worth no more:
They say he parted well and paid his score,
And so God be with him! Here comes newer comfort.
Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.
MACDUFF. Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold where stands
The usurper's cursed head. The time is free.
I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl
That speak my salutation in their minds,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine-
Hail, King of Scotland!
ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! Flourish.
MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time
Before we reckon with your several loves
And make us even with you. My Thanes and kinsmen,
Henceforth be Earls, the first that ever Scotland
In such an honor named. What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,
As calling home our exiled friends abroad
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny,
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,
Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
Took off her life; this, and what needful else
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace
We will perform in measure, time, and place.
So thanks to all at once and to each one,
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.
Flourish. Exeunt.
-THE END-#19,219,167textROMEO AND JULIET
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ESCALUS prince of Verona. (PRINCE:)
PARIS a young nobleman, kinsman to the prince.
MONTAGUE |
| heads of two houses at variance with each other.
CAPULET |
An old man, cousin to Capulet. (Second Capulet:)
ROMEO son to Montague.
MERCUTIO kinsman to the prince, and friend to Romeo.
BENVOLIO nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.
TYBALT nephew to Lady Capulet.
FRIAR LAURENCE |
| Franciscans.
FRIAR JOHN |
BALTHASAR servant to Romeo.
SAMPSON |
| servants to Capulet.
GREGORY |
PETER servant to Juliet's nurse.
ABRAHAM servant to Montague.
An Apothecary. (Apothecary:)
Three Musicians.
(First Musician:)
(Second Musician:)
(Third Musician:)
Page to Paris; (PAGE:) another Page; an officer.
LADY MONTAGUE wife to Montague.
LADY CAPULET wife to Capulet.
JULIET daughter to Capulet.
Nurse to Juliet. (Nurse:)
Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women,
relations to both houses; Maskers,
Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants.
(First Citizen:)
(Servant:)
(First Servant:)
(Second Servant:)
(First Watchman:)
(Second Watchman:)
(Third Watchman:)
Chorus.
SCENE Verona: Mantua.
ROMEO AND JULIET
PROLOGUE
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whole misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT I
SCENE I Verona. A public place.
[Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, of the house of Capulet,
armed with swords and bucklers]
SAMPSON Gregory, o' my word, we'll not carry coals.
GREGORY No, for then we should be colliers.
SAMPSON I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw.
GREGORY Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o' the collar.
SAMPSON I strike quickly, being moved.
GREGORY But thou art not quickly moved to strike.
SAMPSON A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
GREGORY To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand:
therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.
SAMPSON A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will
take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.
GREGORY That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes
to the wall.
SAMPSON True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels,
are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push
Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids
to the wall.
GREGORY The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.
SAMPSON 'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I
have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the
maids, and cut off their heads.
GREGORY The heads of the maids?
SAMPSON Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads;
take it in what sense thou wilt.
GREGORY They must take it in sense that feel it.
SAMPSON Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and
'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.
GREGORY 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou
hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool! here comes
two of the house of the Montagues.
SAMPSON My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.
GREGORY How! turn thy back and run?
SAMPSON Fear me not.
GREGORY No, marry; I fear thee!
SAMPSON Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.
GREGORY I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as
they list.
SAMPSON Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them;
which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
[Enter ABRAHAM and BALTHASAR]
ABRAHAM Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
SAMPSON I do bite my thumb, sir.
ABRAHAM Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
SAMPSON [Aside to GREGORY] Is the law of our side, if I say
ay?
GREGORY No.
SAMPSON No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I
bite my thumb, sir.
GREGORY Do you quarrel, sir?
ABRAHAM Quarrel sir! no, sir.
SAMPSON If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
ABRAHAM No better.
SAMPSON Well, sir.
GREGORY Say 'better:' here comes one of my master's kinsmen.
SAMPSON Yes, better, sir.
ABRAHAM You lie.
SAMPSON Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.
[They fight]
[Enter BENVOLIO]
BENVOLIO Part, fools!
Put up your swords; you know not what you do.
[Beats down their swords]
[Enter TYBALT]
TYBALT What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
BENVOLIO I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.
TYBALT What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:
Have at thee, coward!
[They fight]
[Enter, several of both houses, who join the fray;
then enter Citizens, with clubs]
First Citizen Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!
Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!
[Enter CAPULET in his gown, and LADY CAPULET]
CAPULET What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
LADY CAPULET A crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword?
CAPULET My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
[Enter MONTAGUE and LADY MONTAGUE]
MONTAGUE Thou villain Capulet,--Hold me not, let me go.
LADY MONTAGUE Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.
[Enter PRINCE, with Attendants]
PRINCE Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,--
Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona's ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate:
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away:
You Capulet; shall go along with me:
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
[Exeunt all but MONTAGUE, LADY MONTAGUE, and BENVOLIO]
MONTAGUE Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
BENVOLIO Here were the servants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:
I drew to part them: in the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared,
Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head and cut the winds,
Who nothing hurt withal hiss'd him in scorn:
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more and fought on part and part,
Till the prince came, who parted either part.
LADY MONTAGUE O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
BENVOLIO Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from the city's side,
So early walking did I see your son:
Towards him I made, but he was ware of me
And stole into the covert of the wood:
I, measuring his affections by my own,
That most are busied when they're most alone,
Pursued my humour not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.
MONTAGUE Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew.
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,
Away from the light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks far daylight out
And makes himself an artificial night:
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.
BENVOLIO My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
MONTAGUE I neither know it nor can learn of him.
BENVOLIO Have you importuned him by any means?
MONTAGUE Both by myself and many other friends:
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself--I will not say how true--
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow.
We would as willingly give cure as know.
[Enter ROMEO]
BENVOLIO See, where he comes: so please you, step aside;
I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.
MONTAGUE I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away.
[Exeunt MONTAGUE and LADY MONTAGUE]
BENVOLIO Good-morrow, cousin.
ROMEO Is the day so young?
BENVOLIO But new struck nine.
ROMEO Ay me! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
BENVOLIO It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
ROMEO Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
BENVOLIO In love?
ROMEO Out--
BENVOLIO Of love?
ROMEO Out of her favour, where I am in love.
BENVOLIO Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
ROMEO Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire,
sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
BENVOLIO No, coz, I rather weep.
ROMEO Good heart, at what?
BENVOLIO At thy good heart's oppression.
ROMEO Why, such is love's transgression.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest
With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
Farewell, my coz.
BENVOLIO Soft! I will go along;
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
ROMEO Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.
BENVOLIO Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.
ROMEO What, shall I groan and tell thee?
BENVOLIO Groan! why, no.
But sadly tell me who.
ROMEO Bid a sick man in sadness make his will:
Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill!
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
BENVOLIO I aim'd so near, when I supposed you loved.
ROMEO A right good mark-man! And she's fair I love.
BENVOLIO A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
ROMEO Well, in that hit you miss: she'll not be hit
With Cupid's arrow; she hath Dian's wit;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O, she is rich in beauty, only poor,
That when she dies with beauty dies her store.
BENVOLIO Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
ROMEO She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste,
For beauty starved with her severity
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow
Do I live dead that live to tell it now.
BENVOLIO Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.
ROMEO O, teach me how I should forget to think.
BENVOLIO By giving liberty unto thine eyes;
Examine other beauties.
ROMEO 'Tis the way
To call hers exquisite, in question more:
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows
Being black put us in mind they hide the fair;
He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note
Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.
BENVOLIO I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT I
SCENE II A street.
[Enter CAPULET, PARIS, and Servant]
CAPULET But Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,
For men so old as we to keep the peace.
PARIS Of honourable reckoning are you both;
And pity 'tis you lived at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?
CAPULET But saying o'er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world;
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years,
Let two more summers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
PARIS Younger than she are happy mothers made.
CAPULET And too soon marr'd are those so early made.
The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
An she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor house look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well-apparell'd April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house; hear all, all see,
And like her most whose merit most shall be:
Which on more view, of many mine being one
May stand in number, though in reckoning none,
Come, go with me.
[To Servant, giving a paper]
Go, sirrah, trudge about
Through fair Verona; find those persons out
Whose names are written there, and to them say,
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.
[Exeunt CAPULET and PARIS]
Servant Find them out whose names are written here! It is
written, that the shoemaker should meddle with his
yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with
his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am
sent to find those persons whose names are here
writ, and can never find what names the writing
person hath here writ. I must to the learned.--In good time.
[Enter BENVOLIO and ROMEO]
BENVOLIO Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with another's languish:
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
ROMEO Your plaintain-leaf is excellent for that.
BENVOLIO For what, I pray thee?
ROMEO For your broken shin.
BENVOLIO Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
ROMEO Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp'd and tormented and--God-den, good fellow.
Servant God gi' god-den. I pray, sir, can you read?
ROMEO Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
Servant Perhaps you have learned it without book: but, I
pray, can you read any thing you see?
ROMEO Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
Servant Ye say honestly: rest you merry!
ROMEO Stay, fellow; I can read.
[Reads]
'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;
County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady
widow of Vitravio; Signior Placentio and his lovely
nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine
uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece
Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin
Tybalt, Lucio and the lively Helena.' A fair
assembly: whither should they come?
Servant Up.
ROMEO Whither?
Servant To supper; to our house.
ROMEO Whose house?
Servant My master's.
ROMEO Indeed, I should have ask'd you that before.
Servant Now I'll tell you without asking: my master is the
great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house
of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine.
Rest you merry!
[Exit]
BENVOLIO At this same ancient feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lovest,
With all the admired beauties of Verona:
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
ROMEO When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;
And these, who often drown'd could never die,
Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!
One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
BENVOLIO Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself poised with herself in either eye:
But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd
Your lady's love against some other maid
That I will show you shining at this feast,
And she shall scant show well that now shows best.
ROMEO I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT I
SCENE III A room in Capulet's house.
[Enter LADY CAPULET and Nurse]
LADY CAPULET Nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth to me.
Nurse Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,
I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird!
God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet!
[Enter JULIET]
JULIET How now! who calls?
Nurse Your mother.
JULIET Madam, I am here.
What is your will?
LADY CAPULET This is the matter:--Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret:--nurse, come back again;
I have remember'd me, thou's hear our counsel.
Thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.
Nurse Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
LADY CAPULET She's not fourteen.
Nurse I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,--
And yet, to my teeth be it spoken, I have but four--
She is not fourteen. How long is it now
To Lammas-tide?
LADY CAPULET A fortnight and odd days.
Nurse Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she--God rest all Christian souls!--
Were of an age: well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me: but, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;
And she was wean'd,--I never shall forget it,--
Of all the days of the year, upon that day:
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua:--
Nay, I do bear a brain:--but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,
To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!
Shake quoth the dove-house: 'twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge:
And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before, she broke her brow:
And then my husband--God be with his soul!
A' was a merry man--took up the child:
'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidame,
The pretty wretch left crying and said 'Ay.'
To see, now, how a jest shall come about!
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it: 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted and said 'Ay.'
LADY CAPULET Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.
Nurse Yes, madam: yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.'
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel's stone;
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly:
'Yea,' quoth my husband,'fall'st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?' it stinted and said 'Ay.'
JULIET And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.
Nurse Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
LADY CAPULET Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?
JULIET It is an honour that I dream not of.
Nurse An honour! were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.
LADY CAPULET Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief:
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
Nurse A man, young lady! lady, such a man
As all the world--why, he's a man of wax.
LADY CAPULET Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.
LADY CAPULET What say you? can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast;
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face,
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;
Examine every married lineament,
And see how one another lends content
And what obscured in this fair volume lies
Find written in the margent of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover:
The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride
For fair without the fair within to hide:
That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making yourself no less.
Nurse No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men.
LADY CAPULET Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?
JULIET I'll look to like, if looking liking move:
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
[Enter a Servant]
Servant Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you
called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in
the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must
hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.
LADY CAPULET We follow thee.
[Exit Servant]
Juliet, the county stays.
Nurse Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT I
SCENE IV A street.
[Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six
Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others]
ROMEO What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without a apology?
BENVOLIO The date is out of such prolixity:
We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But let them measure us by what they will;
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.
ROMEO Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
MERCUTIO Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
ROMEO Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
MERCUTIO You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
ROMEO I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
MERCUTIO And, to sink in it, should you burden love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
ROMEO Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
MERCUTIO If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
Give me a case to put my visage in:
A visor for a visor! what care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.
BENVOLIO Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake him to his legs.
ROMEO A torch for me: let wantons light of heart
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase;
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.
MERCUTIO Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire
Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!
ROMEO Nay, that's not so.
MERCUTIO I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
ROMEO And we mean well in going to this mask;
But 'tis no wit to go.
MERCUTIO Why, may one ask?
ROMEO I dream'd a dream to-night.
MERCUTIO And so did I.
ROMEO Well, what was yours?
MERCUTIO That dreamers often lie.
ROMEO In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
MERCUTIO O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider's web,
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight,
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams, he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she--
ROMEO Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
MERCUTIO True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
BENVOLIO This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
ROMEO I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels and expire the term
Of a despised life closed in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.
BENVOLIO Strike, drum.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT I
SCENE V A hall in Capulet's house.
[Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen with napkins]
First Servant Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He
shift a trencher? he scrape a trencher!
Second Servant When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's
hands and they unwashed too, 'tis a foul thing.
First Servant Away with the joint-stools, remove the
court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save
me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let
the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.
Antony, and Potpan!
Second Servant Ay, boy, ready.
First Servant You are looked for and called for, asked for and
sought for, in the great chamber.
Second Servant We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys; be
brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.
[Enter CAPULET, with JULIET and others of his house,
meeting the Guests and Maskers]
CAPULET Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you.
Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty,
She, I'll swear, hath corns; am I come near ye now?
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please: 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone:
You are welcome, gentlemen! come, musicians, play.
A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.
[Music plays, and they dance]
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.
Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet;
For you and I are past our dancing days:
How long is't now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
Second Capulet By'r lady, thirty years.
CAPULET What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much:
'Tis since the nuptials of Lucentio,
Come pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask'd.
Second Capulet 'Tis more, 'tis more, his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.
CAPULET Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
ROMEO [To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth
enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
Servant I know not, sir.
ROMEO O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
TYBALT This, by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.
CAPULET Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
TYBALT Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
CAPULET Young Romeo is it?
TYBALT 'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
CAPULET Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone;
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
It is my will, the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
TYBALT It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I'll not endure him.
CAPULET He shall be endured:
What, goodman boy! I say, he shall: go to;
Am I the master here, or you? go to.
You'll not endure him! God shall mend my soul!
You'll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!
TYBALT Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.
CAPULET Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy: is't so, indeed?
This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what:
You must contrary me! marry, 'tis time.
Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or--More light, more light! For shame!
I'll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts!
TYBALT Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.
[Exit]
ROMEO [To JULIET] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIET Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
ROMEO Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
JULIET Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
ROMEO O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
JULIET Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
ROMEO Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
JULIET Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
ROMEO Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
JULIET You kiss by the book.
Nurse Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
ROMEO What is her mother?
Nurse Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house,
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous
I nursed her daughter, that you talk'd withal;
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
ROMEO Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
BENVOLIO Away, begone; the sport is at the best.
ROMEO Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
CAPULET Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e'en so? why, then, I thank you all
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.
More torches here! Come on then, let's to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late:
I'll to my rest.
[Exeunt all but JULIET and Nurse]
JULIET Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?
Nurse The son and heir of old Tiberio.
JULIET What's he that now is going out of door?
Nurse Marry, that, I think, be young Petrucio.
JULIET What's he that follows there, that would not dance?
Nurse I know not.
JULIET Go ask his name: if he be married.
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
Nurse His name is Romeo, and a Montague;
The only son of your great enemy.
JULIET My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
Nurse What's this? what's this?
JULIET A rhyme I learn'd even now
Of one I danced withal.
[One calls within 'Juliet.']
Nurse Anon, anon!
Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
PROLOGUE
[Enter Chorus]
Chorus Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,
And young affection gapes to be his heir;
That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,
With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
Now Romeo is beloved and loves again,
Alike betwitched by the charm of looks,
But to his foe supposed he must complain,
And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:
Being held a foe, he may not have access
To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;
And she as much in love, her means much less
To meet her new-beloved any where:
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet
Tempering extremities with extreme sweet.
[Exit]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
SCENE I A lane by the wall of Capulet's orchard.
[Enter ROMEO]
ROMEO Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
[He climbs the wall, and leaps down within it]
[Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO]
BENVOLIO Romeo! my cousin Romeo!
MERCUTIO He is wise;
And, on my lie, hath stol'n him home to bed.
BENVOLIO He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall:
Call, good Mercutio.
MERCUTIO Nay, I'll conjure too.
Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;
Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove;'
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name for her purblind son and heir,
Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim,
When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.
I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us!
BENVOLIO And if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.
MERCUTIO This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
Till she had laid it and conjured it down;
That were some spite: my invocation
Is fair and honest, and in his mistress' name
I conjure only but to raise up him.
BENVOLIO Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the humorous night:
Blind is his love and best befits the dark.
MERCUTIO If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.
Romeo, that she were, O, that she were
An open et caetera, thou a poperin pear!
Romeo, good night: I'll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:
Come, shall we go?
BENVOLIO Go, then; for 'tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
SCENE II Capulet's orchard.
[Enter ROMEO]
ROMEO He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
[JULIET appears above at a window]
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET Ay me!
ROMEO She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
JULIET O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
ROMEO [Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
ROMEO I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
JULIET What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night
So stumblest on my counsel?
ROMEO By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
JULIET My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound:
Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?
ROMEO Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
JULIET How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
ROMEO With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
JULIET If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
ROMEO Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.
JULIET I would not for the world they saw thee here.
ROMEO I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;
And but thou love me, let them find me here:
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
JULIET By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
ROMEO By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
JULIET Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay,'
And I will take thy word: yet if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries
Then say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse an say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
ROMEO Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops--
JULIET O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROMEO What shall I swear by?
JULIET Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
ROMEO If my heart's dear love--
JULIET Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
ROMEO O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
ROMEO The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
JULIET But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
[Nurse calls within]
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
[Exit, above]
ROMEO O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard.
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
[Re-enter JULIET, above]
JULIET Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.
Nurse [Within] Madam!
JULIET I come, anon.--But if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee--
Nurse [Within] Madam!
JULIET By and by, I come:--
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.
ROMEO So thrive my soul--
JULIET A thousand times good night!
[Exit, above]
ROMEO A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from
their books,
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
[Retiring]
[Re-enter JULIET, above]
JULIET Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo's name.
ROMEO It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
JULIET Romeo!
ROMEO My dear?
JULIET At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
ROMEO At the hour of nine.
JULIET I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
ROMEO Let me stand here till thou remember it.
JULIET I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.
ROMEO And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
JULIET 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no further than a wanton's bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
ROMEO I would I were thy bird.
JULIET Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! parting is such
sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
[Exit above]
ROMEO Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
[Exit]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
SCENE III Friar Laurence's cell.
[Enter FRIAR LAURENCE, with a basket]
FRIAR LAURENCE The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;
What is her burying grave that is her womb,
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find,
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give,
Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
[Enter ROMEO]
ROMEO Good morrow, father.
FRIAR LAURENCE Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art up-roused by some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
ROMEO That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
FRIAR LAURENCE God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
ROMEO With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
FRIAR LAURENCE That's my good son: but where hast thou been, then?
ROMEO I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded: both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
FRIAR LAURENCE Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
ROMEO Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combined, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: when and where and how
We met, we woo'd and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.
FRIAR LAURENCE Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men's love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet:
If e'er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:
And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence then,
Women may fall, when there's no strength in men.
ROMEO Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
FRIAR LAURENCE For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
ROMEO And bad'st me bury love.
FRIAR LAURENCE Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.
ROMEO I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.
FRIAR LAURENCE O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
ROMEO O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
FRIAR LAURENCE Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
SCENE IV A street.
[Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO]
MERCUTIO Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home to-night?
BENVOLIO Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.
MERCUTIO Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline.
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
BENVOLIO Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.
MERCUTIO A challenge, on my life.
BENVOLIO Romeo will answer it.
MERCUTIO Any man that can write may answer a letter.
BENVOLIO Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he
dares, being dared.
MERCUTIO Alas poor Romeo! he is already dead; stabbed with a
white wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a
love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the
blind bow-boy's butt-shaft: and is he a man to
encounter Tybalt?
BENVOLIO Why, what is Tybalt?
MERCUTIO More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is
the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as
you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and
proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and
the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk
button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the
very first house, of the first and second cause:
ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the
hai!
BENVOLIO The what?
MERCUTIO The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents! 'By Jesu,
a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good
whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable thing,
grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with
these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these
perdona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form,
that they cannot at ease on the old bench? O, their
bones, their bones!
[Enter ROMEO]
BENVOLIO Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
MERCUTIO Without his roe, like a dried herring: flesh, flesh,
how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers
that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a
kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to
be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy;
Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey
eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior
Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation
to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit
fairly last night.
ROMEO Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
MERCUTIO The ship, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
ROMEO Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in
such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
MERCUTIO That's as much as to say, such a case as yours
constrains a man to bow in the hams.
ROMEO Meaning, to court'sy.
MERCUTIO Thou hast most kindly hit it.
ROMEO A most courteous exposition.
MERCUTIO Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
ROMEO Pink for flower.
MERCUTIO Right.
ROMEO Why, then is my pump well flowered.
MERCUTIO Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast
worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it
is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular.
ROMEO O single-soled jest, solely singular for the
singleness.
MERCUTIO Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.
ROMEO Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I'll cry a match.
MERCUTIO Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have
done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of
thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five:
was I with you there for the goose?
ROMEO Thou wast never with me for any thing when thou wast
not there for the goose.
MERCUTIO I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
ROMEO Nay, good goose, bite not.
MERCUTIO Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most
sharp sauce.
ROMEO And is it not well served in to a sweet goose?
MERCUTIO O here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an
inch narrow to an ell broad!
ROMEO I stretch it out for that word 'broad;' which added
to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
MERCUTIO Why, is not this better now than groaning for love?
now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art
thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature:
for this drivelling love is like a great natural,
that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.
BENVOLIO Stop there, stop there.
MERCUTIO Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.
BENVOLIO Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.
MERCUTIO O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short:
for I was come to the whole depth of my tale; and
meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no longer.
ROMEO Here's goodly gear!
[Enter Nurse and PETER]
MERCUTIO A sail, a sail!
BENVOLIO Two, two; a shirt and a smock.
Nurse Peter!
PETER Anon!
Nurse My fan, Peter.
MERCUTIO Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the
fairer face.
Nurse God ye good morrow, gentlemen.
MERCUTIO God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.
Nurse Is it good den?
MERCUTIO 'Tis no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand of the
dial is now upon the prick of noon.
Nurse Out upon you! what a man are you!
ROMEO One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to
mar.
Nurse By my troth, it is well said; 'for himself to mar,'
quoth a'? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I
may find the young Romeo?
ROMEO I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when
you have found him than he was when you sought him:
I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.
Nurse You say well.
MERCUTIO Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i' faith;
wisely, wisely.
Nurse if you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with
you.
BENVOLIO She will indite him to some supper.
MERCUTIO A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! so ho!
ROMEO What hast thou found?
MERCUTIO No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie,
that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.
[Sings]
An old hare hoar,
And an old hare hoar,
Is very good meat in lent
But a hare that is hoar
Is too much for a score,
When it hoars ere it be spent.
Romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll
to dinner, thither.
ROMEO I will follow you.
MERCUTIO Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,
[Singing]
'lady, lady, lady.'
[Exeunt MERCUTIO and BENVOLIO]
Nurse Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy
merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery?
ROMEO A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk,
and will speak more in a minute than he will stand
to in a month.
Nurse An a' speak any thing against me, I'll take him
down, an a' were lustier than he is, and twenty such
Jacks; and if I cannot, I'll find those that shall.
Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am
none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by
too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure?
PETER I saw no man use you a pleasure; if I had, my weapon
should quickly have been out, I warrant you: I dare
draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a
good quarrel, and the law on my side.
Nurse Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about
me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word:
and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you
out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself:
but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into
a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross
kind of behavior, as they say: for the gentlewoman
is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double
with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered
to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.
ROMEO Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I
protest unto thee--
Nurse Good heart, and, i' faith, I will tell her as much:
Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman.
ROMEO What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.
Nurse I will tell her, sir, that you do protest; which, as
I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
ROMEO Bid her devise
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;
And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell
Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains.
Nurse No truly sir; not a penny.
ROMEO Go to; I say you shall.
Nurse This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.
ROMEO And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell; be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains:
Farewell; commend me to thy mistress.
Nurse Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.
ROMEO What say'st thou, my dear nurse?
Nurse Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?
ROMEO I warrant thee, my man's as true as steel.
NURSE Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady--Lord,
Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing:--O, there
is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain
lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief
see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her
sometimes and tell her that Paris is the properer
man; but, I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks
as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not
rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?
ROMEO Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.
Nurse Ah. mocker! that's the dog's name; R is for
the--No; I know it begins with some other
letter:--and she hath the prettiest sententious of
it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good
to hear it.
ROMEO Commend me to thy lady.
Nurse Ay, a thousand times.
[Exit Romeo]
Peter!
PETER Anon!
Nurse Peter, take my fan, and go before and apace.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
SCENE V Capulet's orchard.
[Enter JULIET]
JULIET The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
In half an hour she promised to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so.
O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams,
Driving back shadows over louring hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours, yet she is not come.
Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She would be as swift in motion as a ball;
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me:
But old folks, many feign as they were dead;
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.
O God, she comes!
[Enter Nurse and PETER]
O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
Nurse Peter, stay at the gate.
[Exit PETER]
JULIET Now, good sweet nurse,--O Lord, why look'st thou sad?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;
If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.
Nurse I am a-weary, give me leave awhile:
Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!
JULIET I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:
Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak.
Nurse Jesu, what haste? can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that I am out of breath?
JULIET How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath
To say to me that thou art out of breath?
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;
Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance:
Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?
Nurse Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not
how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his
face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels
all men's; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body,
though they be not to be talked on, yet they are
past compare: he is not the flower of courtesy,
but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy
ways, wench; serve God. What, have you dined at home?
JULIET No, no: but all this did I know before.
What says he of our marriage? what of that?
Nurse Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My back o' t' other side,--O, my back, my back!
Beshrew your heart for sending me about,
To catch my death with jaunting up and down!
JULIET I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
Nurse Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a
courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, I
warrant, a virtuous,--Where is your mother?
JULIET Where is my mother! why, she is within;
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!
'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
Where is your mother?'
Nurse O God's lady dear!
Are you so hot? marry, come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward do your messages yourself.
JULIET Here's such a coil! come, what says Romeo?
Nurse Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?
JULIET I have.
Nurse Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell;
There stays a husband to make you a wife:
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark:
I am the drudge and toil in your delight,
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
Go; I'll to dinner: hie you to the cell.
JULIET Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT II
SCENE VI Friar Laurence's cell.
[Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and ROMEO]
FRIAR LAURENCE So smile the heavens upon this holy act,
That after hours with sorrow chide us not!
ROMEO Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare;
It is enough I may but call her mine.
FRIAR LAURENCE These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
[Enter JULIET]
Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
JULIET Good even to my ghostly confessor.
FRIAR LAURENCE Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
JULIET As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
ROMEO Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagined happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
JULIET Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess
I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
FRIAR LAURENCE Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till holy church incorporate two in one.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT III
SCENE I A public place.
[Enter MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, Page, and Servants]
BENVOLIO I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
MERCUTIO Thou art like one of those fellows that when he
enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword
upon the table and says 'God send me no need of
thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws
it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.
BENVOLIO Am I like such a fellow?
MERCUTIO Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as
any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as
soon moody to be moved.
BENVOLIO And what to?
MERCUTIO Nay, an there were two such, we should have none
shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why,
thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more,
or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast: thou
wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no
other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes: what
eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?
Thy head is as fun of quarrels as an egg is full of
meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as
an egg for quarrelling: thou hast quarrelled with a
man for coughing in the street, because he hath
wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun:
didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing
his new doublet before Easter? with another, for
tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou
wilt tutor me from quarrelling!
BENVOLIO An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man
should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
MERCUTIO The fee-simple! O simple!
BENVOLIO By my head, here come the Capulets.
MERCUTIO By my heel, I care not.
[Enter TYBALT and others]
TYBALT Follow me close, for I will speak to them.
Gentlemen, good den: a word with one of you.
MERCUTIO And but one word with one of us? couple it with
something; make it a word and a blow.
TYBALT You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you
will give me occasion.
MERCUTIO Could you not take some occasion without giving?
TYBALT Mercutio, thou consort'st with Romeo,--
MERCUTIO Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? an
thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but
discords: here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall
make you dance. 'Zounds, consort!
BENVOLIO We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
MERCUTIO Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.
[Enter ROMEO]
TYBALT Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man.
MERCUTIO But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him 'man.'
TYBALT Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford
No better term than this,--thou art a villain.
ROMEO Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting: villain am I none;
Therefore farewell; I see thou know'st me not.
TYBALT Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
ROMEO I do protest, I never injured thee,
But love thee better than thou canst devise,
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
And so, good Capulet,--which name I tender
As dearly as my own,--be satisfied.
MERCUTIO O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away.
[Draws]
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
TYBALT What wouldst thou have with me?
MERCUTIO Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine
lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and as you
shall use me hereafter, drybeat the rest of the
eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher
by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your
ears ere it be out.
TYBALT I am for you.
[Drawing]
ROMEO Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
MERCUTIO Come, sir, your passado.
[They fight]
ROMEO Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.
Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!
Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath
Forbidden bandying in Verona streets:
Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!
[TYBALT under ROMEO's arm stabs MERCUTIO, and flies
with his followers]
MERCUTIO I am hurt.
A plague o' both your houses! I am sped.
Is he gone, and hath nothing?
BENVOLIO What, art thou hurt?
MERCUTIO Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough.
Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
[Exit Page]
ROMEO Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.
MERCUTIO No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a
church-door; but 'tis enough,'twill serve: ask for
me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I
am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o'
both your houses! 'Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a
cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a
rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of
arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I
was hurt under your arm.
ROMEO I thought all for the best.
MERCUTIO Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses!
They have made worms' meat of me: I have it,
And soundly too: your houses!
[Exeunt MERCUTIO and BENVOLIO]
ROMEO This gentleman, the prince's near ally,
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt
In my behalf; my reputation stain'd
With Tybalt's slander,--Tybalt, that an hour
Hath been my kinsman! O sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate
And in my temper soften'd valour's steel!
[Re-enter BENVOLIO]
BENVOLIO O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!
That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
ROMEO This day's black fate on more days doth depend;
This but begins the woe, others must end.
BENVOLIO Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
ROMEO Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain!
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!
[Re-enter TYBALT]
Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again,
That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul
Is but a little way above our heads,
Staying for thine to keep him company:
Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
TYBALT Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,
Shalt with him hence.
ROMEO This shall determine that.
[They fight; TYBALT falls]
BENVOLIO Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.
Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death,
If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away!
ROMEO O, I am fortune's fool!
BENVOLIO Why dost thou stay?
[Exit ROMEO]
[Enter Citizens, &c]
First Citizen Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio?
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?
BENVOLIO There lies that Tybalt.
First Citizen Up, sir, go with me;
I charge thee in the princes name, obey.
[Enter Prince, attended; MONTAGUE, CAPULET, their
Wives, and others]
PRINCE Where are the vile beginners of this fray?
BENVOLIO O noble prince, I can discover all
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.
LADY CAPULET Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child!
O prince! O cousin! husband! O, the blood is spilt
O my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,
For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague.
O cousin, cousin!
PRINCE Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?
BENVOLIO Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay;
Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal
Your high displeasure: all this uttered
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd,
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast,
Who all as hot, turns deadly point to point,
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
Cold death aside, and with the other sends
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity,
Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,
'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and, swifter than
his tongue,
His agile arm beats down their fatal points,
And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled;
But by and by comes back to Romeo,
Who had but newly entertain'd revenge,
And to 't they go like lightning, for, ere I
Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain.
And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.
This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.
LADY CAPULET He is a kinsman to the Montague;
Affection makes him false; he speaks not true:
Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,
And all those twenty could but kill one life.
I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.
PRINCE Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio;
Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?
MONTAGUE Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio's friend;
His fault concludes but what the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.
PRINCE And for that offence
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I have an interest in your hate's proceeding,
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;
But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine
That you shall all repent the loss of mine:
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses:
Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he's found, that hour is his last.
Bear hence this body and attend our will:
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT III
SCENE II Capulet's orchard.
[Enter JULIET]
JULIET Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.
[Enter Nurse, with cords]
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch?
Nurse Ay, ay, the cords.
[Throws them down]
JULIET Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
Nurse Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone!
Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!
JULIET Can heaven be so envious?
Nurse Romeo can,
Though heaven cannot: O Romeo, Romeo!
Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!
JULIET What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but 'I,'
And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I, if there be such an I;
Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer 'I.'
If he be slain, say 'I'; or if not, no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
Nurse I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,--
God save the mark!--here on his manly breast:
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,
All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight.
JULIET O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, eyes, ne'er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!
Nurse O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
JULIET What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord?
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?
Nurse Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished.
JULIET O God! did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?
Nurse It did, it did; alas the day, it did!
JULIET O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In moral paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!
Nurse There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
Ah, where's my man? give me some aqua vitae:
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Romeo!
JULIET Blister'd be thy tongue
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit;
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide at him!
Nurse Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?
JULIET Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband:
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband:
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
That murder'd me: I would forget it fain;
But, O, it presses to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds:
'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo--banished;'
That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,'
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,
Why follow'd not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,'
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentations might have moved?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
'Romeo is banished,' to speak that word,
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead. 'Romeo is banished!'
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse?
Nurse Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse:
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
JULIET Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.
Take up those cords: poor ropes, you are beguiled,
Both you and I; for Romeo is exiled:
He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords, come, nurse; I'll to my wedding-bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Nurse Hie to your chamber: I'll find Romeo
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night:
I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell.
JULIET O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT III
SCENE III Friar Laurence's cell.
[Enter FRIAR LAURENCE]
FRIAR LAURENCE Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man:
Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.
[Enter ROMEO]
ROMEO Father, what news? what is the prince's doom?
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not?
FRIAR LAURENCE Too familiar
Is my dear son with such sour company:
I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom.
ROMEO What less than dooms-day is the prince's doom?
FRIAR LAURENCE A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips,
Not body's death, but body's banishment.
ROMEO Ha, banishment! be merciful, say 'death;'
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death: do not say 'banishment.'
FRIAR LAURENCE Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
ROMEO There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence-banished is banish'd from the world,
And world's exile is death: then banished,
Is death mis-term'd: calling death banishment,
Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe,
And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.
FRIAR LAURENCE O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.
ROMEO 'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven and may look on her;
But Romeo may not: more validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion-flies than Romeo: they my seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand
And steal immortal blessing from her lips,
Who even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
But Romeo may not; he is banished:
Flies may do this, but I from this must fly:
They are free men, but I am banished.
And say'st thou yet that exile is not death?
Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean,
But 'banished' to kill me?--'banished'?
O friar, the damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd,
To mangle me with that word 'banished'?
FRIAR LAURENCE Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.
ROMEO O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.
FRIAR LAURENCE I'll give thee armour to keep off that word:
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.
ROMEO Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy!
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom,
It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.
FRIAR LAURENCE O, then I see that madmen have no ears.
ROMEO How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?
FRIAR LAURENCE Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.
ROMEO Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
[Knocking within]
FRIAR LAURENCE Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself.
ROMEO Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,
Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes.
[Knocking]
FRIAR LAURENCE Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise;
Thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile! Stand up;
[Knocking]
Run to my study. By and by! God's will,
What simpleness is this! I come, I come!
[Knocking]
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what's your will?
Nurse [Within] Let me come in, and you shall know
my errand;
I come from Lady Juliet.
FRIAR LAURENCE Welcome, then.
[Enter Nurse]
Nurse O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?
FRIAR LAURENCE There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.
Nurse O, he is even in my mistress' case,
Just in her case! O woful sympathy!
Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.
Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man:
For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand;
Why should you fall into so deep an O?
ROMEO Nurse!
Nurse Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all.
ROMEO Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth she not think me an old murderer,
Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood removed but little from her own?
Where is she? and how doth she? and what says
My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love?
Nurse O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
And then down falls again.
ROMEO As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her; as that name's cursed hand
Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion.
[Drawing his sword]
FRIAR LAURENCE Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art:
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast:
Unseemly woman in a seeming man!
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
Thou hast amazed me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And stay thy lady too that lives in thee,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
Why rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man;
Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish;
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
Misshapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skitless soldier's flask,
Is set afire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew'st Tybalt; there are thou happy too:
The law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love:
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But look thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto:
Romeo is coming.
Nurse O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night
To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.
ROMEO Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
Nurse Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.
[Exit]
ROMEO How well my comfort is revived by this!
FRIAR LAURENCE Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state:
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguised from hence:
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand; 'tis late: farewell; good night.
ROMEO But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief, so brief to part with thee: Farewell.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT III
SCENE IV A room in Capulet's house.
[Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and PARIS]
CAPULET Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I:--Well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late, she'll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
PARIS These times of woe afford no time to woo.
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
LADY CAPULET I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she is mew'd up to her heaviness.
CAPULET Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child's love: I think she will be ruled
In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next--
But, soft! what day is this?
PARIS Monday, my lord,
CAPULET Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
O' Thursday let it be: o' Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready? do you like this haste?
We'll keep no great ado,--a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
PARIS My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
CAPULET Well get you gone: o' Thursday be it, then.
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
Afore me! it is so very very late,
That we may call it early by and by.
Good night.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT III
SCENE V Capulet's orchard.
[Enter ROMEO and JULIET above, at the window]
JULIET Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
ROMEO It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
JULIET Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.
ROMEO Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul? let's talk; it is not day.
JULIET It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day,
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
ROMEO More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!
[Enter Nurse, to the chamber]
Nurse Madam!
JULIET Nurse?
Nurse Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke; be wary, look about.
[Exit]
JULIET Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
ROMEO Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.
[He goeth down]
JULIET Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!
ROMEO Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
JULIET O think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
ROMEO I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
JULIET O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
ROMEO And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
[Exit]
JULIET O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him.
That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.
LADY CAPULET [Within] Ho, daughter! are you up?
JULIET Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?
[Enter LADY CAPULET]
LADY CAPULET Why, how now, Juliet!
JULIET Madam, I am not well.
LADY CAPULET Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore, have done: some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
JULIET Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.
LADY CAPULET So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
JULIET Feeling so the loss,
Cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
LADY CAPULET Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death,
As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.
JULIET What villain madam?
LADY CAPULET That same villain, Romeo.
JULIET [Aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.--
God Pardon him! I do, with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
LADY CAPULET That is, because the traitor murderer lives.
JULIET Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands:
Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!
LADY CAPULET We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:
Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua,
Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,
Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram,
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied.
JULIET Indeed, I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo, till I behold him--dead--
Is my poor heart for a kinsman vex'd.
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it;
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors
To hear him named, and cannot come to him.
To wreak the love I bore my cousin
Upon his body that slaughter'd him!
LADY CAPULET Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.
But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
JULIET And joy comes well in such a needy time:
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?
LADY CAPULET Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy,
That thou expect'st not nor I look'd not for.
JULIET Madam, in happy time, what day is that?
LADY CAPULET Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn,
The gallant, young and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
JULIET Now, by Saint Peter's Church and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed
Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear,
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!
LADY CAPULET Here comes your father; tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.
[Enter CAPULET and Nurse]
CAPULET When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright.
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind;
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them,
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife!
Have you deliver'd to her our decree?
LADY CAPULET Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!
CAPULET Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her blest,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
JULIET Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have:
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.
CAPULET How now, how now, chop-logic! What is this?
'Proud,' and 'I thank you,' and 'I thank you not;'
And yet 'not proud,' mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor, proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
You tallow-face!
LADY CAPULET Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
JULIET Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
CAPULET Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what: get thee to church o' Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face:
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest
That God had lent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her:
Out on her, hilding!
Nurse God in heaven bless her!
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
CAPULET And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.
Nurse I speak no treason.
CAPULET O, God ye god-den.
Nurse May not one speak?
CAPULET Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl;
For here we need it not.
LADY CAPULET You are too hot.
CAPULET God's bread! it makes me mad:
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match'd: and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man;
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
To answer 'I'll not wed; I cannot love,
I am too young; I pray you, pardon me.'
But, as you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Graze where you will you shall not house with me:
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in
the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to't, bethink you; I'll not be forsworn.
[Exit]
JULIET Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
LADY CAPULET Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word:
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
[Exit]
JULIET O God!--O nurse, how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me.
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!
What say'st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Nurse Faith, here it is.
Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing,
That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or 'twere as good he were,
As living here and you no use of him.
JULIET Speakest thou from thy heart?
Nurse And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.
JULIET Amen!
Nurse What?
JULIET Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in: and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeased my father, to Laurence' cell,
To make confession and to be absolved.
Nurse Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.
[Exit]
JULIET Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath praised him with above compare
So many thousand times? Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.
I'll to the friar, to know his remedy:
If all else fail, myself have power to die.
[Exit]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT IV
SCENE I Friar Laurence's cell.
[Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and PARIS]
FRIAR LAURENCE On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.
PARIS My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.
FRIAR LAURENCE You say you do not know the lady's mind:
Uneven is the course, I like it not.
PARIS Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she doth give her sorrow so much sway,
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
FRIAR LAURENCE [Aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.
Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.
[Enter JULIET]
PARIS Happily met, my lady and my wife!
JULIET That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
PARIS That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
JULIET What must be shall be.
FRIAR LAURENCE That's a certain text.
PARIS Come you to make confession to this father?
JULIET To answer that, I should confess to you.
PARIS Do not deny to him that you love me.
JULIET I will confess to you that I love him.
PARIS So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
JULIET If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.
PARIS Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears.
JULIET The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.
PARIS Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that report.
JULIET That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
PARIS Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.
JULIET It may be so, for it is not mine own.
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?
FRIAR LAURENCE My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
PARIS God shield I should disturb devotion!
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.
[Exit]
JULIET O shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!
FRIAR LAURENCE Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.
JULIET Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I'll help it presently.
God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both:
Therefore, out of thy long-experienced time,
Give me some present counsel, or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.
FRIAR LAURENCE Hold, daughter: I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution.
As that is desperate which we would prevent.
If, rather than to marry County Paris,
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That copest with death himself to scape from it:
And, if thou darest, I'll give thee remedy.
JULIET O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,
O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love.
FRIAR LAURENCE Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow:
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone;
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off;
When presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, deprived of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death:
And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:
Then, as the manner of our country is,
In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,
And hither shall he come: and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame;
If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear,
Abate thy valour in the acting it.
JULIET Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!
FRIAR LAURENCE Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous
In this resolve: I'll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.
JULIET Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford.
Farewell, dear father!
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT IV
SCENE II Hall in Capulet's house.
[Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, Nurse, and two
Servingmen]
CAPULET So many guests invite as here are writ.
[Exit First Servant]
Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.
Second Servant You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they
can lick their fingers.
CAPULET How canst thou try them so?
Second Servant Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his
own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his
fingers goes not with me.
CAPULET Go, be gone.
[Exit Second Servant]
We shall be much unfurnished for this time.
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?
Nurse Ay, forsooth.
CAPULET Well, he may chance to do some good on her:
A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.
Nurse See where she comes from shrift with merry look.
[Enter JULIET]
CAPULET How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?
JULIET Where I have learn'd me to repent the sin
Of disobedient opposition
To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd
By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here,
And beg your pardon: pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever ruled by you.
CAPULET Send for the county; go tell him of this:
I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.
JULIET I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell;
And gave him what becomed love I might,
Not step o'er the bounds of modesty.
CAPULET Why, I am glad on't; this is well: stand up:
This is as't should be. Let me see the county;
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.
Now, afore God! this reverend holy friar,
Our whole city is much bound to him.
JULIET Nurse, will you go with me into my closet,
To help me sort such needful ornaments
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow?
LADY CAPULET No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.
CAPULET Go, nurse, go with her: we'll to church to-morrow.
[Exeunt JULIET and Nurse]
LADY CAPULET We shall be short in our provision:
'Tis now near night.
CAPULET Tush, I will stir about,
And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife:
Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her;
I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone;
I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho!
They are all forth. Well, I will walk myself
To County Paris, to prepare him up
Against to-morrow: my heart is wondrous light,
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT IV
SCENE III Juliet's chamber.
[Enter JULIET and Nurse]
JULIET Ay, those attires are best: but, gentle nurse,
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night,
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know'st, is cross, and full of sin.
[Enter LADY CAPULET]
LADY CAPULET What, are you busy, ho? need you my help?
JULIET No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all,
In this so sudden business.
LADY CAPULET Good night:
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.
[Exeunt LADY CAPULET and Nurse]
JULIET Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I'll call them back again to comfort me:
Nurse! What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
Come, vial.
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?
No, no: this shall forbid it: lie thou there.
[Laying down her dagger]
What if it be a poison, which the friar
Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man.
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point!
Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,--
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are packed:
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort;--
Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad:--
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears?
And madly play with my forefather's joints?
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?
O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Upon a rapier's point: stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.
[She falls upon her bed, within the curtains]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT IV
SCENE IV Hall in Capulet's house.
[Enter LADY CAPULET and Nurse]
LADY CAPULET Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse.
Nurse They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.
[Enter CAPULET]
CAPULET Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow'd,
The curfew-bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock:
Look to the baked meats, good Angelica:
Spare not for the cost.
Nurse Go, you cot-quean, go,
Get you to bed; faith, You'll be sick to-morrow
For this night's watching.
CAPULET No, not a whit: what! I have watch'd ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.
LADY CAPULET Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;
But I will watch you from such watching now.
[Exeunt LADY CAPULET and Nurse]
CAPULET A jealous hood, a jealous hood!
[Enter three or four Servingmen, with spits, logs,
and baskets]
Now, fellow,
What's there?
First Servant Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.
CAPULET Make haste, make haste.
[Exit First Servant]
Sirrah, fetch drier logs:
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.
Second Servant I have a head, sir, that will find out logs,
And never trouble Peter for the matter.
[Exit]
CAPULET Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!
Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith, 'tis day:
The county will be here with music straight,
For so he said he would: I hear him near.
[Music within]
Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say!
[Re-enter Nurse]
Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up;
I'll go and chat with Paris: hie, make haste,
Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already:
Make haste, I say.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT IV
SCENE V Juliet's chamber.
[Enter Nurse]
Nurse Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:
Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!
Why, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride!
What, not a word? you take your pennyworths now;
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest,
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me,
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!
I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam!
Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be?
[Undraws the curtains]
What, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again!
I must needs wake you; Lady! lady! lady!
Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady's dead!
O, well-a-day, that ever I was born!
Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!
[Enter LADY CAPULET]
LADY CAPULET What noise is here?
Nurse O lamentable day!
LADY CAPULET What is the matter?
Nurse Look, look! O heavy day!
LADY CAPULET O me, O me! My child, my only life,
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
Help, help! Call help.
[Enter CAPULET]
CAPULET For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.
Nurse She's dead, deceased, she's dead; alack the day!
LADY CAPULET Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!
CAPULET Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she's cold:
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Nurse O lamentable day!
LADY CAPULET O woful time!
CAPULET Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.
[Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and PARIS, with Musicians]
FRIAR LAURENCE Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
CAPULET Ready to go, but never to return.
O son! the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die,
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's.
PARIS Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
LADY CAPULET Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!
Nurse O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day, most woful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:
O woful day, O woful day!
PARIS Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!
O love! O life! not life, but love in death!
CAPULET Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!
Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity?
O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!
Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried.
FRIAR LAURENCE Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion;
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love, you love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She's not well married that lives married long;
But she's best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church:
For though fond nature bids us an lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
CAPULET All things that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral;
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
FRIAR LAURENCE Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lour upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
[Exeunt CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, PARIS, and FRIAR LAURENCE]
First Musician Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.
Nurse Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up;
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.
[Exit]
First Musician Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.
[Enter PETER]
PETER Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's
ease:' O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'
First Musician Why 'Heart's ease?'
PETER O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My
heart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump,
to comfort me.
First Musician Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.
PETER You will not, then?
First Musician No.
PETER I will then give it you soundly.
First Musician What will you give us?
PETER No money, on my faith, but the gleek;
I will give you the minstrel.
First Musician Then I will give you the serving-creature.
PETER Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on
your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you,
I'll fa you; do you note me?
First Musician An you re us and fa us, you note us.
Second Musician Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
PETER Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you
with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer
me like men:
'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'--
why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver
sound'? What say you, Simon Catling?
Musician Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
PETER Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
Second Musician I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.
PETER Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?
Third Musician Faith, I know not what to say.
PETER O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say
for you. It is 'music with her silver sound,'
because musicians have no gold for sounding:
'Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.'
[Exit]
First Musician What a pestilent knave is this same!
Second Musician Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the
mourners, and stay dinner.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT V
SCENE I Mantua. A street.
[Enter ROMEO]
ROMEO If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand:
My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead--
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave
to think!--
And breathed such life with kisses in my lips,
That I revived, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!
[Enter BALTHASAR, booted]
News from Verona!--How now, Balthasar!
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.
BALTHASAR Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you:
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.
ROMEO Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!
Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.
BALTHASAR I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.
ROMEO Tush, thou art deceived:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
BALTHASAR No, my good lord.
ROMEO No matter: get thee gone,
And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.
[Exit BALTHASAR]
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let's see for means: O mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,--
And hereabouts he dwells,--which late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said
'An if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'
O, this same thought did but forerun my need;
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house.
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
What, ho! apothecary!
[Enter Apothecary]
Apothecary Who calls so loud?
ROMEO Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor:
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker may fall dead
And that the trunk may be discharged of breath
As violently as hasty powder fired
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.
Apothecary Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law
Is death to any he that utters them.
ROMEO Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back;
The world is not thy friend nor the world's law;
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
Apothecary My poverty, but not my will, consents.
ROMEO I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Apothecary Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.
ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.
Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.
[Exeunt]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT V
SCENE II Friar Laurence's cell.
[Enter FRIAR JOHN]
FRIAR JOHN Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!
[Enter FRIAR LAURENCE]
FRIAR LAURENCE This same should be the voice of Friar John.
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.
FRIAR JOHN Going to find a bare-foot brother out
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city visiting the sick,
And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.
FRIAR LAURENCE Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?
FRIAR JOHN I could not send it,--here it is again,--
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.
FRIAR LAURENCE Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,
The letter was not nice but full of charge
Of dear import, and the neglecting it
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight
Unto my cell.
FRIAR JOHN Brother, I'll go and bring it thee.
[Exit]
FRIAR LAURENCE Now must I to the monument alone;
Within three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents;
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come;
Poor living corse, closed in a dead man's tomb!
[Exit]
ROMEO AND JULIET
ACT V
SCENE III A churchyard; in it a tomb belonging to the Capulets.
[Enter PARIS, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch]
PARIS Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof:
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear'st something approach.
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.
PAGE [Aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.
[Retires]
PARIS Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,--
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;--
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.
[The Page whistles]
The boy gives warning something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?
What with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile.
[Retires]
[Enter ROMEO and BALTHASAR, with a torch,
mattock, &c]
ROMEO Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light: upon thy life, I charge thee,
Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof,
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is partly to behold my lady's face;
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring, a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:
The time and my intents are savage-wild,
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
BALTHASAR I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
ROMEO So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that:
Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.
BALTHASAR [Aside] For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout:
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.
[Retires]
ROMEO Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!
[Opens the tomb]
PARIS This is that banish'd haughty Montague,
That murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief,
It is supposed, the fair creature died;
And here is come to do some villanous shame
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.
[Comes forward]
Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague!
Can vengeance be pursued further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
ROMEO I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence, and leave me: think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head,
By urging me to fury: O, be gone!
By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
For I come hither arm'd against myself:
Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say,
A madman's mercy bade thee run away.
PARIS I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.
ROMEO Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!
[They fight]
PAGE O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.
[Exit]
PARIS O, I am slain!
[Falls]
If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.
[Dies]
ROMEO In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris!
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so? O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
A grave? O no! a lantern, slaughter'd youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.
[Laying PARIS in the tomb]
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I
Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee;
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love!
[Drinks]
O true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.
[Dies]
[Enter, at the other end of the churchyard, FRIAR
LAURENCE, with a lantern, crow, and spade]
FRIAR LAURENCE Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there?
BALTHASAR Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well.
FRIAR LAURENCE Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light
To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,
It burneth in the Capel's monument.
BALTHASAR It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,
One that you love.
FRIAR LAURENCE Who is it?
BALTHASAR Romeo.
FRIAR LAURENCE How long hath he been there?
BALTHASAR Full half an hour.
FRIAR LAURENCE Go with me to the vault.
BALTHASAR I dare not, sir
My master knows not but I am gone hence;
And fearfully did menace me with death,
If I did stay to look on his intents.
FRIAR LAURENCE Stay, then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me:
O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
BALTHASAR As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,
I dreamt my master and another fought,
And that my master slew him.
FRIAR LAURENCE Romeo!
[Advances]
Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre?
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolour'd by this place of peace?
[Enters the tomb]
Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what, Paris too?
And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance!
The lady stirs.
[JULIET wakes]
JULIET O comfortable friar! where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am. Where is my Romeo?
[Noise within]
FRIAR LAURENCE I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns:
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet,
[Noise again]
I dare no longer stay.
JULIET Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.
[Exit FRIAR LAURENCE]
What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after? I will kiss thy lips;
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make die with a restorative.
[Kisses him]
Thy lips are warm.
First Watchman [Within] Lead, boy: which way?
JULIET Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!
[Snatching ROMEO's dagger]
This is thy sheath;
[Stabs herself]
there rust, and let me die.
[Falls on ROMEO's body, and dies]
[Enter Watch, with the Page of PARIS]
PAGE This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn.
First Watchman The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:
Go, some of you, whoe'er you find attach.
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,
And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,
Who here hath lain these two days buried.
Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets:
Raise up the Montagues: some others search:
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes
We cannot without circumstance descry.
[Re-enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR]
Second Watchman Here's Romeo's man; we found him in the churchyard.
First Watchman Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.
[Re-enter others of the Watch, with FRIAR LAURENCE]
Third Watchman Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs and weeps:
We took this mattock and this spade from him,
As he was coming from this churchyard side.
First Watchman A great suspicion: stay the friar too.
[Enter the PRINCE and Attendants]
PRINCE What misadventure is so early up,
That calls our person from our morning's rest?
[Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and others]
CAPULET What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?
LADY CAPULET The people in the street cry Romeo,
Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,
With open outcry toward our monument.
PRINCE What fear is this which startles in our ears?
First Watchman Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;
And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
Warm and new kill'd.
PRINCE Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.
First Watchman Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man;
With instruments upon them, fit to open
These dead men's tombs.
CAPULET O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista'en--for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague,--
And it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom!
LADY CAPULET O me! this sight of death is as a bell,
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.
[Enter MONTAGUE and others]
PRINCE Come, Montague; for thou art early up,
To see thy son and heir more early down.
MONTAGUE Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;
Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath:
What further woe conspires against mine age?
PRINCE Look, and thou shalt see.
MONTAGUE O thou untaught! what manners is in this?
To press before thy father to a grave?
PRINCE Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their
true descent;
And then will I be general of your woes,
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
And let mischance be slave to patience.
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
FRIAR LAURENCE I am the greatest, able to do least,
Yet most suspected, as the time and place
Doth make against me of this direful murder;
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excused.
PRINCE Then say at once what thou dost know in this.
FRIAR LAURENCE I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife:
I married them; and their stol'n marriage-day
Was Tybalt's dooms-day, whose untimely death
Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from the city,
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.
You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth'd and would have married her perforce
To County Paris: then comes she to me,
And, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her, so tutor'd by my art,
A sleeping potion; which so took effect
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo,
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow'd grave,
Being the time the potion's force should cease.
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight
Return'd my letter back. Then all alone
At the prefixed hour of her waking,
Came I to take her from her kindred's vault;
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
But when I came, some minute ere the time
Of her awaking, here untimely lay
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,
And bear this work of heaven with patience:
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb;
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
All this I know; and to the marriage
Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
Be sacrificed, some hour before his time,
Unto the rigour of severest law.
PRINCE We still have known thee for a holy man.
Where's Romeo's man? what can he say in this?
BALTHASAR I brought my master news of Juliet's death;
And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument.
This letter he early bid me give his father,
And threatened me with death, going in the vault,
I departed not and left him there.
PRINCE Give me the letter; I will look on it.
Where is the county's page, that raised the watch?
Sirrah, what made your master in this place?
PAGE He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave;
And bid me stand aloof, and so I did:
Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb;
And by and by my master drew on him;
And then I ran away to call the watch.
PRINCE This letter doth make good the friar's words,
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes that he did buy a poison
Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!
See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
And I for winking at your discords too
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.
CAPULET O brother Montague, give me thy hand:
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
Can I demand.
MONTAGUE But I can give thee more:
For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.
CAPULET As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie;
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!
PRINCE A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
[Exeunt]#19,219,157textTHE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
by William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personae
Claudius, King of Denmark.
Marcellus, Officer.
Hamlet, son to the former, and nephew to the present king.
Polonius, Lord Chamberlain.
Horatio, friend to Hamlet.
Laertes, son to Polonius.
Voltemand, courtier.
Cornelius, courtier.
Rosencrantz, courtier.
Guildenstern, courtier.
Osric, courtier.
A Gentleman, courtier.
A Priest.
Marcellus, officer.
Bernardo, officer.
Francisco, a soldier
Reynaldo, servant to Polonius.
Players.
Two Clowns, gravediggers.
Fortinbras, Prince of Norway.
A Norwegian Captain.
English Ambassadors.
Getrude, Queen of Denmark, mother to Hamlet.
Ophelia, daughter to Polonius.
Ghost of Hamlet's Father.
Lords, ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, Attendants.
SCENE.- Elsinore.
ACT I. Scene I.
Elsinore. A platform before the Castle.
Enter two Sentinels-[first,] Francisco, [who paces up and down
at his post; then] Bernardo, [who approaches him].
Ber. Who's there.?
Fran. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.
Ber. Long live the King!
Fran. Bernardo?
Ber. He.
Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour.
Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.
Fran. For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.
Ber. Have you had quiet guard?
Fran. Not a mouse stirring.
Ber. Well, good night.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,
The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
Fran. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there?
Hor. Friends to this ground.
Mar. And liegemen to the Dane.
Fran. Give you good night.
Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier.
Who hath reliev'd you?
Fran. Bernardo hath my place.
Give you good night. Exit.
Mar. Holla, Bernardo!
Ber. Say-
What, is Horatio there ?
Hor. A piece of him.
Ber. Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.
Mar. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night?
Ber. I have seen nothing.
Mar. Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us.
Therefore I have entreated him along,
With us to watch the minutes of this night,
That, if again this apparition come,
He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
Hor. Tush, tush, 'twill not appear.
Ber. Sit down awhile,
And let us once again assail your ears,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we two nights have seen.
Hor. Well, sit we down,
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
Ber. Last night of all,
When yond same star that's westward from the pole
Had made his course t' illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,
The bell then beating one-
Enter Ghost.
Mar. Peace! break thee off! Look where it comes again!
Ber. In the same figure, like the King that's dead.
Mar. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
Ber. Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.
Hor. Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.
Ber. It would be spoke to.
Mar. Question it, Horatio.
Hor. What art thou that usurp'st this time of night
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak!
Mar. It is offended.
Ber. See, it stalks away!
Hor. Stay! Speak, speak! I charge thee speak!
Exit Ghost.
Mar. 'Tis gone and will not answer.
Ber. How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale.
Is not this something more than fantasy?
What think you on't?
Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.
Mar. Is it not like the King?
Hor. As thou art to thyself.
Such was the very armour he had on
When he th' ambitious Norway combated.
So frown'd he once when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
'Tis strange.
Mar. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
Hor. In what particular thought to work I know not;
But, in the gross and scope of my opinion,
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me he that knows,
Why this same strict and most observant watch
So nightly toils the subject of the land,
And why such daily cast of brazen cannon
And foreign mart for implements of war;
Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task
Does not divide the Sunday from the week.
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste
Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day?
Who is't that can inform me?
Hor. That can I.
At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king,
Whose image even but now appear'd to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,
Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride,
Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet
(For so this side of our known world esteem'd him)
Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal'd compact,
Well ratified by law and heraldry,
Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands
Which he stood seiz'd of, to the conqueror;
Against the which a moiety competent
Was gaged by our king; which had return'd
To the inheritance of Fortinbras,
Had he been vanquisher, as, by the same comart
And carriage of the article design'd,
His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,
Of unimproved mettle hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there,
Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes,
For food and diet, to some enterprise
That hath a stomach in't; which is no other,
As it doth well appear unto our state,
But to recover of us, by strong hand
And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands
So by his father lost; and this, I take it,
Is the main motive of our preparations,
The source of this our watch, and the chief head
Of this post-haste and romage in the land.
Ber. I think it be no other but e'en so.
Well may it sort that this portentous figure
Comes armed through our watch, so like the King
That was and is the question of these wars.
Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;
As stars with trains of fire, and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.
And even the like precurse of fierce events,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen coming on,
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climature and countrymen.
Enter Ghost again.
But soft! behold! Lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me.- Stay illusion!
Spreads his arms.
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice,
Speak to me.
If there be any good thing to be done,
That may to thee do ease, and, race to me,
Speak to me.
If thou art privy to thy country's fate,
Which happily foreknowing may avoid,
O, speak!
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth
(For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death),
The cock crows.
Speak of it! Stay, and speak!- Stop it, Marcellus!
Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan?
Hor. Do, if it will not stand.
Ber. 'Tis here!
Hor. 'Tis here!
Mar. 'Tis gone!
Exit Ghost.
We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the show of violence;
For it is as the air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows malicious mockery.
Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
Hor. And then it started, like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
Th' extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine; and of the truth herein
This present object made probation.
Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever, 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Hor. So have I heard and do in part believe it.
But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.
Break we our watch up; and by my advice
Let us impart what we have seen to-night
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,
As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?
Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know
Where we shall find him most conveniently. Exeunt.
Scene II.
Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle.
Flourish. [Enter Claudius, King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet,
Polonius, Laertes and his sister Ophelia, [Voltemand, Cornelius,]
Lords Attendant.
King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death
The memory be green, and that it us befitted
To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom
To be contracted in one brow of woe,
Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature
That we with wisest sorrow think on him
Together with remembrance of ourselves.
Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,
Th' imperial jointress to this warlike state,
Have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy,
With an auspicious, and a dropping eye,
With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage,
In equal scale weighing delight and dole,
Taken to wife; nor have we herein barr'd
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With this affair along. For all, our thanks.
Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,
Holding a weak supposal of our worth,
Or thinking by our late dear brother's death
Our state to be disjoint and out of frame,
Colleagued with this dream of his advantage,
He hath not fail'd to pester us with message
Importing the surrender of those lands
Lost by his father, with all bands of law,
To our most valiant brother. So much for him.
Now for ourself and for this time of meeting.
Thus much the business is: we have here writ
To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,
Who, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears
Of this his nephew's purpose, to suppress
His further gait herein, in that the levies,
The lists, and full proportions are all made
Out of his subject; and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand,
For bearers of this greeting to old Norway,
Giving to you no further personal power
To business with the King, more than the scope
Of these dilated articles allow. [Gives a paper.]
Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty.
Cor., Volt. In that, and all things, will we show our duty.
King. We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell.
Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius.
And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of some suit. What is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of reason to the Dane
And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my offer, not thy asking?
The head is not more native to the heart,
The hand more instrumental to the mouth,
Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.
What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
Laer. My dread lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France;
From whence though willingly I came to Denmark
To show my duty in your coronation,
Yet now I must confess, that duty done,
My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France
And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
King. Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?
Pol. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave
By laboursome petition, and at last
Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent.
I do beseech you give him leave to go.
King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine,
And thy best graces spend it at thy will!
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son-
Ham. [aside] A little more than kin, and less than kind!
King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Ham. Not so, my lord. I am too much i' th' sun.
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou know'st 'tis common. All that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.
Queen. If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
Ham. Seems, madam, Nay, it is. I know not 'seems.'
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
'That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show-
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father;
But you must know, your father lost a father;
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some term
To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever
In obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly grief;
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschool'd;
For what we know must be, and is as common
As any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why should we in our peevish opposition
Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To reason most absurd, whose common theme
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From the first corse till he that died to-day,
'This must be so.' We pray you throw to earth
This unprevailing woe, and think of us
As of a father; for let the world take note
You are the most immediate to our throne,
And with no less nobility of love
Than that which dearest father bears his son
Do I impart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire;
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet.
I pray thee stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply.
Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come.
This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet
Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof,
No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,
And the King's rouse the heaven shall bruit again,
Respeaking earthly thunder. Come away.
Flourish. Exeunt all but Hamlet.
Ham. O that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah, fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead! Nay, not so much, not two.
So excellent a king, that was to this
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; and yet, within a month-
Let me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is woman!-
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body
Like Niobe, all tears- why she, even she
(O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn'd longer) married with my uncle;
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules. Within a month,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue!
Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.
Hor. Hail to your lordship!
Ham. I am glad to see you well.
Horatio!- or I do forget myself.
Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.
Ham. Sir, my good friend- I'll change that name with you.
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Marcellus?
Mar. My good lord!
Ham. I am very glad to see you.- [To Bernardo] Good even, sir.-
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so,
Nor shall you do my ear that violence
To make it truster of your own report
Against yourself. I know you are no truant.
But what is your affair in Elsinore?
We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
Ham. I prithee do not mock me, fellow student.
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!
My father- methinks I see my father.
Hor. O, where, my lord?
Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio.
Hor. I saw him once. He was a goodly king.
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all.
I shall not look upon his like again.
Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
Ham. Saw? who?
Hor. My lord, the King your father.
Ham. The King my father?
Hor. Season your admiration for a while
With an attent ear, till I may deliver
Upon the witness of these gentlemen,
This marvel to you.
Ham. For God's love let me hear!
Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen
(Marcellus and Bernardo) on their watch
In the dead vast and middle of the night
Been thus encount'red. A figure like your father,
Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe,
Appears before them and with solemn march
Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walk'd
By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes,
Within his truncheon's length; whilst they distill'd
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me
In dreadful secrecy impart they did,
And I with them the third night kept the watch;
Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time,
Form of the thing, each word made true and good,
The apparition comes. I knew your father.
These hands are not more like.
Ham. But where was this?
Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.
Ham. Did you not speak to it?
Hor. My lord, I did;
But answer made it none. Yet once methought
It lifted up it head and did address
Itself to motion, like as it would speak;
But even then the morning cock crew loud,
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away
And vanish'd from our sight.
Ham. 'Tis very strange.
Hor. As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true;
And we did think it writ down in our duty
To let you know of it.
Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs. But this troubles me.
Hold you the watch to-night?
Both [Mar. and Ber.] We do, my lord.
Ham. Arm'd, say you?
Both. Arm'd, my lord.
Ham. From top to toe?
Both. My lord, from head to foot.
Ham. Then saw you not his face?
Hor. O, yes, my lord! He wore his beaver up.
Ham. What, look'd he frowningly.
Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Ham. Pale or red?
Hor. Nay, very pale.
Ham. And fix'd his eyes upon you?
Hor. Most constantly.
Ham. I would I had been there.
Hor. It would have much amaz'd you.
Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
Both. Longer, longer.
Hor. Not when I saw't.
Ham. His beard was grizzled- no?
Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life,
A sable silver'd.
Ham. I will watch to-night.
Perchance 'twill walk again.
Hor. I warr'nt it will.
Ham. If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding but no tongue.
I will requite your loves. So, fare you well.
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,
I'll visit you.
All. Our duty to your honour.
Ham. Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.
Exeunt [all but Hamlet].
My father's spirit- in arms? All is not well.
I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!
Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
Exit.
Scene III.
Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius.
Enter Laertes and Ophelia.
Laer. My necessaries are embark'd. Farewell.
And, sister, as the winds give benefit
And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,
But let me hear from you.
Oph. Do you doubt that?
Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent- sweet, not lasting;
The perfume and suppliance of a minute;
No more.
Oph. No more but so?
Laer. Think it no more.
For nature crescent does not grow alone
In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,
And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch
The virtue of his will; but you must fear,
His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own;
For he himself is subject to his birth.
He may not, as unvalued persons do,
Carve for himself, for on his choice depends
The safety and health of this whole state,
And therefore must his choice be circumscrib'd
Unto the voice and yielding of that body
Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,
It fits your wisdom so far to believe it
As he in his particular act and place
May give his saying deed; which is no further
Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.
Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open
To his unmast'red importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough
If she unmask her beauty to the moon.
Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes.
The canker galls the infants of the spring
Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd,
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
Be wary then; best safety lies in fear.
Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
Oph. I shall th' effect of this good lesson keep
As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,
Do not as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,
Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads
And recks not his own rede.
Laer. O, fear me not!
Enter Polonius.
I stay too long. But here my father comes.
A double blessing is a double grace;
Occasion smiles upon a second leave.
Pol. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay'd for. There- my blessing with thee!
And these few precepts in thy memory
Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar:
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all- to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell. My blessing season this in thee!
Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
Pol. The time invites you. Go, your servants tend.
Laer. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well
What I have said to you.
Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
Laer. Farewell. Exit.
Pol. What is't, Ophelia, he hath said to you?
Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
Pol. Marry, well bethought!
'Tis told me he hath very oft of late
Given private time to you, and you yourself
Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.
If it be so- as so 'tis put on me,
And that in way of caution- I must tell you
You do not understand yourself so clearly
As it behooves my daughter and your honour.
What is between you? Give me up the truth.
Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.
Pol. Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think,
Pol. Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby
That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly,
Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Running it thus) you'll tender me a fool.
Oph. My lord, he hath importun'd me with love
In honourable fashion.
Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to!
Oph. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! I do know,
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter,
Giving more light than heat, extinct in both
Even in their promise, as it is a-making,
You must not take for fire. From this time
Be something scanter of your maiden presence.
Set your entreatments at a higher rate
Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,
Believe so much in him, that he is young,
And with a larger tether may he walk
Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,
Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,
Not of that dye which their investments show,
But mere implorators of unholy suits,
Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,
The better to beguile. This is for all:
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth
Have you so slander any moment leisure
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.
Look to't, I charge you. Come your ways.
Oph. I shall obey, my lord.
Exeunt.
Scene IV.
Elsinore. The platform before the Castle.
Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.
Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.
Ham. What hour now?
Hor. I think it lacks of twelve.
Mar. No, it is struck.
Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
A flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off.
What does this mean, my lord?
Ham. The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring upspring reels,
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.
Hor. Is it a custom?
Ham. Ay, marry, is't;
But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour'd in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel east and west
Makes us traduc'd and tax'd of other nations;
They clip us drunkards and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition; and indeed it takes
From our achievements, though perform'd at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.
So oft it chances in particular men
That, for some vicious mole of nature in them,
As in their birth,- wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin,-
By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,
Or by some habit that too much o'erleavens
The form of plausive manners, that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,
Their virtues else- be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo-
Shall in the general censure take corruption
From that particular fault. The dram of e'il
Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.
Enter Ghost.
Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!
Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me?
Let me not burst in ignorance, but tell
Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,
Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws
To cast thee up again. What may this mean
That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,
Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous, and we fools of nature
So horridly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Say, why is this? wherefore? What should we do?
Ghost beckons Hamlet.
Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Mar. Look with what courteous action
It waves you to a more removed ground.
But do not go with it!
Hor. No, by no means!
Ham. It will not speak. Then will I follow it.
Hor. Do not, my lord!
Ham. Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing immortal as itself?
It waves me forth again. I'll follow it.
Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff
That beetles o'er his base into the sea,
And there assume some other, horrible form
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason
And draw you into madness? Think of it.
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fadoms to the sea
And hears it roar beneath.
Ham. It waves me still.
Go on. I'll follow thee.
Mar. You shall not go, my lord.
Ham. Hold off your hands!
Hor. Be rul'd. You shall not go.
Ham. My fate cries out
And makes each petty artire in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
[Ghost beckons.]
Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!-
I say, away!- Go on. I'll follow thee.
Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.
Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination.
Mar. Let's follow. 'Tis not fit thus to obey him.
Hor. Have after. To what issue wail this come?
Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Hor. Heaven will direct it.
Mar. Nay, let's follow him.
Exeunt.
Scene V.
Elsinore. The Castle. Another part of the fortifications.
Enter Ghost and Hamlet.
Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I'll go no further.
Ghost. Mark me.
Ham. I will.
Ghost. My hour is almost come,
When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself.
Ham. Alas, poor ghost!
Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.
Ham. Speak. I am bound to hear.
Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
Ham. What?
Ghost. I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand an end
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!
If thou didst ever thy dear father love-
Ham. O God!
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther.
Ham. Murther?
Ghost. Murther most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Ham. Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
Ghost. I find thee apt;
And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed
That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.
'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus'd. But know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father's life
Now wears his crown.
Ham. O my prophetic soul!
My uncle?
Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts-
O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power
So to seduce!- won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.
O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there,
From me, whose love was of that dignity
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage, and to decline
Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine!
But virtue, as it never will be mov'd,
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,
So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd,
Will sate itself in a celestial bed
And prey on garbage.
But soft! methinks I scent the morning air.
Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,
My custom always of the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebona in a vial,
And in the porches of my ears did pour
The leperous distilment; whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man
That swift as quicksilverr it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body,
And with a sudden vigour it doth posset
And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine;
And a most instant tetter bark'd about,
Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust
All my smooth body.
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd;
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhous'led, disappointed, unanel'd,
No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.
Ham. O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!
Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not.
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damned incest.
But, howsoever thou pursuest this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught. Leave her to heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once.
The glowworm shows the matin to be near
And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me. Exit.
Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
And shall I couple hell? Hold, hold, my heart!
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee?
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
That youth and observation copied there,
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter. Yes, by heaven!
O most pernicious woman!
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
My tables! Meet it is I set it down
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;
At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark. [Writes.]
So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word:
It is 'Adieu, adieu! Remember me.'
I have sworn't.
Hor. (within) My lord, my lord!
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
Mar. Lord Hamlet!
Hor. Heaven secure him!
Ham. So be it!
Mar. Illo, ho, ho, my lord!
Ham. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.
Mar. How is't, my noble lord?
Hor. What news, my lord?
Mar. O, wonderful!
Hor. Good my lord, tell it.
Ham. No, you will reveal it.
Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven!
Mar. Nor I, my lord.
Ham. How say you then? Would heart of man once think it?
But you'll be secret?
Both. Ay, by heaven, my lord.
Ham. There's neer a villain dwelling in all Denmark
But he's an arrant knave.
Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.
Ham. Why, right! You are in the right!
And so, without more circumstance at all,
I hold it fit that we shake hands and part;
You, as your business and desires shall point you,
For every man hath business and desire,
Such as it is; and for my own poor part,
Look you, I'll go pray.
Hor. These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
Ham. I am sorry they offend you, heartily;
Yes, faith, heartily.
Hor. There's no offence, my lord.
Ham. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
And much offence too. Touching this vision here,
It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you.
For your desire to know what is between us,
O'ermaster't as you may. And now, good friends,
As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,
Give me one poor request.
Hor. What is't, my lord? We will.
Ham. Never make known what you have seen to-night.
Both. My lord, we will not.
Ham. Nay, but swear't.
Hor. In faith,
My lord, not I.
Mar. Nor I, my lord- in faith.
Ham. Upon my sword.
Mar. We have sworn, my lord, already.
Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.
Ghost cries under the stage.
Ghost. Swear.
Ham. Aha boy, say'st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny?
Come on! You hear this fellow in the cellarage.
Consent to swear.
Hor. Propose the oath, my lord.
Ham. Never to speak of this that you have seen.
Swear by my sword.
Ghost. [beneath] Swear.
Ham. Hic et ubique? Then we'll shift our ground.
Come hither, gentlemen,
And lay your hands again upon my sword.
Never to speak of this that you have heard:
Swear by my sword.
Ghost. [beneath] Swear by his sword.
Ham. Well said, old mole! Canst work i' th' earth so fast?
A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends."
Hor. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!
Ham. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
But come!
Here, as before, never, so help you mercy,
How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself
(As I perchance hereafter shall think meet
To put an antic disposition on),
That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,
With arms encumb'red thus, or this head-shake,
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,
As 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,'
Or 'If we list to speak,' or 'There be, an if they might,'
Or such ambiguous giving out, to note
That you know aught of me- this is not to do,
So grace and mercy at your most need help you,
Swear.
Ghost. [beneath] Swear.
[They swear.]
Ham. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! So, gentlemen,
With all my love I do commend me to you;
And what so poor a man as Hamlet is
May do t' express his love and friending to you,
God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together;
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint. O cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right!
Nay, come, let's go together.
Exeunt.
Act II. Scene I.
Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius.
Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.
Pol. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
Rey. I will, my lord.
Pol. You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before You visit him, to make inquire
Of his behaviour.
Rey. My lord, I did intend it.
Pol. Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,
Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;
And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,
What company, at what expense; and finding
By this encompassment and drift of question
That they do know my son, come you more nearer
Than your particular demands will touch it.
Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge of him;
As thus, 'I know his father and his friends,
And in part him.' Do you mark this, Reynaldo?
Rey. Ay, very well, my lord.
Pol. 'And in part him, but,' you may say, 'not well.
But if't be he I mean, he's very wild
Addicted so and so'; and there put on him
What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank
As may dishonour him- take heed of that;
But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips
As are companions noted and most known
To youth and liberty.
Rey. As gaming, my lord.
Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,
Drabbing. You may go so far.
Rey. My lord, that would dishonour him.
Pol. Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge.
You must not put another scandal on him,
That he is open to incontinency.
That's not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly
That they may seem the taints of liberty,
The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,
A savageness in unreclaimed blood,
Of general assault.
Rey. But, my good lord-
Pol. Wherefore should you do this?
Rey. Ay, my lord,
I would know that.
Pol. Marry, sir, here's my drift,
And I believe it is a fetch of warrant.
You laying these slight sullies on my son
As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' th' working,
Mark you,
Your party in converse, him you would sound,
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes
The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur'd
He closes with you in this consequence:
'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman'-
According to the phrase or the addition
Of man and country-
Rey. Very good, my lord.
Pol. And then, sir, does 'a this- 'a does- What was I about to say?
By the mass, I was about to say something! Where did I leave?
Rey. At 'closes in the consequence,' at 'friend or so,' and
gentleman.'
Pol. At 'closes in the consequence'- Ay, marry!
He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman.
I saw him yesterday, or t'other day,
Or then, or then, with such or such; and, as you say,
There was 'a gaming; there o'ertook in's rouse;
There falling out at tennis'; or perchance,
'I saw him enter such a house of sale,'
Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth.
See you now-
Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth;
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
With windlasses and with assays of bias,
By indirections find directions out.
So, by my former lecture and advice,
Shall you my son. You have me, have you not
Rey. My lord, I have.
Pol. God b' wi' ye, fare ye well!
Rey. Good my lord! [Going.]
Pol. Observe his inclination in yourself.
Rey. I shall, my lord.
Pol. And let him ply his music.
Rey. Well, my lord.
Pol. Farewell!
Exit Reynaldo.
Enter Ophelia.
How now, Ophelia? What's the matter?
Oph. O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
Pol. With what, i' th' name of God I
Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd,
No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd,
Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle;
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors- he comes before me.
Pol. Mad for thy love?
Oph. My lord, I do not know,
But truly I do fear it.
Pol. What said he?
Oph. He took me by the wrist and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so.
At last, a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turn'd
He seem'd to find his way without his eyes,
For out o' doors he went without their help
And to the last bended their light on me.
Pol. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King.
This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate undertakings
As oft as any passion under heaven
That does afflict our natures. I am sorry.
What, have you given him any hard words of late?
Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,
I did repel his letters and denied
His access to me.
Pol. That hath made him mad.
I am sorry that with better heed and judgment
I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle
And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy!
By heaven, it is as proper to our age
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions
As it is common for the younger sort
To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King.
This must be known; which, being kept close, might move
More grief to hide than hate to utter love.
Come.
Exeunt.
Scene II.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Flourish. [Enter King and Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, cum aliis.
King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Moreover that we much did long to see you,
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard
Of Hamlet's transformation. So I call it,
Sith nor th' exterior nor the inward man
Resembles that it was. What it should be,
More than his father's death, that thus hath put him
So much from th' understanding of himself,
I cannot dream of. I entreat you both
That, being of so young clays brought up with him,
And since so neighbour'd to his youth and haviour,
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court
Some little time; so by your companies
To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather
So much as from occasion you may glean,
Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus
That, open'd, lies within our remedy.
Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you,
And sure I am two men there are not living
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
To show us so much gentry and good will
As to expend your time with us awhile
For the supply and profit of our hope,
Your visitation shall receive such thanks
As fits a king's remembrance.
Ros. Both your Majesties
Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,
Put your dread pleasures more into command
Than to entreaty.
Guil. But we both obey,
And here give up ourselves, in the full bent,
To lay our service freely at your feet,
To be commanded.
King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.
Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz.
And I beseech you instantly to visit
My too much changed son.- Go, some of you,
And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.
Guil. Heavens make our presence and our practices
Pleasant and helpful to him!
Queen. Ay, amen!
Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, [with some
Attendants].
Enter Polonius.
Pol. Th' ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,
Are joyfully return'd.
King. Thou still hast been the father of good news.
Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,
I hold my duty as I hold my soul,
Both to my God and to my gracious king;
And I do think- or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
As it hath us'd to do- that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.
King. O, speak of that! That do I long to hear.
Pol. Give first admittance to th' ambassadors.
My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.
King. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.
[Exit Polonius.]
He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found
The head and source of all your son's distemper.
Queen. I doubt it is no other but the main,
His father's death and our o'erhasty marriage.
King. Well, we shall sift him.
Enter Polonius, Voltemand, and Cornelius.
Welcome, my good friends.
Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?
Volt. Most fair return of greetings and desires.
Upon our first, he sent out to suppress
His nephew's levies; which to him appear'd
To be a preparation 'gainst the Polack,
But better look'd into, he truly found
It was against your Highness; whereat griev'd,
That so his sickness, age, and impotence
Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests
On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys,
Receives rebuke from Norway, and, in fine,
Makes vow before his uncle never more
To give th' assay of arms against your Majesty.
Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy,
Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee
And his commission to employ those soldiers,
So levied as before, against the Polack;
With an entreaty, herein further shown,
[Gives a paper.]
That it might please you to give quiet pass
Through your dominions for this enterprise,
On such regards of safety and allowance
As therein are set down.
King. It likes us well;
And at our more consider'd time we'll read,
Answer, and think upon this business.
Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour.
Go to your rest; at night we'll feast together.
Most welcome home! Exeunt Ambassadors.
Pol. This business is well ended.
My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night is night, and time is time.
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.
Queen. More matter, with less art.
Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art at all.
That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity;
And pity 'tis 'tis true. A foolish figure!
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him then. And now remains
That we find out the cause of this effect-
Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
For this effect defective comes by cause.
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Perpend.
I have a daughter (have while she is mine),
Who in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise.
[Reads] the letter.
'To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified
Ophelia,'-
That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; 'beautified' is a vile
phrase.
But you shall hear. Thus:
[Reads.]
'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.'
Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her?
Pol. Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful. [Reads.]
'Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to
reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe
it. Adieu.
'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him,
HAMLET.'
This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me;
And more above, hath his solicitings,
As they fell out by time, by means, and place,
All given to mine ear.
King. But how hath she
Receiv'd his love?
Pol. What do you think of me?
King. As of a man faithful and honourable.
Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you think,
When I had seen this hot love on the wing
(As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that,
Before my daughter told me), what might you,
Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think,
If I had play'd the desk or table book,
Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb,
Or look'd upon this love with idle sight?
What might you think? No, I went round to work
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak:
'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.
This must not be.' And then I prescripts gave her,
That she should lock herself from his resort,
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice,
And he, repulsed, a short tale to make,
Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,
Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,
Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves,
And all we mourn for.
King. Do you think 'tis this?
Queen. it may be, very like.
Pol. Hath there been such a time- I would fain know that-
That I have Positively said ''Tis so,'
When it prov'd otherwise.?
King. Not that I know.
Pol. [points to his head and shoulder] Take this from this, if this
be otherwise.
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
King. How may we try it further?
Pol. You know sometimes he walks four hours together
Here in the lobby.
Queen. So he does indeed.
Pol. At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him.
Be you and I behind an arras then.
Mark the encounter. If he love her not,
And he not from his reason fall'n thereon
Let me be no assistant for a state,
But keep a farm and carters.
King. We will try it.
Enter Hamlet, reading on a book.
Queen. But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.
Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both away
I'll board him presently. O, give me leave.
Exeunt King and Queen, [with Attendants].
How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Ham. Well, God-a-mercy.
Pol. Do you know me, my lord?
Ham. Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.
Pol. Not I, my lord.
Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man.
Pol. Honest, my lord?
Ham. Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man
pick'd out of ten thousand.
Pol. That's very true, my lord.
Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god
kissing carrion- Have you a daughter?
Pol. I have, my lord.
Ham. Let her not walk i' th' sun. Conception is a blessing, but not
as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to't.
Pol. [aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet
he knew me not at first. He said I was a fishmonger. He is far
gone, far gone! And truly in my youth I suff'red much extremity
for love- very near this. I'll speak to him again.- What do you
read, my lord?
Ham. Words, words, words.
Pol. What is the matter, my lord?
Ham. Between who?
Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
Ham. Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men
have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes
purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a
plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which,
sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it
not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir,
should be old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backward.
Pol. [aside] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.-
Will You walk out of the air, my lord?
Ham. Into my grave?
Pol. Indeed, that is out o' th' air. [Aside] How pregnant sometimes
his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which
reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I
will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between
him and my daughter.- My honourable lord, I will most humbly take
my leave of you.
Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more
willingly part withal- except my life, except my life, except my
life,
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Pol. Fare you well, my lord.
Ham. These tedious old fools!
Pol. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet. There he is.
Ros. [to Polonius] God save you, sir!
Exit [Polonius].
Guil. My honour'd lord!
Ros. My most dear lord!
Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah,
Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?
Ros. As the indifferent children of the earth.
Guil. Happy in that we are not over-happy.
On Fortune's cap we are not the very button.
Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe?
Ros. Neither, my lord.
Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her
favours?
Guil. Faith, her privates we.
Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most true! she is a
strumpet. What news ?
Ros. None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest.
Ham. Then is doomsday near! But your news is not true. Let me
question more in particular. What have you, my good friends,
deserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison
hither?
Guil. Prison, my lord?
Ham. Denmark's a prison.
Ros. Then is the world one.
Ham. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and
dungeons, Denmark being one o' th' worst.
Ros. We think not so, my lord.
Ham. Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good
or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.
Ros. Why, then your ambition makes it one. 'Tis too narrow for your
mind.
Ham. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a
king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
Guil. Which dreams indeed are ambition; for the very substance of
the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow.
Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that
it is but a shadow's shadow.
Ham. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch'd
heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to th' court? for, by my
fay, I cannot reason.
Both. We'll wait upon you.
Ham. No such matter! I will not sort you with the rest of my
servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most
dreadfully attended. But in the beaten way of friendship, what
make you at Elsinore?
Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.
Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you;
and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were
you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free
visitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come! Nay, speak.
Guil. What should we say, my lord?
Ham. Why, anything- but to th' purpose. You were sent for; and
there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties
have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen
have sent for you.
Ros. To what end, my lord?
Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you by the rights
of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the
obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a
better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with
me, whether you were sent for or no.
Ros. [aside to Guildenstern] What say you?
Ham. [aside] Nay then, I have an eye of you.- If you love me, hold
not off.
Guil. My lord, we were sent for.
Ham. I will tell you why. So shall my anticipation prevent your
discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no
feather. I have of late- but wherefore I know not- lost all my
mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so
heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth,
seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the
air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical
roof fretted with golden fire- why, it appeareth no other thing
to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a
piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in
faculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in
action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the
beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what
is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me- no, nor woman
neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
Ros. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.
Ham. Why did you laugh then, when I said 'Man delights not me'?
Ros. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten
entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them
on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service.
Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome- his Majesty shall
have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and
target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall
end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose
lungs are tickle o' th' sere; and the lady shall say her mind
freely, or the blank verse shall halt fort. What players are
they?
Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the
tragedians of the city.
Ham. How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in
reputation and profit, was better both ways.
Ros. I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late
innovation.
Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the
city? Are they so follow'd?
Ros. No indeed are they not.
Ham. How comes it? Do they grow rusty?
Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is,
sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top
of question and are most tyrannically clapp'd fort. These are now
the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call
them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and
dare scarce come thither.
Ham. What, are they children? Who maintains 'em? How are they
escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can
sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow
themselves to common players (as it is most like, if their means
are no better), their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim
against their own succession.
Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation
holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was, for a
while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player
went to cuffs in the question.
Ham. Is't possible?
Guil. O, there has been much throwing about of brains.
Ham. Do the boys carry it away?
Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord- Hercules and his load too.
Ham. It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and
those that would make mows at him while my father lived give
twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in
little. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if
philosophy could find it out.
Flourish for the Players.
Guil. There are the players.
Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come! Th'
appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply
with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players (which I
tell you must show fairly outwards) should more appear like
entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father
and aunt-mother are deceiv'd.
Guil. In what, my dear lord?
Ham. I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I
know a hawk from a handsaw.
Enter Polonius.
Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen!
Ham. Hark you, Guildenstern- and you too- at each ear a hearer!
That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling
clouts.
Ros. Happily he's the second time come to them; for they say an old
man is twice a child.
Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.-
You say right, sir; a Monday morning; twas so indeed.
Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you.
Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in
Rome-
Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord.
Ham. Buzz, buzz!
Pol. Upon my honour-
Ham. Then came each actor on his ass-
Pol. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy,
history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,
tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral; scene
individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor
Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are
the only men.
Ham. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!
Pol. What treasure had he, my lord?
Ham. Why,
'One fair daughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well.'
Pol. [aside] Still on my daughter.
Ham. Am I not i' th' right, old Jephthah?
Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I
love passing well.
Ham. Nay, that follows not.
Pol. What follows then, my lord?
Ham. Why,
'As by lot, God wot,'
and then, you know,
'It came to pass, as most like it was.'
The first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look
where my abridgment comes.
Enter four or five Players.
You are welcome, masters; welcome, all.- I am glad to see thee
well.- Welcome, good friends.- O, my old friend? Why, thy face is
valanc'd since I saw thee last. Com'st' thou to' beard me in
Denmark?- What, my young lady and mistress? By'r Lady, your
ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the
altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of
uncurrent gold, be not crack'd within the ring.- Masters, you are
all welcome. We'll e'en to't like French falconers, fly at
anything we see. We'll have a speech straight. Come, give us a
taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech.
1. Play. What speech, my good lord?
Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted;
or if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleas'd
not the million, 'twas caviary to the general; but it was (as I
receiv'd it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in
the top of mine) an excellent play, well digested in the scenes,
set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said
there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury,
nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of
affectation; but call'd it an honest method, as wholesome as
sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in't
I chiefly lov'd. 'Twas AEneas' tale to Dido, and thereabout of it
especially where he speaks of Priam's slaughter. If it live in
your memory, begin at this line- let me see, let me see:
'The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast-'
'Tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus:
'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble
When he lay couched in the ominous horse,
Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd
With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot
Now is be total gules, horridly trick'd
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets,
That lend a tyrannous and a damned light
To their lord's murther. Roasted in wrath and fire,
And thus o'ersized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks.'
So, proceed you.
Pol. Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good
discretion.
1. Play. 'Anon he finds him,
Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command. Unequal match'd,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide;
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword
Th' unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,
Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash
Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear. For lo! his sword,
Which was declining on the milky head
Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' th' air to stick.
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,
And, like a neutral to his will and matter,
Did nothing.
But, as we often see, against some storm,
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
The bold winds speechless, and the orb below
As hush as death- anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus' pause,
Aroused vengeance sets him new awork;
And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall
On Mars's armour, forg'd for proof eterne,
With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword
Now falls on Priam.
Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods,
In general synod take away her power;
Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven,
As low as to the fiends!
Pol. This is too long.
Ham. It shall to the barber's, with your beard.- Prithee say on.
He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to
Hecuba.
1. Play. 'But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen-'
Ham. 'The mobled queen'?
Pol. That's good! 'Mobled queen' is good.
1. Play. 'Run barefoot up and down, threat'ning the flames
With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head
Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe,
About her lank and all o'erteemed loins,
A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up-
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd
'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounc'd.
But if the gods themselves did see her then,
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In Mincing with his sword her husband's limbs,
The instant burst of clamour that she made
(Unless things mortal move them not at all)
Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven
And passion in the gods.'
Pol. Look, whe'r he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's
eyes. Prithee no more!
Ham. 'Tis well. I'll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.-
Good my lord, will you see the players well bestow'd? Do you
hear? Let them be well us'd; for they are the abstract and brief
chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a
bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their desert.
Ham. God's bodykins, man, much better! Use every man after his
desert, and who should scape whipping? Use them after your own
honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in
your bounty. Take them in.
Pol. Come, sirs.
Ham. Follow him, friends. We'll hear a play to-morrow.
Exeunt Polonius and Players [except the First].
Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play 'The Murther of
Gonzago'?
1. Play. Ay, my lord.
Ham. We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a
speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and
insert in't, could you not?
1. Play. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Very well. Follow that lord- and look you mock him not.
[Exit First Player.]
My good friends, I'll leave you till night. You are welcome to
Elsinore.
Ros. Good my lord!
Ham. Ay, so, God b' wi' ye!
[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
Now I am alone.
O what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That, from her working, all his visage wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing! No, not for a king,
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by th' nose? gives me the lie i' th' throat
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this, ha?
'Swounds, I should take it! for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall
To make oppression bitter, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal. Bloody bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
O, vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murther'd,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must (like a whore) unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing like a very drab,
A scullion!
Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! Hum, I have heard
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions;
For murther, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ, I'll have these Players
Play something like the murther of my father
Before mine uncle. I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick. If he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be a devil; and the devil hath power
T' assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds
More relative than this. The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King. Exit.
ACT III. Scene I.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Lords.
King. And can you by no drift of circumstance
Get from him why he puts on this confusion,
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet
With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?
Ros. He does confess he feels himself distracted,
But from what cause he will by no means speak.
Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,
But with a crafty madness keeps aloof
When we would bring him on to some confession
Of his true state.
Queen. Did he receive you well?
Ros. Most like a gentleman.
Guil. But with much forcing of his disposition.
Ros. Niggard of question, but of our demands
Most free in his reply.
Queen. Did you assay him
To any pastime?
Ros. Madam, it so fell out that certain players
We o'erraught on the way. Of these we told him,
And there did seem in him a kind of joy
To hear of it. They are here about the court,
And, as I think, they have already order
This night to play before him.
Pol. 'Tis most true;
And he beseech'd me to entreat your Majesties
To hear and see the matter.
King. With all my heart, and it doth much content me
To hear him so inclin'd.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge
And drive his purpose on to these delights.
Ros. We shall, my lord.
Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
King. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
That he, as 'twere by accident, may here
Affront Ophelia.
Her father and myself (lawful espials)
Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen,
We may of their encounter frankly judge
And gather by him, as he is behav'd,
If't be th' affliction of his love, or no,
That thus he suffers for.
Queen. I shall obey you;
And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness. So shall I hope your virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your honours.
Oph. Madam, I wish it may.
[Exit Queen.]
Pol. Ophelia, walk you here.- Gracious, so please you,
We will bestow ourselves.- [To Ophelia] Read on this book,
That show of such an exercise may colour
Your loneliness.- We are oft to blame in this,
'Tis too much prov'd, that with devotion's visage
And pious action we do sugar o'er
The Devil himself.
King. [aside] O, 'tis too true!
How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience!
The harlot's cheek, beautied with plast'ring art,
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it
Than is my deed to my most painted word.
O heavy burthen!
Pol. I hear him coming. Let's withdraw, my lord.
Exeunt King and Polonius].
Enter Hamlet.
Ham. To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.
Oph. Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?
Ham. I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to re-deliver.
I pray you, now receive them.
Ham. No, not I!
I never gave you aught.
Oph. My honour'd lord, you know right well you did,
And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd
As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.
Ham. Ha, ha! Are you honest?
Oph. My lord?
Ham. Are you fair?
Oph. What means your lordship?
Ham. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no
discourse to your beauty.
Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
Ham. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform
honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can
translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox,
but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.
Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
Ham. You should not have believ'd me; for virtue cannot so
inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you
not.
Oph. I was the more deceived.
Ham. Get thee to a nunnery! Why wouldst thou be a breeder of
sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse
me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.
I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my
beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give
them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I
do, crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all;
believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where's your
father?
Oph. At home, my lord.
Ham. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool
nowhere but in's own house. Farewell.
Oph. O, help him, you sweet heavens!
Ham. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry:
be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape
calumny. Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or if thou wilt
needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what
monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too.
Farewell.
Oph. O heavenly powers, restore him!
Ham. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath
given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you
amble, and you lisp; you nickname God's creatures and make your
wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't! it hath made
me mad. I say, we will have no moe marriages. Those that are
married already- all but one- shall live; the rest shall keep as
they are. To a nunnery, go. Exit.
Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword,
Th' expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
Th' observ'd of all observers- quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me
T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!
Enter King and Polonius.
King. Love? his affections do not that way tend;
Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little,
Was not like madness. There's something in his soul
O'er which his melancholy sits on brood;
And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose
Will be some danger; which for to prevent,
I have in quick determination
Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England
For the demand of our neglected tribute.
Haply the seas, and countries different,
With variable objects, shall expel
This something-settled matter in his heart,
Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus
From fashion of himself. What think you on't?
Pol. It shall do well. But yet do I believe
The origin and commencement of his grief
Sprung from neglected love.- How now, Ophelia?
You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said.
We heard it all.- My lord, do as you please;
But if you hold it fit, after the play
Let his queen mother all alone entreat him
To show his grief. Let her be round with him;
And I'll be plac'd so please you, in the ear
Of all their conference. If she find him not,
To England send him; or confine him where
Your wisdom best shall think.
King. It shall be so.
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go. Exeunt.
Scene II.
Elsinore. hall in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet and three of the Players.
Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you,
trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our
players do, I had as live the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do
not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all
gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say)
whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a
temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the
soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to
tatters, to very rags, to split the cars of the groundlings, who
(for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb
shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipp'd for o'erdoing
Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.
Player. I warrant your honour.
Ham. Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your
tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with
this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of
nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing,
whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as
'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show Virtue her own feature,
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his
form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though
it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious
grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance
o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I
have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to
speak it profanely), that, neither having the accent of
Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so
strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's
journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated
humanity so abominably.
Player. I hope we have reform'd that indifferently with us, sir.
Ham. O, reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns
speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them
that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren
spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary
question of the play be then to be considered. That's villanous
and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go
make you ready.
Exeunt Players.
Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.
How now, my lord? Will the King hear this piece of work?
Pol. And the Queen too, and that presently.
Ham. Bid the players make haste, [Exit Polonius.] Will you two
help to hasten them?
Both. We will, my lord. Exeunt they two.
Ham. What, ho, Horatio!
Enter Horatio.
Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service.
Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation cop'd withal.
Hor. O, my dear lord!
Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter;
For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd?
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish, her election
Hath scald thee for herself. For thou hast been
As one, in suff'ring all, that suffers nothing;
A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and blest are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee. Something too much of this I
There is a play to-night before the King.
One scene of it comes near the circumstance,
Which I have told thee, of my father's death.
I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe my uncle. If his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note;
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,
And after we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming.
Hor. Well, my lord.
If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing,
And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.
Sound a flourish. [Enter Trumpets and Kettledrums. Danish
march. [Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz,
Guildenstern, and other Lords attendant, with the Guard
carrying torches.
Ham. They are coming to the play. I must be idle.
Get you a place.
King. How fares our cousin Hamlet?
Ham. Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish. I eat the air,
promise-cramm'd. You cannot feed capons so.
King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet. These words are not
mine.
Ham. No, nor mine now. [To Polonius] My lord, you play'd once
i' th' university, you say?
Pol. That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.
Ham. What did you enact?
Pol. I did enact Julius Caesar; I was kill'd i' th' Capitol; Brutus
kill'd me.
Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be
the players ready.
Ros. Ay, my lord. They stay upon your patience.
Queen. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.
Ham. No, good mother. Here's metal more attractive.
Pol. [to the King] O, ho! do you mark that?
Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
[Sits down at Ophelia's feet.]
Oph. No, my lord.
Ham. I mean, my head upon your lap?
Oph. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Do you think I meant country matters?
Oph. I think nothing, my lord.
Ham. That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
Oph. What is, my lord?
Ham. Nothing.
Oph. You are merry, my lord.
Ham. Who, I?
Oph. Ay, my lord.
Ham. O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry?
For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died
within 's two hours.
Oph. Nay 'tis twice two months, my lord.
Ham. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a
suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten
yet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life
half a year. But, by'r Lady, he must build churches then; or else
shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose
epitaph is 'For O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!'
Hautboys play. The dumb show enters.
Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing
him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation
unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her
neck. He lays him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing
him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his
crown, kisses it, pours poison in the sleeper's ears, and
leaves him. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes
passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes,
comes in again, seem to condole with her. The dead body is
carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she
seems harsh and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts
his love.
Exeunt.
Oph. What means this, my lord?
Ham. Marry, this is miching malhecho; it means mischief.
Oph. Belike this show imports the argument of the play.
Enter Prologue.
Ham. We shall know by this fellow. The players cannot keep counsel;
they'll tell all.
Oph. Will he tell us what this show meant?
Ham. Ay, or any show that you'll show him. Be not you asham'd to
show, he'll not shame to tell you what it means.
Oph. You are naught, you are naught! I'll mark the play.
Pro. For us, and for our tragedy,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently. [Exit.]
Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
Oph. 'Tis brief, my lord.
Ham. As woman's love.
Enter [two Players as] King and Queen.
King. Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round
Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground,
And thirty dozed moons with borrowed sheen
About the world have times twelve thirties been,
Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,
Unite comutual in most sacred bands.
Queen. So many journeys may the sun and moon
Make us again count o'er ere love be done!
But woe is me! you are so sick of late,
So far from cheer and from your former state.
That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,
Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must;
For women's fear and love holds quantity,
In neither aught, or in extremity.
Now what my love is, proof hath made you know;
And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so.
Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;
Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
King. Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too;
My operant powers their functions leave to do.
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,
Honour'd, belov'd, and haply one as kind
For husband shalt thou-
Queen. O, confound the rest!
Such love must needs be treason in my breast.
When second husband let me be accurst!
None wed the second but who killed the first.
Ham. [aside] Wormwood, wormwood!
Queen. The instances that second marriage move
Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
A second time I kill my husband dead
When second husband kisses me in bed.
King. I do believe you think what now you speak;
But what we do determine oft we break.
Purpose is but the slave to memory,
Of violent birth, but poor validity;
Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fill unshaken when they mellow be.
Most necessary 'tis that we forget
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt.
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy.
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change;
For 'tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
The great man down, you mark his favourite flies,
The poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies;
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend,
For who not needs shall never lack a friend,
And who in want a hollow friend doth try,
Directly seasons him his enemy.
But, orderly to end where I begun,
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
That our devices still are overthrown;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
So think thou wilt no second husband wed;
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.
Queen. Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light,
Sport and repose lock from me day and night,
To desperation turn my trust and hope,
An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope,
Each opposite that blanks the face of joy
Meet what I would have well, and it destroy,
Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,
If, once a widow, ever I be wife!
Ham. If she should break it now!
King. 'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile.
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
The tedious day with sleep.
Queen. Sleep rock thy brain,
[He] sleeps.
And never come mischance between us twain!
Exit.
Ham. Madam, how like you this play?
Queen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Ham. O, but she'll keep her word.
King. Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in't?
Ham. No, no! They do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i' th'
world.
King. What do you call the play?
Ham. 'The Mousetrap.' Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the
image of a murther done in Vienna. Gonzago is the duke's name;
his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. 'Tis a knavish piece of
work; but what o' that? Your Majesty, and we that have free
souls, it touches us not. Let the gall'd jade winch; our withers
are unwrung.
Enter Lucianus.
This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.
Oph. You are as good as a chorus, my lord.
Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see
the puppets dallying.
Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen.
Ham. It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.
Oph. Still better, and worse.
Ham. So you must take your husbands.- Begin, murtherer. Pox, leave
thy damnable faces, and begin! Come, the croaking raven doth
bellow for revenge.
Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing;
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,
Thy natural magic and dire property
On wholesome life usurp immediately.
Pours the poison in his ears.
Ham. He poisons him i' th' garden for's estate. His name's Gonzago.
The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You
shall see anon how the murtherer gets the love of Gonzago's wife.
Oph. The King rises.
Ham. What, frighted with false fire?
Queen. How fares my lord?
Pol. Give o'er the play.
King. Give me some light! Away!
All. Lights, lights, lights!
Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio.
Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play;
For some must watch, while some must sleep:
Thus runs the world away.
Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers- if the rest of my
fortunes turn Turk with me-with two Provincial roses on my raz'd
shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?
Hor. Half a share.
Ham. A whole one I!
For thou dost know, O Damon dear,
This realm dismantled was
Of Jove himself; and now reigns here
A very, very- pajock.
Hor. You might have rhym'd.
Ham. O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand
pound! Didst perceive?
Hor. Very well, my lord.
Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning?
Hor. I did very well note him.
Ham. Aha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders!
For if the King like not the comedy,
Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy.
Come, some music!
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
Ham. Sir, a whole history.
Guil. The King, sir-
Ham. Ay, sir, what of him?
Guil. Is in his retirement, marvellous distemper'd.
Ham. With drink, sir?
Guil. No, my lord; rather with choler.
Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to
the doctor; for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps
plunge him into far more choler.
Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start
not so wildly from my affair.
Ham. I am tame, sir; pronounce.
Guil. The Queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit
hath sent me to you.
Ham. You are welcome.
Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed.
If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do
your mother's commandment; if not, your pardon and my return
shall be the end of my business.
Ham. Sir, I cannot.
Guil. What, my lord?
Ham. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseas'd. But, sir, such
answer is I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say,
my mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter! My mother, you
say-
Ros. Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into
amazement and admiration.
Ham. O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is there no
sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration? Impart.
Ros. She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.
Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any
further trade with us?
Ros. My lord, you once did love me.
Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers!
Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely
bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to
your friend.
Ham. Sir, I lack advancement.
Ros. How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself
for your succession in Denmark?
Ham. Ay, sir, but 'while the grass grows'- the proverb is something
musty.
Enter the Players with recorders.
O, the recorders! Let me see one. To withdraw with you- why do
you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me
into a toil?
Guil. O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.
Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?
Guil. My lord, I cannot.
Ham. I pray you.
Guil. Believe me, I cannot.
Ham. I do beseech you.
Guil. I know, no touch of it, my lord.
Ham. It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your
fingers and thumbs, give it breath with your mouth, and it will
discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.
Guil. But these cannot I command to any utt'rance of harmony. I
have not the skill.
Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You
would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would
pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my
lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music,
excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it
speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be play'd on than a
pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me,
you cannot play upon me.
Enter Polonius.
God bless you, sir!
Pol. My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.
Ham. Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?
Pol. By th' mass, and 'tis like a camel indeed.
Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel.
Pol. It is back'd like a weasel.
Ham. Or like a whale.
Pol. Very like a whale.
Ham. Then will I come to my mother by-and-by.- They fool me to the
top of my bent.- I will come by-and-by.
Pol. I will say so. Exit.
Ham. 'By-and-by' is easily said.- Leave me, friends.
[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother!
O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom.
Let me be cruel, not unnatural;
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites-
How in my words somever she be shent,
To give them seals never, my soul, consent! Exit.
Scene III.
A room in the Castle.
Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.
King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us
To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;
I your commission will forthwith dispatch,
And he to England shall along with you.
The terms of our estate may not endure
Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow
Out of his lunacies.
Guil. We will ourselves provide.
Most holy and religious fear it is
To keep those many many bodies safe
That live and feed upon your Majesty.
Ros. The single and peculiar life is bound
With all the strength and armour of the mind
To keep itself from noyance; but much more
That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests
The lives of many. The cesse of majesty
Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw
What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel,
Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount,
To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things
Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone
Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.
King. Arm you, I pray you, to th', speedy voyage;
For we will fetters put upon this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.
Both. We will haste us.
Exeunt Gentlemen.
Enter Polonius.
Pol. My lord, he's going to his mother's closet.
Behind the arras I'll convey myself
To hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home;
And, as you said, and wisely was it said,
'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother,
Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear
The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege.
I'll call upon you ere you go to bed
And tell you what I know.
King. Thanks, dear my lord.
Exit [Polonius].
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,
A brother's murther! Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will.
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what's in prayer but this twofold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murther'?
That cannot be; since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murther-
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd and retain th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above.
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can. What can it not?
Yet what can it when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engag'd! Help, angels! Make assay.
Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
All may be well. He kneels.
Enter Hamlet.
Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;
And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven,
And so am I reveng'd. That would be scann'd.
A villain kills my father; and for that,
I, his sole son, do this same villain send
To heaven.
Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge!
He took my father grossly, full of bread,
With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;
And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven?
But in our circumstance and course of thought,
'Tis heavy with him; and am I then reveng'd,
To take him in the purging of his soul,
When he is fit and seasoned for his passage?
No.
Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent.
When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage;
Or in th' incestuous pleasure of his bed;
At gaming, swearing, or about some act
That has no relish of salvation in't-
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,
And that his soul may be as damn'd and black
As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays.
This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. Exit.
King. [rises] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go. Exit.
Scene IV.
The Queen's closet.
Enter Queen and Polonius.
Pol. He will come straight. Look you lay home to him.
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,
And that your Grace hath screen'd and stood between
Much heat and him. I'll silence me even here.
Pray you be round with him.
Ham. (within) Mother, mother, mother!
Queen. I'll warrant you; fear me not. Withdraw; I hear him coming.
[Polonius hides behind the arras.]
Enter Hamlet.
Ham. Now, mother, what's the matter?
Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Ham. Mother, you have my father much offended.
Queen. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet?
Ham. What's the matter now?
Queen. Have you forgot me?
Ham. No, by the rood, not so!
You are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife,
And (would it were not so!) you are my mother.
Queen. Nay, then I'll set those to you that can speak.
Ham. Come, come, and sit you down. You shall not budge I
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Queen. What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murther me?
Help, help, ho!
Pol. [behind] What, ho! help, help, help!
Ham. [draws] How now? a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!
[Makes a pass through the arras and] kills Polonius.
Pol. [behind] O, I am slain!
Queen. O me, what hast thou done?
Ham. Nay, I know not. Is it the King?
Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
Ham. A bloody deed- almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
Queen. As kill a king?
Ham. Ay, lady, it was my word.
[Lifts up the arras and sees Polonius.]
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune.
Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.
Leave wringing of your hinds. Peace! sit you down
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall
If it be made of penetrable stuff;
If damned custom have not braz'd it so
That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
Queen. What have I done that thou dar'st wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?
Ham. Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;
Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows
As false as dicers' oaths. O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words! Heaven's face doth glow;
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.
Queen. Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud and thunders in the index?
Ham. Look here upon th's picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill:
A combination and a form indeed
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man.
This was your husband. Look you now what follows.
Here is your husband, like a mildew'd ear
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes
You cannot call it love; for at your age
The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment
Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have,
Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense
Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thrall'd
But it reserv'd some quantity of choice
To serve in such a difference. What devil was't
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.
O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax
And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will.
Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more!
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul,
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.
Ham. Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty!
Queen. O, speak to me no more!
These words like daggers enter in mine ears.
No more, sweet Hamlet!
Ham. A murtherer and a villain!
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole
And put it in his pocket!
Queen. No more!
Enter the Ghost in his nightgown.
Ham. A king of shreds and patches!-
Save me and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
Queen. Alas, he's mad!
Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, laps'd in time and passion, lets go by
Th' important acting of your dread command?
O, say!
Ghost. Do not forget. This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But look, amazement on thy mother sits.
O, step between her and her fighting soul
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.
Speak to her, Hamlet.
Ham. How is it with you, lady?
Queen. Alas, how is't with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy,
And with th' encorporal air do hold discourse?
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;
And, as the sleeping soldiers in th' alarm,
Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements,
Start up and stand an end. O gentle son,
Upon the beat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience! Whereon do you look?
Ham. On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,
Would make them capable.- Do not look upon me,
Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects. Then what I have to do
Will want true colour- tears perchance for blood.
Queen. To whom do you speak this?
Ham. Do you see nothing there?
Queen. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.
Ham. Nor did you nothing hear?
Queen. No, nothing but ourselves.
Ham. Why, look you there! Look how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he liv'd!
Look where he goes even now out at the portal!
Exit Ghost.
Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain.
This bodiless creation ecstasy
Is very cunning in.
Ham. Ecstasy?
My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time
And makes as healthful music. It is not madness
That I have utt'red. Bring me to the test,
And I the matter will reword; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul
That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;
For in the fatness of these pursy times
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg-
Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
Ham. O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half,
Good night- but go not to my uncle's bed.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat
Of habits evil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock or livery,
That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence; the next more easy;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature,
And either [master] the devil, or throw him out
With wondrous potency. Once more, good night;
And when you are desirous to be blest,
I'll blessing beg of you.- For this same lord,
I do repent; but heaven hath pleas'd it so,
To punish me with this, and this with me,
That I must be their scourge and minister.
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So again, good night.
I must be cruel, only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
One word more, good lady.
Queen. What shall I do?
Ham. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:
Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed;
Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;
And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,
Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,
Make you to ravel all this matter out,
That I essentially am not in madness,
But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;
For who that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib
Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so?
No, in despite of sense and secrecy,
Unpeg the basket on the house's top,
Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape,
To try conclusions, in the basket creep
And break your own neck down.
Queen. Be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath,
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe
What thou hast said to me.
Ham. I must to England; you know that?
Queen. Alack,
I had forgot! 'Tis so concluded on.
Ham. There's letters seal'd; and my two schoolfellows,
Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,
They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way
And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;
For 'tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar; and 't shall go hard
But I will delve one yard below their mines
And blow them at the moon. O, 'tis most sweet
When in one line two crafts directly meet.
This man shall set me packing.
I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.-
Mother, good night.- Indeed, this counsellor
Is now most still, most secret, and most grave,
Who was in life a foolish peating knave.
Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good night, mother.
[Exit the Queen. Then] Exit Hamlet, tugging in
Polonius.
ACT IV. Scene I.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Enter King and Queen, with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
King. There's matter in these sighs. These profound heaves
You must translate; 'tis fit we understand them.
Where is your son?
Queen. Bestow this place on us a little while.
[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
Ah, mine own lord, what have I seen to-night!
King. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?
Queen. Mad as the sea and wind when both contend
Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit
Behind the arras hearing something stir,
Whips out his rapier, cries 'A rat, a rat!'
And in this brainish apprehension kills
The unseen good old man.
King. O heavy deed!
It had been so with us, had we been there.
His liberty is full of threats to all-
To you yourself, to us, to every one.
Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer'd?
It will be laid to us, whose providence
Should have kept short, restrain'd, and out of haunt
This mad young man. But so much was our love
We would not understand what was most fit,
But, like the owner of a foul disease,
To keep it from divulging, let it feed
Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?
Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill'd;
O'er whom his very madness, like some ore
Among a mineral of metals base,
Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.
King. O Gertrude, come away!
The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch
But we will ship him hence; and this vile deed
We must with all our majesty and skill
Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern!
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Friends both, go join you with some further aid.
Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain,
And from his mother's closet hath he dragg'd him.
Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body
Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this.
Exeunt [Rosencrantz and Guildenstern].
Come, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest friends
And let them know both what we mean to do
And what's untimely done. [So haply slander-]
Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter,
As level as the cannon to his blank,
Transports his poisoned shot- may miss our name
And hit the woundless air.- O, come away!
My soul is full of discord and dismay.
Exeunt.
Scene II.
Elsinore. A passage in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet.
Ham. Safely stow'd.
Gentlemen. (within) Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!
Ham. But soft! What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come.
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Ros. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?
Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.
Ros. Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence
And bear it to the chapel.
Ham. Do not believe it.
Ros. Believe what?
Ham. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be
demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son
of a king?
Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my lord?
Ham. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards,
his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in
the end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw;
first mouth'd, to be last Swallowed. When he needs what you have
glean'd, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry
again.
Ros. I understand you not, my lord.
Ham. I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.
Ros. My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to
the King.
Ham. The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body.
The King is a thing-
Guil. A thing, my lord?
Ham. Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.
Exeunt.
Scene III.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Enter King.
King. I have sent to seek him and to find the body.
How dangerous is it that this man goes loose!
Yet must not we put the strong law on him.
He's lov'd of the distracted multitude,
Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes;
And where 'tis so, th' offender's scourge is weigh'd,
But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even,
This sudden sending him away must seem
Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are reliev'd,
Or not at all.
Enter Rosencrantz.
How now O What hath befall'n?
Ros. Where the dead body is bestow'd, my lord,
We cannot get from him.
King. But where is he?
Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure.
King. Bring him before us.
Ros. Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my lord.
Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern [with Attendants].
King. Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius?
Ham. At supper.
King. At supper? Where?
Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain
convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your
only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and
we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar
is but variable service- two dishes, but to one table. That's the
end.
King. Alas, alas!
Ham. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat
of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
King. What dost thou mean by this?
Ham. Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through
the guts of a beggar.
King. Where is Polonius?
Ham. In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not
there, seek him i' th' other place yourself. But indeed, if you
find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up
the stair, into the lobby.
King. Go seek him there. [To Attendants.]
Ham. He will stay till you come.
[Exeunt Attendants.]
King. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,-
Which we do tender as we dearly grieve
For that which thou hast done,- must send thee hence
With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself.
The bark is ready and the wind at help,
Th' associates tend, and everything is bent
For England.
Ham. For England?
King. Ay, Hamlet.
Ham. Good.
King. So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes.
Ham. I see a cherub that sees them. But come, for England!
Farewell, dear mother.
King. Thy loving father, Hamlet.
Ham. My mother! Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is
one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England!
Exit.
King. Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard.
Delay it not; I'll have him hence to-night.
Away! for everything is seal'd and done
That else leans on th' affair. Pray you make haste.
Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern]
And, England, if my love thou hold'st at aught,-
As my great power thereof may give thee sense,
Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red
After the Danish sword, and thy free awe
Pays homage to us,- thou mayst not coldly set
Our sovereign process, which imports at full,
By letters congruing to that effect,
The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;
For like the hectic in my blood he rages,
And thou must cure me. Till I know 'tis done,
Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun. Exit.
Scene IV.
Near Elsinore.
Enter Fortinbras with his Army over the stage.
For. Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king.
Tell him that by his license Fortinbras
Craves the conveyance of a promis'd march
Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous.
if that his Majesty would aught with us,
We shall express our duty in his eye;
And let him know so.
Capt. I will do't, my lord.
For. Go softly on.
Exeunt [all but the Captain].
Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, [Guildenstern,] and others.
Ham. Good sir, whose powers are these?
Capt. They are of Norway, sir.
Ham. How purpos'd, sir, I pray you?
Capt. Against some part of Poland.
Ham. Who commands them, sir?
Capt. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,
Or for some frontier?
Capt. Truly to speak, and with no addition,
We go to gain a little patch of ground
That hath in it no profit but the name.
To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;
Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole
A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
Capt. Yes, it is already garrison'd.
Ham. Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats
Will not debate the question of this straw.
This is th' imposthume of much wealth and peace,
That inward breaks, and shows no cause without
Why the man dies.- I humbly thank you, sir.
Capt. God b' wi' you, sir. [Exit.]
Ros. Will't please you go, my lord?
Ham. I'll be with you straight. Go a little before.
[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
How all occasions do inform against me
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.
Sure he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on th' event,-
A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward,- I do not know
Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do,'
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means
To do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me.
Witness this army of such mass and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,
Makes mouths at the invisible event,
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,
Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw
When honour's at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father klll'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men
That for a fantasy and trick of fame
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! Exit.
Scene V.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Enter Horatio, Queen, and a Gentleman.
Queen. I will not speak with her.
Gent. She is importunate, indeed distract.
Her mood will needs be pitied.
Queen. What would she have?
Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears
There's tricks i' th' world, and hems, and beats her heart;
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;
Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.
Queen. Let her come in.
[Exit Gentleman.]
[Aside] To my sick soul (as sin's true nature is)
Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Enter Ophelia distracted.
Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?
Queen. How now, Ophelia?
Oph. (sings)
How should I your true-love know
From another one?
By his cockle bat and' staff
And his sandal shoon.
Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Oph. Say you? Nay, pray You mark.
(Sings) He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
O, ho!
Queen. Nay, but Ophelia-
Oph. Pray you mark.
(Sings) White his shroud as the mountain snow-
Enter King.
Queen. Alas, look here, my lord!
Oph. (Sings)
Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did not go
With true-love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady?
Oph. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at
your table!
King. Conceit upon her father.
Oph. Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you what
it means, say you this:
(Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning bedtime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn'd his clo'es
And dupp'd the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
King. Pretty Ophelia!
Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't!
[Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do't if they come to't
By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me,
You promis'd me to wed.'
He answers:
'So would I 'a' done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.'
King. How long hath she been thus?
Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot
choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground.
My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good
counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet
ladies. Good night, good night. Exit
King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
[Exit Horatio.]
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs
All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude,
When sorrows come, they come not single spies.
But in battalions! First, her father slain;
Next, Your son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him; Poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair-judgment,
Without the which we are Pictures or mere beasts;
Last, and as such containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France;
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
Feeds on his wonder, keep, himself in clouds,
With pestilent speeches of his father's death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick Our person to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murd'ring piece, in many places
Give, me superfluous death. A noise within.
Queen. Alack, what noise is this?
King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
Enter a Messenger.
What is the matter?
Mess. Save Yourself, my lord:
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste
Than Young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O'erbears Your offices. The rabble call him lord;
And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!'
Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds,
'Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!'
A noise within.
Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!
O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!
King. The doors are broke.
Enter Laertes with others.
Laer. Where is this king?- Sirs, staid you all without.
All. No, let's come in!
Laer. I pray you give me leave.
All. We will, we will!
Laer. I thank you. Keep the door. [Exeunt his Followers.]
O thou vile king,
Give me my father!
Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.
Laer. That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard;
Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot
Even here between the chaste unsmirched brows
Of my true mother.
King. What is the cause, Laertes,
That thy rebellion looks so giantlike?
Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person.
There's such divinity doth hedge a king
That treason can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incens'd. Let him go, Gertrude.
Speak, man.
Laer. Where is my father?
King. Dead.
Queen. But not by him!
King. Let him demand his fill.
Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with:
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil
Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!
I dare damnation. To this point I stand,
That both the world, I give to negligence,
Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd
Most throughly for my father.
King. Who shall stay you?
Laer. My will, not all the world!
And for my means, I'll husband them so well
They shall go far with little.
King. Good Laertes,
If you desire to know the certainty
Of your dear father's death, is't writ in Your revenge
That swoopstake you will draw both friend and foe,
Winner and loser?
Laer. None but his enemies.
King. Will you know them then?
Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms
And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican,
Repast them with my blood.
King. Why, now You speak
Like a good child and a true gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your father's death,
And am most sensibly in grief for it,
It shall as level to your judgment pierce
As day does to your eye.
A noise within: 'Let her come in.'
Laer. How now? What noise is that?
Enter Ophelia.
O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens! is't possible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
Oph. (sings)
They bore him barefac'd on the bier
(Hey non nony, nony, hey nony)
And in his grave rain'd many a tear.
Fare you well, my dove!
Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,
It could not move thus.
Oph. You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.' O,
how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his
master's daughter.
Laer. This nothing's more than matter.
Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love,
remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
Laer. A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted.
Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you,
and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays.
O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I
would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father
died. They say he made a good end.
[Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
Oph. (sings)
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead;
Go to thy deathbed;
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll.
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan.
God 'a'mercy on his soul!
And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b' wi', you.
Exit.
Laer. Do you see this, O God?
King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief,
Or you deny me right. Go but apart,
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me.
If by direct or by collateral hand
They find us touch'd, we will our kingdom give,
Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours,
To you in satisfaction; but if not,
Be you content to lend your patience to us,
And we shall jointly labour with your soul
To give it due content.
Laer. Let this be so.
His means of death, his obscure funeral-
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones,
No noble rite nor formal ostentation,-
Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth,
That I must call't in question.
King. So you shall;
And where th' offence is let the great axe fall.
I pray you go with me.
Exeunt
Scene VI.
Elsinore. Another room in the Castle.
Enter Horatio with an Attendant.
Hor. What are they that would speak with me?
Servant. Seafaring men, sir. They say they have letters for you.
Hor. Let them come in.
[Exit Attendant.]
I do not know from what part of the world
I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.
Enter Sailors.
Sailor. God bless you, sir.
Hor. Let him bless thee too.
Sailor. 'A shall, sir, an't please him. There's a letter for you,
sir,- it comes from th' ambassador that was bound for England- if
your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.
Hor. (reads the letter) 'Horatio, when thou shalt have overlook'd
this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have
letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of
very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too
slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I
boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship; so I
alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves
of mercy; but they knew what they did: I am to do a good turn for
them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou
to me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have words
to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too
light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring
thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course
for England. Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell.
'He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.'
Come, I will give you way for these your letters,
And do't the speedier that you may direct me
To him from whom you brought them. Exeunt.
Scene VII.
Elsinore. Another room in the Castle.
Enter King and Laertes.
King. Now must your conscience my acquittance seal,
And You must put me in your heart for friend,
Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,
That he which hath your noble father slain
Pursued my life.
Laer. It well appears. But tell me
Why you proceeded not against these feats
So crimeful and so capital in nature,
As by your safety, wisdom, all things else,
You mainly were stirr'd up.
King. O, for two special reasons,
Which may to you, perhaps, seein much unsinew'd,
But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother
Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,-
My virtue or my plague, be it either which,-
She's so conjunctive to my life and soul
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,
I could not but by her. The other motive
Why to a public count I might not go
Is the great love the general gender bear him,
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection,
Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone,
Convert his gives to graces; so that my arrows,
Too slightly timber'd for so loud a wind,
Would have reverted to my bow again,
And not where I had aim'd them.
Laer. And so have I a noble father lost;
A sister driven into desp'rate terms,
Whose worth, if praises may go back again,
Stood challenger on mount of all the age
For her perfections. But my revenge will come.
King. Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think
That we are made of stuff so flat and dull
That we can let our beard be shook with danger,
And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more.
I lov'd your father, and we love ourself,
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine-
Enter a Messenger with letters.
How now? What news?
Mess. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet:
This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.
King. From Hamlet? Who brought them?
Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not.
They were given me by Claudio; he receiv'd them
Of him that brought them.
King. Laertes, you shall hear them.
Leave us.
Exit Messenger.
[Reads]'High and Mighty,-You shall know I am set naked on your
kingdom. To-morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes;
when I shall (first asking your pardon thereunto) recount the
occasion of my sudden and more strange return.
'HAMLET.'
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?
Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
Laer. Know you the hand?
King. 'Tis Hamlet's character. 'Naked!'
And in a postscript here, he says 'alone.'
Can you advise me?
Laer. I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come!
It warms the very sickness in my heart
That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,
'Thus didest thou.'
King. If it be so, Laertes
(As how should it be so? how otherwise?),
Will you be rul'd by me?
Laer. Ay my lord,
So you will not o'errule me to a peace.
King. To thine own peace. If he be now return'd
As checking at his voyage, and that he means
No more to undertake it, I will work him
To exploit now ripe in my device,
Under the which he shall not choose but fall;
And for his death no wind
But even his mother shall uncharge the practice
And call it accident.
Laer. My lord, I will be rul'd;
The rather, if you could devise it so
That I might be the organ.
King. It falls right.
You have been talk'd of since your travel much,
And that in Hamlet's hearing, for a quality
Wherein they say you shine, Your sun of parts
Did not together pluck such envy from him
As did that one; and that, in my regard,
Of the unworthiest siege.
Laer. What part is that, my lord?
King. A very riband in the cap of youth-
Yet needfull too; for youth no less becomes
The light and careless livery that it wears
Thin settled age his sables and his weeds,
Importing health and graveness. Two months since
Here was a gentleman of Normandy.
I have seen myself, and serv'd against, the French,
And they can well on horseback; but this gallant
Had witchcraft in't. He grew unto his seat,
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse
As had he been incorps'd and demi-natur'd
With the brave beast. So far he topp'd my thought
That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,
Come short of what he did.
Laer. A Norman was't?
King. A Norman.
Laer. Upon my life, Lamound.
King. The very same.
Laer. I know him well. He is the broach indeed
And gem of all the nation.
King. He made confession of you;
And gave you such a masterly report
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especially,
That he cried out 'twould be a sight indeed
If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation
He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you oppos'd them. Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy
That he could nothing do but wish and beg
Your sudden coming o'er to play with you.
Now, out of this-
Laer. What out of this, my lord?
King. Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart,'
Laer. Why ask you this?
King. Not that I think you did not love your father;
But that I know love is begun by time,
And that I see, in passages of proof,
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
There lives within the very flame of love
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it;
And nothing is at a like goodness still;
For goodness, growing to a plurisy,
Dies in his own too-much. That we would do,
We should do when we would; for this 'would' changes,
And hath abatements and delays as many
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh,
That hurts by easing. But to the quick o' th' ulcer!
Hamlet comes back. What would you undertake
To show yourself your father's son in deed
More than in words?
Laer. To cut his throat i' th' church!
King. No place indeed should murther sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,
Will you do this? Keep close within your chamber.
Will return'd shall know you are come home.
We'll put on those shall praise your excellence
And set a double varnish on the fame
The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together
And wager on your heads. He, being remiss,
Most generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease,
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose
A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,
Requite him for your father.
Laer. I will do't!
And for that purpose I'll anoint my sword.
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
This is but scratch'd withal. I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
King. Let's further think of this,
Weigh what convenience both of time and means
May fit us to our shape. If this should fall,
And that our drift look through our bad performance.
'Twere better not assay'd. Therefore this project
Should have a back or second, that might hold
If this did blast in proof. Soft! let me see.
We'll make a solemn wager on your cunnings-
I ha't!
When in your motion you are hot and dry-
As make your bouts more violent to that end-
And that he calls for drink, I'll have prepar'd him
A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,
If he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,
Our purpose may hold there.- But stay, what noise,
Enter Queen.
How now, sweet queen?
Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow. Your sister's drown'd, Laertes.
Laer. Drown'd! O, where?
Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element; but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Laer. Alas, then she is drown'd?
Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.
Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears; but yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will. When these are gone,
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord.
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze
But that this folly douts it. Exit.
King. Let's follow, Gertrude.
How much I had to do to calm his rage I
Now fear I this will give it start again;
Therefore let's follow.
Exeunt.
ACT V. Scene I.
Elsinore. A churchyard.
Enter two Clowns, [with spades and pickaxes].
Clown. Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she wilfully
seeks her own salvation?
Other. I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight.
The crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.
Clown. How can that be, unless she drown'd herself in her own
defence?
Other. Why, 'tis found so.
Clown. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies
the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act; and an
act hath three branches-it is to act, to do, and to perform;
argal, she drown'd herself wittingly.
Other. Nay, but hear you, Goodman Delver!
Clown. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the
man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is,
will he nill he, he goes- mark you that. But if the water come to
him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not
guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.
Other. But is this law?
Clown. Ay, marry, is't- crowner's quest law.
Other. Will you ha' the truth an't? If this had not been a
gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial.
Clown. Why, there thou say'st! And the more pity that great folk
should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves
more than their even-Christen. Come, my spade! There is no
ancient gentlemen but gard'ners, ditchers, and grave-makers. They
hold up Adam's profession.
Other. Was he a gentleman?
Clown. 'A was the first that ever bore arms.
Other. Why, he had none.
Clown. What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture?
The Scripture says Adam digg'd. Could he dig without arms? I'll
put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the
purpose, confess thyself-
Other. Go to!
Clown. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the
shipwright, or the carpenter?
Other. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand
tenants.
Clown. I like thy wit well, in good faith. The gallows does well.
But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now,
thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the
church. Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come!
Other. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a
carpenter?
Clown. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
Other. Marry, now I can tell!
Clown. To't.
Other. Mass, I cannot tell.
Enter Hamlet and Horatio afar off.
Clown. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will
not mend his pace with beating; and when you are ask'd this
question next, say 'a grave-maker.' The houses he makes lasts
till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of
liquor.
[Exit Second Clown.]
[Clown digs and] sings.
In youth when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet;
To contract- O- the time for- a- my behove,
O, methought there- a- was nothing- a- meet.
Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at
grave-making?
Hor. Custom hath made it in him a Property of easiness.
Ham. 'Tis e'en so. The hand of little employment hath the daintier
sense.
Clown. (sings)
But age with his stealing steps
Hath clawed me in his clutch,
And hath shipped me intil the land,
As if I had never been such.
[Throws up a skull.]
Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the
knave jowls it to the ground,as if 'twere Cain's jawbone, that
did the first murther! This might be the pate of a Politician,
which this ass now o'erreaches; one that would circumvent God,
might it not?
Hor. It might, my lord.
Ham. Or of a courtier, which could say 'Good morrow, sweet lord!
How dost thou, good lord?' This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that
prais'd my Lord Such-a-one's horse when he meant to beg it- might
it not?
Hor. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Why, e'en so! and now my Lady Worm's, chapless, and knock'd
about the mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's fine revolution,
and we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the
breeding but to play at loggets with 'em? Mine ache to think
on't.
Clown. (Sings)
A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,
For and a shrouding sheet;
O, a Pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
Throws up [another skull].
Ham. There's another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer?
Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures,
and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock
him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him
of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a
great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his
fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of
his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine
pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of
his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth
of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will
scarcely lie in this box; and must th' inheritor himself have no
more, ha?
Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.
Ham. Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
Hor. Ay, my lord, And of calveskins too.
Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I
will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sirrah?
Clown. Mine, sir.
[Sings] O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet.
Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in't.
Clown. You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours.
For my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine.
Ham. Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine. 'Tis for
the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.
Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again from me to you.
Ham. What man dost thou dig it for?
Clown. For no man, sir.
Ham. What woman then?
Clown. For none neither.
Ham. Who is to be buried in't?
Clown. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead.
Ham. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or
equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years
I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe
of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls
his kibe.- How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
Clown. Of all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that our
last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Ham. How long is that since?
Clown. Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the
very day that young Hamlet was born- he that is mad, and sent
into England.
Ham. Ay, marry, why was be sent into England?
Clown. Why, because 'a was mad. 'A shall recover his wits there;
or, if 'a do not, 'tis no great matter there.
Ham. Why?
Clown. 'Twill not he seen in him there. There the men are as mad as
he.
Ham. How came he mad?
Clown. Very strangely, they say.
Ham. How strangely?
Clown. Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground?
Clown. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy
thirty years.
Ham. How long will a man lie i' th' earth ere he rot?
Clown. Faith, if 'a be not rotten before 'a die (as we have many
pocky corses now-a-days that will scarce hold the laying in, I
will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last
you nine year.
Ham. Why he more than another?
Clown. Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade that 'a will
keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of
your whoreson dead body. Here's a skull now. This skull hath lien
you i' th' earth three-and-twenty years.
Ham. Whose was it?
Clown. A whoreson, mad fellow's it was. Whose do you think it was?
Ham. Nay, I know not.
Clown. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'A pour'd a flagon of
Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's
skull, the King's jester.
Ham. This?
Clown. E'en that.
Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him,
Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He
hath borne me on his back a thousand tunes. And now how abhorred
in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those
lips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes
now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that
were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your
own grinning? Quite chap- fall'n? Now get you to my lady's
chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this
favour she must come. Make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio,
tell me one thing.
Hor. What's that, my lord?
Ham. Dost thou think Alexander look'd o' this fashion i' th' earth?
Hor. E'en so.
Ham. And smelt so? Pah!
[Puts down the skull.]
Hor. E'en so, my lord.
Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not
imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it
stopping a bunghole?
Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.
Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty
enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died,
Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is
earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam (whereto he
was converted) might they not stop a beer barrel?
Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
O, that that earth which kept the world in awe
Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!
But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King-
Enter [priests with] a coffin [in funeral procession], King,
Queen, Laertes, with Lords attendant.]
The Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow?
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken
The corse they follow did with desp'rate hand
Fordo it own life. 'Twas of some estate.
Couch we awhile, and mark.
[Retires with Horatio.]
Laer. What ceremony else?
Ham. That is Laertes,
A very noble youth. Mark.
Laer. What ceremony else?
Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd
As we have warranty. Her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd
Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her.
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.
Laer. Must there no more be done?
Priest. No more be done.
We should profane the service of the dead
To sing a requiem and such rest to her
As to peace-parted souls.
Laer. Lay her i' th' earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,
A minist'ring angel shall my sister be
When thou liest howling.
Ham. What, the fair Ophelia?
Queen. Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.
[Scatters flowers.]
I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife;
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
And not have strew'd thy grave.
Laer. O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth awhile,
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.
Leaps in the grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead
Till of this flat a mountain you have made
T' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
Ham. [comes forward] What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,
Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps in after Laertes.
Laer. The devil take thy soul!
[Grapples with him].
Ham. Thou pray'st not well.
I prithee take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenitive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!
King. Pluck thein asunder.
Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet!
All. Gentlemen!
Hor. Good my lord, be quiet.
[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the
grave.]
Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
Queen. O my son, what theme?
Ham. I lov'd Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers
Could not (with all their quantity of love)
Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?
King. O, he is mad, Laertes.
Queen. For love of God, forbear him!
Ham. 'Swounds, show me what thou't do.
Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself?
Woo't drink up esill? eat a crocodile?
I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I.
And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.
Queen. This is mere madness;
And thus a while the fit will work on him.
Anon, as patient as the female dove
When that her golden couplets are disclos'd,
His silence will sit drooping.
Ham. Hear you, sir!
What is the reason that you use me thus?
I lov'd you ever. But it is no matter.
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
Exit.
King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
Exit Horatio.
[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech.
We'll put the matter to the present push.-
Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.-
This grave shall have a living monument.
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;
Till then in patience our proceeding be.
Exeunt.
Scene II.
Elsinore. A hall in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet and Horatio.
Ham. So much for this, sir; now shall you see the other.
You do remember all the circumstance?
Hor. Remember it, my lord!
Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay
Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly-
And prais'd be rashness for it; let us know,
Our indiscretion sometime serves us well
When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will-
Hor. That is most certain.
Ham. Up from my cabin,
My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark
Grop'd I to find out them; had my desire,
Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew
To mine own room again; making so bold
(My fears forgetting manners) to unseal
Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio
(O royal knavery!), an exact command,
Larded with many several sorts of reasons,
Importing Denmark's health, and England's too,
With, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my life-
That, on the supervise, no leisure bated,
No, not to stay the finding of the axe,
My head should be struck off.
Hor. Is't possible?
Ham. Here's the commission; read it at more leisure.
But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed?
Hor. I beseech you.
Ham. Being thus benetted round with villanies,
Or I could make a prologue to my brains,
They had begun the play. I sat me down;
Devis'd a new commission; wrote it fair.
I once did hold it, as our statists do,
A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much
How to forget that learning; but, sir, now
It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know
Th' effect of what I wrote?
Hor. Ay, good my lord.
Ham. An earnest conjuration from the King,
As England was his faithful tributary,
As love between them like the palm might flourish,
As peace should still her wheaten garland wear
And stand a comma 'tween their amities,
And many such-like as's of great charge,
That, on the view and knowing of these contents,
Without debatement further, more or less,
He should the bearers put to sudden death,
Not shriving time allow'd.
Hor. How was this seal'd?
Ham. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.
I had my father's signet in my purse,
which was the model of that Danish seal;
Folded the writ up in the form of th' other,
Subscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it safely,
The changeling never known. Now, the next day
Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent
Thou know'st already.
Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't.
Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this employment!
They are not near my conscience; their defeat
Does by their own insinuation grow.
'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes
Between the pass and fell incensed points
Of mighty opposites.
Hor. Why, what a king is this!
Ham. Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon-
He that hath kill'd my king, and whor'd my mother;
Popp'd in between th' election and my hopes;
Thrown out his angle for my Proper life,
And with such coz'nage- is't not perfect conscience
To quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd
To let this canker of our nature come
In further evil?
Hor. It must be shortly known to him from England
What is the issue of the business there.
Ham. It will be short; the interim is mine,
And a man's life is no more than to say 'one.'
But I am very sorry, good Horatio,
That to Laertes I forgot myself,
For by the image of my cause I see
The portraiture of his. I'll court his favours.
But sure the bravery of his grief did put me
Into a tow'ring passion.
Hor. Peace! Who comes here?
Enter young Osric, a courtier.
Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.
Ham. I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to Horatio] Dost know this
waterfly?
Hor. [aside to Hamlet] No, my good lord.
Ham. [aside to Horatio] Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a
vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile. Let a beast be
lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess. 'Tis
a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.
Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart
a thing to you from his Majesty.
Ham. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your
bonnet to his right use. 'Tis for the head.
Osr. I thank your lordship, it is very hot.
Ham. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly.
Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.
Ham. But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.
Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as 'twere- I cannot
tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that
he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter-
Ham. I beseech you remember.
[Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.]
Osr. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is
newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman,
full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and
great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card
or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of
what part a gentleman would see.
Ham. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I
know, to divide him inventorially would dozy th' arithmetic of
memory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail.
But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great
article, and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make
true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else
would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.
Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.
Ham. The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more
rawer breath
Osr. Sir?
Hor [aside to Hamlet] Is't not possible to understand in another
tongue? You will do't, sir, really.
Ham. What imports the nomination of this gentleman
Osr. Of Laertes?
Hor. [aside] His purse is empty already. All's golden words are
spent.
Ham. Of him, sir.
Osr. I know you are not ignorant-
Ham. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not
much approve me. Well, sir?
Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is-
Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in
excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.
Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him
by them, in his meed he's unfellowed.
Ham. What's his weapon?
Osr. Rapier and dagger.
Ham. That's two of his weapons- but well.
Osr. The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary horses;
against the which he has impon'd, as I take it, six French
rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and
so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy,
very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of
very liberal conceit.
Ham. What call you the carriages?
Hor. [aside to Hamlet] I knew you must be edified by the margent
ere you had done.
Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers.
Ham. The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could
carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then.
But on! Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their
assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages: that's the French
bet against the Danish. Why is this all impon'd, as you call it?
Osr. The King, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between
yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath
laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial
if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.
Ham. How if I answer no?
Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.
Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty,
it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be
brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose,
I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my
shame and the odd hits.
Osr. Shall I redeliver you e'en so?
Ham. To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will.
Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship.
Ham. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it
himself; there are no tongues else for's turn.
Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
Ham. He did comply with his dug before he suck'd it. Thus has he,
and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes
on, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter-
a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and
through the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but blow
them to their trial-the bubbles are out,
Enter a Lord.
Lord. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who
brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He sends to
know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will
take longer time.
Ham. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King's pleasure.
If his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided
I be so able as now.
Lord. The King and Queen and all are coming down.
Ham. In happy time.
Lord. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to
Laertes before you fall to play.
Ham. She well instructs me.
[Exit Lord.]
Hor. You will lose this wager, my lord.
Ham. I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in
continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not
think how ill all's here about my heart. But it is no matter.
Hor. Nay, good my lord -
Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gaingiving as
would perhaps trouble a woman.
Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their
repair hither and say you are not fit.
Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in
the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come', if it be
not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come:
the readiness is all. Since no man knows aught of what he leaves,
what is't to leave betimes? Let be.
Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Osric, and Lords, with other
Attendants with foils and gauntlets.
A table and flagons of wine on it.
King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.
[The King puts Laertes' hand into Hamlet's.]
Ham. Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong;
But pardon't, as you are a gentleman.
This presence knows,
And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd
With sore distraction. What I have done
That might your nature, honour, and exception
Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.
Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet.
If Hamlet from himself be taken away,
And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes,
Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it.
Who does it, then? His madness. If't be so,
Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd;
His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.
Sir, in this audience,
Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil
Free me so far in your most generous thoughts
That I have shot my arrow o'er the house
And hurt my brother.
Laer. I am satisfied in nature,
Whose motive in this case should stir me most
To my revenge. But in my terms of honour
I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement
Till by some elder masters of known honour
I have a voice and precedent of peace
To keep my name ungor'd. But till that time
I do receive your offer'd love like love,
And will not wrong it.
Ham. I embrace it freely,
And will this brother's wager frankly play.
Give us the foils. Come on.
Laer. Come, one for me.
Ham. I'll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance
Your skill shall, like a star i' th' darkest night,
Stick fiery off indeed.
Laer. You mock me, sir.
Ham. No, by this bad.
King. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,
You know the wager?
Ham. Very well, my lord.
Your Grace has laid the odds o' th' weaker side.
King. I do not fear it, I have seen you both;
But since he is better'd, we have therefore odds.
Laer. This is too heavy; let me see another.
Ham. This likes me well. These foils have all a length?
Prepare to play.
Osr. Ay, my good lord.
King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.
If Hamlet give the first or second hit,
Or quit in answer of the third exchange,
Let all the battlements their ordnance fire;
The King shall drink to Hamlet's better breath,
And in the cup an union shall he throw
Richer than that which four successive kings
In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups;
And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,
The trumpet to the cannoneer without,
The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth,
'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.' Come, begin.
And you the judges, bear a wary eye.
Ham. Come on, sir.
Laer. Come, my lord. They play.
Ham. One.
Laer. No.
Ham. Judgment!
Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit.
Laer. Well, again!
King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;
Here's to thy health.
[Drum; trumpets sound; a piece goes off [within].
Give him the cup.
Ham. I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile.
Come. (They play.) Another hit. What say you?
Laer. A touch, a touch; I do confess't.
King. Our son shall win.
Queen. He's fat, and scant of breath.
Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows.
The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.
Ham. Good madam!
King. Gertrude, do not drink.
Queen. I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me. Drinks.
King. [aside] It is the poison'd cup; it is too late.
Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam; by-and-by.
Queen. Come, let me wipe thy face.
Laer. My lord, I'll hit him now.
King. I do not think't.
Laer. [aside] And yet it is almost against my conscience.
Ham. Come for the third, Laertes! You but dally.
pray You Pass with your best violence;
I am afeard You make a wanton of me.
Laer. Say you so? Come on. Play.
Osr. Nothing neither way.
Laer. Have at you now!
[Laertes wounds Hamlet; then] in scuffling, they
change rapiers, [and Hamlet wounds Laertes].
King. Part them! They are incens'd.
Ham. Nay come! again! The Queen falls.
Osr. Look to the Queen there, ho!
Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?
Osr. How is't, Laertes?
Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric.
I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.
Ham. How does the Queen?
King. She sounds to see them bleed.
Queen. No, no! the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet!
The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. [Dies.]
Ham. O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd.
Treachery! Seek it out.
[Laertes falls.]
Laer. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain;
No medicine in the world can do thee good.
In thee there is not half an hour of life.
The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,
Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice
Hath turn'd itself on me. Lo, here I lie,
Never to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd.
I can no more. The King, the King's to blame.
Ham. The point envenom'd too?
Then, venom, to thy work. Hurts the King.
All. Treason! treason!
King. O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt.
Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane,
Drink off this potion! Is thy union here?
Follow my mother. King dies.
Laer. He is justly serv'd.
It is a poison temper'd by himself.
Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet.
Mine and my father's death come not upon thee,
Nor thine on me! Dies.
Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.
I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!
You that look pale and tremble at this chance,
That are but mutes or audience to this act,
Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death,
Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you-
But let it be. Horatio, I am dead;
Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright
To the unsatisfied.
Hor. Never believe it.
I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.
Here's yet some liquor left.
Ham. As th'art a man,
Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't.
O good Horatio, what a wounded name
(Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me!
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within.]
What warlike noise is this?
Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,
To the ambassadors of England gives
This warlike volley.
Ham. O, I die, Horatio!
The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit.
I cannot live to hear the news from England,
But I do prophesy th' election lights
On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.
So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less,
Which have solicited- the rest is silence. Dies.
Hor. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
[March within.]
Why does the drum come hither?
Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassadors, with Drum,
Colours, and Attendants.
Fort. Where is this sight?
Hor. What is it you will see?
If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.
Fort. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud Death,
What feast is toward in thine eternal cell
That thou so many princes at a shot
So bloodily hast struck.
Ambassador. The sight is dismal;
And our affairs from England come too late.
The ears are senseless that should give us bearing
To tell him his commandment is fulfill'd
That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
Where should We have our thanks?
Hor. Not from his mouth,
Had it th' ability of life to thank you.
He never gave commandment for their death.
But since, so jump upon this bloody question,
You from the Polack wars, and you from England,
Are here arriv'd, give order that these bodies
High on a stage be placed to the view;
And let me speak to the yet unknowing world
How these things came about. So shall You hear
Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts;
Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters;
Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause;
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook
Fall'n on th' inventors' heads. All this can I
Truly deliver.
Fort. Let us haste to hear it,
And call the noblest to the audience.
For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune.
I have some rights of memory in this kingdom
Which now, to claim my vantage doth invite me.
Hor. Of that I shall have also cause to speak,
And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more.
But let this same be presently perform'd,
Even while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance
On plots and errors happen.
Fort. Let four captains
Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage;
For he was likely, had he been put on,
To have prov'd most royally; and for his passage
The soldiers' music and the rites of war
Speak loudly for him.
Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this
Becomes the field but here shows much amiss.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
Exeunt marching; after the which a peal of ordnance
are shot off.
THE END#19,219,104textTHE TEMPEST
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ALONSO King of Naples.
SEBASTIAN his brother.
PROSPERO the right Duke of Milan.
ANTONIO his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.
FERDINAND son to the King of Naples.
GONZALO an honest old Counsellor.
ADRIAN |
| Lords.
FRANCISCO |
CALIBAN a savage and deformed Slave.
TRINCULO a Jester.
STEPHANO a drunken Butler.
Master of a Ship. (Master:)
Boatswain. (Boatswain:)
Mariners. (Mariners:)
MIRANDA daughter to Prospero.
ARIEL an airy Spirit.
IRIS |
|
CERES |
|
JUNO | presented by Spirits.
|
Nymphs |
|
Reapers |
Other Spirits attending on Prospero.
SCENE A ship at Sea: an island.
THE TEMPEST
ACT I
SCENE I On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise
of thunder and lightning heard.
[Enter a Master and a Boatswain]
Master Boatswain!
Boatswain Here, master: what cheer?
Master Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely,
or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.
[Exit]
[Enter Mariners]
Boatswain Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!
yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the
master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind,
if room enough!
[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND,
GONZALO, and others]
ALONSO Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master?
Play the men.
Boatswain I pray now, keep below.
ANTONIO Where is the master, boatswain?
Boatswain Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your
cabins: you do assist the storm.
GONZALO Nay, good, be patient.
Boatswain When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers
for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not.
GONZALO Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.
Boatswain None that I more love than myself. You are a
counsellor; if you can command these elements to
silence, and work the peace of the present, we will
not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you
cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make
yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of
the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out
of our way, I say.
[Exit]
GONZALO I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he
hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is
perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his
hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable,
for our own doth little advantage. If he be not
born to be hanged, our case is miserable.
[Exeunt]
[Re-enter Boatswain]
Boatswain Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring
her to try with main-course.
[A cry within]
A plague upon this howling! they are louder than
the weather or our office.
[Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO]
Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er
and drown? Have you a mind to sink?
SEBASTIAN A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous,
incharitable dog!
Boatswain Work you then.
ANTONIO Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!
We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.
GONZALO I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were
no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an
unstanched wench.
Boatswain Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off to
sea again; lay her off.
[Enter Mariners wet]
Mariners All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!
Boatswain What, must our mouths be cold?
GONZALO The king and prince at prayers! let's assist them,
For our case is as theirs.
SEBASTIAN I'm out of patience.
ANTONIO We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:
This wide-chapp'd rascal--would thou mightst lie drowning
The washing of ten tides!
GONZALO He'll be hang'd yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it
And gape at widest to glut him.
[A confused noise within: 'Mercy on us!'--
'We split, we split!'--'Farewell, my wife and
children!'--
'Farewell, brother!'--'We split, we split, we split!']
ANTONIO Let's all sink with the king.
SEBASTIAN Let's take leave of him.
[Exeunt ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN]
GONZALO Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an
acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any
thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain
die a dry death.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT I
SCENE II The island. Before PROSPERO'S cell.
[Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA]
MIRANDA If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.
PROSPERO Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.
MIRANDA O, woe the day!
PROSPERO No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.
MIRANDA More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.
PROSPERO 'Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. So:
[Lays down his mantle]
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered that there is no soul--
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.
MIRANDA You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding 'Stay: not yet.'
PROSPERO The hour's now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?
I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not
Out three years old.
MIRANDA Certainly, sir, I can.
PROSPERO By what? by any other house or person?
Of any thing the image tell me that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
MIRANDA 'Tis far off
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?
PROSPERO Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here,
How thou camest here thou mayst.
MIRANDA But that I do not.
PROSPERO Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan and
A prince of power.
MIRANDA Sir, are not you my father?
PROSPERO Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father
Was Duke of Milan; and thou his only heir
And princess no worse issued.
MIRANDA O the heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from thence?
Or blessed was't we did?
PROSPERO Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence,
But blessedly holp hither.
MIRANDA O, my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,
Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.
PROSPERO My brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio--
I pray thee, mark me--that a brother should
Be so perfidious!--he whom next thyself
Of all the world I loved and to him put
The manage of my state; as at that time
Through all the signories it was the first
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity, and for the liberal arts
Without a parallel; those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother
And to my state grew stranger, being transported
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle--
Dost thou attend me?
MIRANDA Sir, most heedfully.
PROSPERO Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who to advance and who
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em,
Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not.
MIRANDA O, good sir, I do.
PROSPERO I pray thee, mark me.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retired,
O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked an evil nature; and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie, he did believe
He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution
And executing the outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing--
Dost thou hear?
MIRANDA Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PROSPERO To have no screen between this part he play'd
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates--
So dry he was for sway--wi' the King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown and bend
The dukedom yet unbow'd--alas, poor Milan!--
To most ignoble stooping.
MIRANDA O the heavens!
PROSPERO Mark his condition and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
MIRANDA I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
PROSPERO Now the condition.
The King of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises
Of homage and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan
With all the honours on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose did Antonio open
The gates of Milan, and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.
MIRANDA Alack, for pity!
I, not remembering how I cried out then,
Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to't.
PROSPERO Hear a little further
And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now's upon's; without the which this story
Were most impertinent.
MIRANDA Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
PROSPERO Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business, but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh
To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
MIRANDA Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!
PROSPERO O, a cherubim
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile.
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt,
Under my burthen groan'd; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.
MIRANDA How came we ashore?
PROSPERO By Providence divine.
Some food we had and some fresh water that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, being then appointed
Master of this design, did give us, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me
From mine own library with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
MIRANDA Would I might
But ever see that man!
PROSPERO Now I arise:
[Resumes his mantle]
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princesses can that have more time
For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.
MIRANDA Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir,
For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
PROSPERO Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions:
Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,
And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.
[MIRANDA sleeps]
Come away, servant, come. I am ready now.
Approach, my Ariel, come.
[Enter ARIEL]
ARIEL All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality.
PROSPERO Hast thou, spirit,
Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee?
ARIEL To every article.
I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometime I'ld divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not; the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.
PROSPERO My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
ARIEL Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad and play'd
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,--
Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.'
PROSPERO Why that's my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?
ARIEL Close by, my master.
PROSPERO But are they, Ariel, safe?
ARIEL Not a hair perish'd;
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me,
In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle.
The king's son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.
PROSPERO Of the king's ship
The mariners say how thou hast disposed
And all the rest o' the fleet.
ARIEL Safely in harbour
Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid:
The mariners all under hatches stow'd;
Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour,
I have left asleep; and for the rest o' the fleet
Which I dispersed, they all have met again
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,
Bound sadly home for Naples,
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd
And his great person perish.
PROSPERO Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform'd: but there's more work.
What is the time o' the day?
ARIEL Past the mid season.
PROSPERO At least two glasses. The time 'twixt six and now
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
ARIEL Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised,
Which is not yet perform'd me.
PROSPERO How now? moody?
What is't thou canst demand?
ARIEL My liberty.
PROSPERO Before the time be out? no more!
ARIEL I prithee,
Remember I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.
PROSPERO Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee?
ARIEL No.
PROSPERO Thou dost, and think'st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north,
To do me business in the veins o' the earth
When it is baked with frost.
ARIEL I do not, sir.
PROSPERO Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?
ARIEL No, sir.
PROSPERO Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me.
ARIEL Sir, in Argier.
PROSPERO O, was she so? I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did
They would not take her life. Is not this true?
ARIEL Ay, sir.
PROSPERO This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child
And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave,
As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands,
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died
And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island--
Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour'd with
A human shape.
ARIEL Yes, Caliban her son.
PROSPERO Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans
Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts
Of ever angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax
Could not again undo: it was mine art,
When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape
The pine and let thee out.
ARIEL I thank thee, master.
PROSPERO If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak
And peg thee in his knotty entrails till
Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.
ARIEL Pardon, master;
I will be correspondent to command
And do my spiriting gently.
PROSPERO Do so, and after two days
I will discharge thee.
ARIEL That's my noble master!
What shall I do? say what; what shall I do?
PROSPERO Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: be subject
To no sight but thine and mine, invisible
To every eyeball else. Go take this shape
And hither come in't: go, hence with diligence!
[Exit ARIEL]
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!
MIRANDA The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
PROSPERO Shake it off. Come on;
We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
MIRANDA 'Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.
PROSPERO But, as 'tis,
We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood and serves in offices
That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! speak.
CALIBAN [Within] There's wood enough within.
PROSPERO Come forth, I say! there's other business for thee:
Come, thou tortoise! when?
[Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph]
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
ARIEL My lord it shall be done.
[Exit]
PROSPERO Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!
[Enter CALIBAN]
CALIBAN As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye
And blister you all o'er!
PROSPERO For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made 'em.
CALIBAN I must eat my dinner.
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,
Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst give me
Water with berries in't, and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee
And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:
Cursed be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o' the island.
PROSPERO Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.
CALIBAN O ho, O ho! would't had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.
PROSPERO Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in't which
good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confined into this rock,
Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
CALIBAN You taught me language; and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!
PROSPERO Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best,
To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice?
If thou neglect'st or dost unwillingly
What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps,
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
CALIBAN No, pray thee.
[Aside]
I must obey: his art is of such power,
It would control my dam's god, Setebos,
and make a vassal of him.
PROSPERO So, slave; hence!
[Exit CALIBAN]
[Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing;
FERDINAND following]
ARIEL'S song.
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
[Burthen [dispersedly, within] Bow-wow]
The watch-dogs bark!
[Burthen Bow-wow]
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
FERDINAND Where should this music be? i' the air or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon
Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father's wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,
Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.
[ARIEL sings]
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell
[Burthen Ding-dong]
Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell.
FERDINAND The ditty does remember my drown'd father.
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes. I hear it now above me.
PROSPERO The fringed curtains of thine eye advance
And say what thou seest yond.
MIRANDA What is't? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.
PROSPERO No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest
Was in the wreck; and, but he's something stain'd
With grief that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows
And strays about to find 'em.
MIRANDA I might call him
A thing divine, for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
PROSPERO [Aside] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee
Within two days for this.
FERDINAND Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?
MIRANDA No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
FERDINAND My language! heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where 'tis spoken.
PROSPERO How? the best?
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?
FERDINAND A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples,
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld
The king my father wreck'd.
MIRANDA Alack, for mercy!
FERDINAND Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan
And his brave son being twain.
PROSPERO [Aside] The Duke of Milan
And his more braver daughter could control thee,
If now 'twere fit to do't. At the first sight
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,
I'll set thee free for this.
[To FERDINAND]
A word, good sir;
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
MIRANDA Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e'er I saw, the first
That e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father
To be inclined my way!
FERDINAND O, if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you
The queen of Naples.
PROSPERO Soft, sir! one word more.
[Aside]
They are both in either's powers; but this swift business
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning
Make the prize light.
[To FERDINAND]
One word more; I charge thee
That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp
The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on't.
FERDINAND No, as I am a man.
MIRANDA There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with't.
PROSPERO Follow me.
Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come;
I'll manacle thy neck and feet together:
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.
FERDINAND No;
I will resist such entertainment till
Mine enemy has more power.
[Draws, and is charmed from moving]
MIRANDA O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He's gentle and not fearful.
PROSPERO What? I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.
MIRANDA Beseech you, father.
PROSPERO Hence! hang not on my garments.
MIRANDA Sir, have pity;
I'll be his surety.
PROSPERO Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an imposter! hush!
Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban
And they to him are angels.
MIRANDA My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
PROSPERO Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again
And have no vigour in them.
FERDINAND So they are;
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else o' the earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
PROSPERO [Aside] It works.
[To FERDINAND]
Come on.
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!
[To FERDINAND]
Follow me.
[To ARIEL]
Hark what thou else shalt do me.
MIRANDA Be of comfort;
My father's of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted
Which now came from him.
PROSPERO Thou shalt be free
As mountain winds: but then exactly do
All points of my command.
ARIEL To the syllable.
PROSPERO Come, follow. Speak not for him.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT II
SCENE I Another part of the island.
[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO,
ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others]
GONZALO Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,
So have we all, of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe
Is common; every day some sailor's wife,
The masters of some merchant and the merchant
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.
ALONSO Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN He receives comfort like cold porridge.
ANTONIO The visitor will not give him o'er so.
SEBASTIAN Look he's winding up the watch of his wit;
by and by it will strike.
GONZALO Sir,--
SEBASTIAN One: tell.
GONZALO When every grief is entertain'd that's offer'd,
Comes to the entertainer--
SEBASTIAN A dollar.
GONZALO Dolour comes to him, indeed: you
have spoken truer than you purposed.
SEBASTIAN You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.
GONZALO Therefore, my lord,--
ANTONIO Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
ALONSO I prithee, spare.
GONZALO Well, I have done: but yet,--
SEBASTIAN He will be talking.
ANTONIO Which, of he or Adrian, for a good
wager, first begins to crow?
SEBASTIAN The old cock.
ANTONIO The cockerel.
SEBASTIAN Done. The wager?
ANTONIO A laughter.
SEBASTIAN A match!
ADRIAN Though this island seem to be desert,--
SEBASTIAN Ha, ha, ha! So, you're paid.
ADRIAN Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,--
SEBASTIAN Yet,--
ADRIAN Yet,--
ANTONIO He could not miss't.
ADRIAN It must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate
temperance.
ANTONIO Temperance was a delicate wench.
SEBASTIAN Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.
ADRIAN The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.
SEBASTIAN As if it had lungs and rotten ones.
ANTONIO Or as 'twere perfumed by a fen.
GONZALO Here is everything advantageous to life.
ANTONIO True; save means to live.
SEBASTIAN Of that there's none, or little.
GONZALO How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
ANTONIO The ground indeed is tawny.
SEBASTIAN With an eye of green in't.
ANTONIO He misses not much.
SEBASTIAN No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.
GONZALO But the rarity of it is,--which is indeed almost
beyond credit,--
SEBASTIAN As many vouched rarities are.
GONZALO That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in
the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and
glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with
salt water.
ANTONIO If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not
say he lies?
SEBASTIAN Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report
GONZALO Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we
put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of
the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.
SEBASTIAN 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.
ADRIAN Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to
their queen.
GONZALO Not since widow Dido's time.
ANTONIO Widow! a pox o' that! How came that widow in?
widow Dido!
SEBASTIAN What if he had said 'widower AEneas' too? Good Lord,
how you take it!
ADRIAN 'Widow Dido' said you? you make me study of that:
she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
GONZALO This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
ADRIAN Carthage?
GONZALO I assure you, Carthage.
SEBASTIAN His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath
raised the wall and houses too.
ANTONIO What impossible matter will he make easy next?
SEBASTIAN I think he will carry this island home in his pocket
and give it his son for an apple.
ANTONIO And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring
forth more islands.
GONZALO Ay.
ANTONIO Why, in good time.
GONZALO Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now
as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage
of your daughter, who is now queen.
ANTONIO And the rarest that e'er came there.
SEBASTIAN Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
ANTONIO O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.
GONZALO Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I
wore it? I mean, in a sort.
ANTONIO That sort was well fished for.
GONZALO When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?
ALONSO You cram these words into mine ears against
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost and, in my rate, she too,
Who is so far from Italy removed
I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?
FRANCISCO Sir, he may live:
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd,
As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt
He came alive to land.
ALONSO No, no, he's gone.
SEBASTIAN Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she at least is banish'd from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.
ALONSO Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN You were kneel'd to and importuned otherwise
By all of us, and the fair soul herself
Weigh'd between loathness and obedience, at
Which end o' the beam should bow. We have lost your
son,
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them of this business' making
Than we bring men to comfort them:
The fault's your own.
ALONSO So is the dear'st o' the loss.
GONZALO My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness
And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.
SEBASTIAN Very well.
ANTONIO And most chirurgeonly.
GONZALO It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.
SEBASTIAN Foul weather?
ANTONIO Very foul.
GONZALO Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,--
ANTONIO He'ld sow't with nettle-seed.
SEBASTIAN Or docks, or mallows.
GONZALO And were the king on't, what would I do?
SEBASTIAN 'Scape being drunk for want of wine.
GONZALO I' the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty;--
SEBASTIAN Yet he would be king on't.
ANTONIO The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the
beginning.
GONZALO All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
SEBASTIAN No marrying 'mong his subjects?
ANTONIO None, man; all idle: whores and knaves.
GONZALO I would with such perfection govern, sir,
To excel the golden age.
SEBASTIAN God save his majesty!
ANTONIO Long live Gonzalo!
GONZALO And,--do you mark me, sir?
ALONSO Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.
GONZALO I do well believe your highness; and
did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen,
who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that
they always use to laugh at nothing.
ANTONIO 'Twas you we laughed at.
GONZALO Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing
to you: so you may continue and laugh at
nothing still.
ANTONIO What a blow was there given!
SEBASTIAN An it had not fallen flat-long.
GONZALO You are gentlemen of brave metal; you would lift
the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue
in it five weeks without changing.
[Enter ARIEL, invisible, playing solemn music]
SEBASTIAN We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.
ANTONIO Nay, good my lord, be not angry.
GONZALO No, I warrant you; I will not adventure
my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh
me asleep, for I am very heavy?
ANTONIO Go sleep, and hear us.
[All sleep except ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, and ANTONIO]
ALONSO What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find
They are inclined to do so.
SEBASTIAN Please you, sir,
Do not omit the heavy offer of it:
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
It is a comforter.
ANTONIO We two, my lord,
Will guard your person while you take your rest,
And watch your safety.
ALONSO Thank you. Wondrous heavy.
[ALONSO sleeps. Exit ARIEL]
SEBASTIAN What a strange drowsiness possesses them!
ANTONIO It is the quality o' the climate.
SEBASTIAN Why
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
Myself disposed to sleep.
ANTONIO Nor I; my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent;
They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,
Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?--No more:--
And yet me thinks I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
SEBASTIAN What, art thou waking?
ANTONIO Do you not hear me speak?
SEBASTIAN I do; and surely
It is a sleepy language and thou speak'st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?
This is a strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,
And yet so fast asleep.
ANTONIO Noble Sebastian,
Thou let'st thy fortune sleep--die, rather; wink'st
Whiles thou art waking.
SEBASTIAN Thou dost snore distinctly;
There's meaning in thy snores.
ANTONIO I am more serious than my custom: you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do
Trebles thee o'er.
SEBASTIAN Well, I am standing water.
ANTONIO I'll teach you how to flow.
SEBASTIAN Do so: to ebb
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
ANTONIO O,
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.
SEBASTIAN Prithee, say on:
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
A matter from thee, and a birth indeed
Which throes thee much to yield.
ANTONIO Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth'd, hath here almost persuade,--
For he's a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade,--the king his son's alive,
'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd
And he that sleeps here swims.
SEBASTIAN I have no hope
That he's undrown'd.
ANTONIO O, out of that 'no hope'
What great hope have you! no hope that way is
Another way so high a hope that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me
That Ferdinand is drown'd?
SEBASTIAN He's gone.
ANTONIO Then, tell me,
Who's the next heir of Naples?
SEBASTIAN Claribel.
ANTONIO She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post--
The man i' the moon's too slow--till new-born chins
Be rough and razorable; she that--from whom?
We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again,
And by that destiny to perform an act
Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come
In yours and my discharge.
SEBASTIAN What stuff is this! how say you?
'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis;
So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions
There is some space.
ANTONIO A space whose every cubit
Seems to cry out, 'How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake.' Say, this were death
That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?
SEBASTIAN Methinks I do.
ANTONIO And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?
SEBASTIAN I remember
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
ANTONIO True:
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much feater than before: my brother's servants
Were then my fellows; now they are my men.
SEBASTIAN But, for your conscience?
ANTONIO Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a kibe,
'Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,
That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they
And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,
No better than the earth he lies upon,
If he were that which now he's like, that's dead;
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,
They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;
They'll tell the clock to any business that
We say befits the hour.
SEBASTIAN Thy case, dear friend,
Shall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan,
I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest;
And I the king shall love thee.
ANTONIO Draw together;
And when I rear my hand, do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.
SEBASTIAN O, but one word.
[They talk apart]
[Re-enter ARIEL, invisible]
ARIEL My master through his art foresees the danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth--
For else his project dies--to keep them living.
[Sings in GONZALO's ear]
While you here do snoring lie,
Open-eyed conspiracy
His time doth take.
If of life you keep a care,
Shake off slumber, and beware:
Awake, awake!
ANTONIO Then let us both be sudden.
GONZALO Now, good angels
Preserve the king.
[They wake]
ALONSO Why, how now? ho, awake! Why are you drawn?
Wherefore this ghastly looking?
GONZALO What's the matter?
SEBASTIAN Whiles we stood here securing your repose,
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing
Like bulls, or rather lions: did't not wake you?
It struck mine ear most terribly.
ALONSO I heard nothing.
ANTONIO O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear,
To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar
Of a whole herd of lions.
ALONSO Heard you this, Gonzalo?
GONZALO Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,
And that a strange one too, which did awake me:
I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open'd,
I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise,
That's verily. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard,
Or that we quit this place; let's draw our weapons.
ALONSO Lead off this ground; and let's make further search
For my poor son.
GONZALO Heavens keep him from these beasts!
For he is, sure, i' the island.
ALONSO Lead away.
ARIEL Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT II
SCENE II Another part of the island.
[Enter CALIBAN with a burden of wood. A noise of
thunder heard]
CALIBAN All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me
And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin--shows, pitch me i' the mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid 'em; but
For every trifle are they set upon me;
Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me
And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness.
[Enter TRINCULO]
Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat;
Perchance he will not mind me.
TRINCULO Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off
any weather at all, and another storm brewing;
I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black
cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul
bombard that would shed his liquor. If it
should thunder as it did before, I know not
where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot
choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we
here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish:
he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-
like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-
John. A strange fish! Were I in England now,
as once I was, and had but this fish painted,
not a holiday fool there but would give a piece
of silver: there would this monster make a
man; any strange beast there makes a man:
when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame
beggar, they will lazy out ten to see a dead
Indian. Legged like a man and his fins like
arms! Warm o' my troth! I do now let loose
my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish,
but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a
thunderbolt.
[Thunder]
Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to
creep under his gaberdine; there is no other
shelter hereabouts: misery acquaints a man with
strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the
dregs of the storm be past.
[Enter STEPHANO, singing: a bottle in his hand]
STEPHANO I shall no more to sea, to sea,
Here shall I die ashore--
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's
funeral: well, here's my comfort. [Drinks]
[Sings]
The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort.
[Drinks]
CALIBAN Do not torment me: Oh!
STEPHANO What's the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put
tricks upon's with savages and men of Ind, ha? I
have not scaped drowning to be afeard now of your
four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as
ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground;
and it shall be said so again while Stephano
breathes at's nostrils.
CALIBAN The spirit torments me; Oh!
STEPHANO This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who
hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil
should he learn our language? I will give him some
relief, if it be but for that. if I can recover him
and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he's a
present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's leather.
CALIBAN Do not torment me, prithee; I'll bring my wood home faster.
STEPHANO He's in his fit now and does not talk after the
wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have
never drunk wine afore will go near to remove his
fit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, I will
not take too much for him; he shall pay for him that
hath him, and that soundly.
CALIBAN Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I
know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.
STEPHANO Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is that
which will give language to you, cat: open your
mouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you,
and that soundly: you cannot tell who's your friend:
open your chaps again.
TRINCULO I should know that voice: it should be--but he is
drowned; and these are devils: O defend me!
STEPHANO Four legs and two voices: a most delicate monster!
His forward voice now is to speak well of his
friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches
and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will
recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I
will pour some in thy other mouth.
TRINCULO Stephano!
STEPHANO Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! This is
a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no
long spoon.
TRINCULO Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me and
speak to me: for I am Trinculo--be not afeard--thy
good friend Trinculo.
STEPHANO If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I'll pull thee
by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo's legs,
these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How
camest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? can
he vent Trinculos?
TRINCULO I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. But
art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now thou art
not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me
under the dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of
the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O
Stephano, two Neapolitans 'scaped!
STEPHANO Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach is not constant.
CALIBAN [Aside] These be fine things, an if they be
not sprites.
That's a brave god and bears celestial liquor.
I will kneel to him.
STEPHANO How didst thou 'scape? How camest thou hither?
swear by this bottle how thou camest hither. I
escaped upon a butt of sack which the sailors
heaved o'erboard, by this bottle; which I made of
the bark of a tree with mine own hands since I was
cast ashore.
CALIBAN I'll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject;
for the liquor is not earthly.
STEPHANO Here; swear then how thou escapedst.
TRINCULO Swum ashore. man, like a duck: I can swim like a
duck, I'll be sworn.
STEPHANO Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a
duck, thou art made like a goose.
TRINCULO O Stephano. hast any more of this?
STEPHANO The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the
sea-side where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf!
how does thine ague?
CALIBAN Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven?
STEPHANO Out o' the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man i'
the moon when time was.
CALIBAN I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee:
My mistress show'd me thee and thy dog and thy bush.
STEPHANO Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will furnish
it anon with new contents swear.
TRINCULO By this good light, this is a very shallow monster!
I afeard of him! A very weak monster! The man i'
the moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well
drawn, monster, in good sooth!
CALIBAN I'll show thee every fertile inch o' th' island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.
TRINCULO By this light, a most perfidious and drunken
monster! when 's god's asleep, he'll rob his bottle.
CALIBAN I'll kiss thy foot; I'll swear myself thy subject.
STEPHANO Come on then; down, and swear.
TRINCULO I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed
monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my
heart to beat him,--
STEPHANO Come, kiss.
TRINCULO But that the poor monster's in drink: an abominable monster!
CALIBAN I'll show thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee berries;
I'll fish for thee and get thee wood enough.
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!
I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,
Thou wondrous man.
TRINCULO A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a
Poor drunkard!
CALIBAN I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts;
Show thee a jay's nest and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset; I'll bring thee
To clustering filberts and sometimes I'll get thee
Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?
STEPHANO I prithee now, lead the way without any more
talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company
else being drowned, we will inherit here: here;
bear my bottle: fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by
and by again.
CALIBAN [Sings drunkenly]
Farewell master; farewell, farewell!
TRINCULO A howling monster: a drunken monster!
CALIBAN No more dams I'll make for fish
Nor fetch in firing
At requiring;
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish
'Ban, 'Ban, Cacaliban
Has a new master: get a new man.
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom,
hey-day, freedom!
STEPHANO O brave monster! Lead the way.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT III
SCENE I Before PROSPERO'S Cell.
[Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log]
FERDINAND There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed,
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
Most busy lest, when I do it.
[Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance, unseen]
MIRANDA Alas, now, pray you,
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile!
Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.
FERDINAND O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
MIRANDA If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;
I'll carry it to the pile.
FERDINAND No, precious creature;
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
MIRANDA It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it,
And yours it is against.
PROSPERO Poor worm, thou art infected!
This visitation shows it.
MIRANDA You look wearily.
FERDINAND No, noble mistress;'tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you--
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers--
What is your name?
MIRANDA Miranda.--O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so!
FERDINAND Admired Miranda!
Indeed the top of admiration! worth
What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any
With so fun soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed
And put it to the foil: but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best!
MIRANDA I do not know
One of my sex; no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you,
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.
FERDINAND I am in my condition
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;
I would, not so!--and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log--man.
MIRANDA Do you love me?
FERDINAND O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound
And crown what I profess with kind event
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me to mischief! I
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world
Do love, prize, honour you.
MIRANDA I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
PROSPERO Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between 'em!
FERDINAND Wherefore weep you?
MIRANDA At mine unworthiness that dare not offer
What I desire to give, and much less take
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, it you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.
FERDINAND My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
MIRANDA My husband, then?
FERDINAND Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.
MIRANDA And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
FERDINAND A thousand thousand!
[Exeunt FERDINAND and MIRANDA severally]
PROSPERO So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I'll to my book,
For yet ere supper-time must I perform
Much business appertaining.
[Exit]
THE TEMPEST
ACT III
SCENE II Another part of the island.
[Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO]
STEPHANO Tell not me; when the butt is out, we will drink
water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and
board 'em. Servant-monster, drink to me.
TRINCULO Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They
say there's but five upon this isle: we are three
of them; if th' other two be brained like us, the
state totters.
STEPHANO Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes
are almost set in thy head.
TRINCULO Where should they be set else? he were a brave
monster indeed, if they were set in his tail.
STEPHANO My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack:
for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I
could recover the shore, five and thirty leagues off
and on. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant,
monster, or my standard.
TRINCULO Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no standard.
STEPHANO We'll not run, Monsieur Monster.
TRINCULO Nor go neither; but you'll lie like dogs and yet say
nothing neither.
STEPHANO Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a
good moon-calf.
CALIBAN How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe.
I'll not serve him; he's not valiant.
TRINCULO Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to
justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou,
was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much
sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie,
being but half a fish and half a monster?
CALIBAN Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord?
TRINCULO 'Lord' quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural!
CALIBAN Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee.
STEPHANO Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you
prove a mutineer,--the next tree! The poor monster's
my subject and he shall not suffer indignity.
CALIBAN I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to
hearken once again to the suit I made to thee?
STEPHANO Marry, will I kneel and repeat it; I will stand,
and so shall Trinculo.
[Enter ARIEL, invisible]
CALIBAN As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a
sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.
ARIEL Thou liest.
CALIBAN Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou: I would my
valiant master would destroy thee! I do not lie.
STEPHANO Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in's tale, by
this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.
TRINCULO Why, I said nothing.
STEPHANO Mum, then, and no more. Proceed.
CALIBAN I say, by sorcery he got this isle;
From me he got it. if thy greatness will
Revenge it on him,--for I know thou darest,
But this thing dare not,--
STEPHANO That's most certain.
CALIBAN Thou shalt be lord of it and I'll serve thee.
STEPHANO How now shall this be compassed?
Canst thou bring me to the party?
CALIBAN Yea, yea, my lord: I'll yield him thee asleep,
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his bead.
ARIEL Thou liest; thou canst not.
CALIBAN What a pied ninny's this! Thou scurvy patch!
I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows
And take his bottle from him: when that's gone
He shall drink nought but brine; for I'll not show him
Where the quick freshes are.
STEPHANO Trinculo, run into no further danger:
interrupt the monster one word further, and,
by this hand, I'll turn my mercy out o' doors
and make a stock-fish of thee.
TRINCULO Why, what did I? I did nothing. I'll go farther
off.
STEPHANO Didst thou not say he lied?
ARIEL Thou liest.
STEPHANO Do I so? take thou that.
[Beats TRINCULO]
As you like this, give me the lie another time.
TRINCULO I did not give the lie. Out o' your
wits and bearing too? A pox o' your bottle!
this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on
your monster, and the devil take your fingers!
CALIBAN Ha, ha, ha!
STEPHANO Now, forward with your tale. Prithee, stand farther
off.
CALIBAN Beat him enough: after a little time
I'll beat him too.
STEPHANO Stand farther. Come, proceed.
CALIBAN Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him,
I' th' afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him,
Having first seized his books, or with a log
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember
First to possess his books; for without them
He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not
One spirit to command: they all do hate him
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books.
He has brave utensils,--for so he calls them--
Which when he has a house, he'll deck withal
And that most deeply to consider is
The beauty of his daughter; he himself
Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,
But only Sycorax my dam and she;
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax
As great'st does least.
STEPHANO Is it so brave a lass?
CALIBAN Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant.
And bring thee forth brave brood.
STEPHANO Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and I
will be king and queen--save our graces!--and
Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou
like the plot, Trinculo?
TRINCULO Excellent.
STEPHANO Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but,
while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head.
CALIBAN Within this half hour will he be asleep:
Wilt thou destroy him then?
STEPHANO Ay, on mine honour.
ARIEL This will I tell my master.
CALIBAN Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure:
Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch
You taught me but while-ere?
STEPHANO At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any
reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing.
[Sings]
Flout 'em and scout 'em
And scout 'em and flout 'em
Thought is free.
CALIBAN That's not the tune.
[Ariel plays the tune on a tabour and pipe]
STEPHANO What is this same?
TRINCULO This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture
of Nobody.
STEPHANO If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness:
if thou beest a devil, take't as thou list.
TRINCULO O, forgive me my sins!
STEPHANO He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us!
CALIBAN Art thou afeard?
STEPHANO No, monster, not I.
CALIBAN Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
STEPHANO This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall
have my music for nothing.
CALIBAN When Prospero is destroyed.
STEPHANO That shall be by and by: I remember the story.
TRINCULO The sound is going away; let's follow it, and
after do our work.
STEPHANO Lead, monster; we'll follow. I would I could see
this tabourer; he lays it on.
TRINCULO Wilt come? I'll follow, Stephano.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT III
SCENE III Another part of the island.
[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO,
ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others]
GONZALO By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod indeed
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,
I needs must rest me.
ALONSO Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach'd with weariness,
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
ANTONIO [Aside to SEBASTIAN] I am right glad that he's so
out of hope.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.
SEBASTIAN [Aside to ANTONIO] The next advantage
Will we take throughly.
ANTONIO [Aside to SEBASTIAN] Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance
As when they are fresh.
SEBASTIAN [Aside to ANTONIO] I say, to-night: no more.
[Solemn and strange music]
ALONSO What harmony is this? My good friends, hark!
GONZALO Marvellous sweet music!
[Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several
strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet;
they dance about it with gentle actions of
salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to
eat, they depart]
ALONSO Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these?
SEBASTIAN A living drollery. Now I will believe
That there are unicorns, that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix' throne, one phoenix
At this hour reigning there.
ANTONIO I'll believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me,
And I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did
lie,
Though fools at home condemn 'em.
GONZALO If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me?
If I should say, I saw such islanders--
For, certes, these are people of the island--
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.
PROSPERO [Aside] Honest lord,
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present
Are worse than devils.
ALONSO I cannot too much muse
Such shapes, such gesture and such sound, expressing,
Although they want the use of tongue, a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
PROSPERO [Aside] Praise in departing.
FRANCISCO They vanish'd strangely.
SEBASTIAN No matter, since
They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.
Will't please you taste of what is here?
ALONSO Not I.
GONZALO Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,
Who would believe that there were mountaineers
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.
ALONSO I will stand to and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,
Stand to and do as we.
[Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a
harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and,
with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes]
ARIEL You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,
That hath to instrument this lower world
And what is in't, the never-surfeited sea
Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island
Where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
And even with such-like valour men hang and drown
Their proper selves.
[ALONSO, SEBASTIAN &c. draw their swords]
You fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of Fate: the elements,
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths
And will not be uplifted. But remember--
For that's my business to you--that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero;
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,
Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:
Lingering perdition, worse than any death
Can be at once, shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from--
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls
Upon your heads--is nothing but heart-sorrow
And a clear life ensuing.
[He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music
enter the Shapes again, and dance, with
mocks and mows, and carrying out the table]
PROSPERO Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done. My high charms work
And these mine enemies are all knit up
In their distractions; they now are in my power;
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown'd,
And his and mine loved darling.
[Exit above]
GONZALO I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you
In this strange stare?
ALONSO O, it is monstrous, monstrous:
Methought the billows spoke and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded, and
I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded
And with him there lie mudded.
[Exit]
SEBASTIAN But one fiend at a time,
I'll fight their legions o'er.
ANTONIO I'll be thy second.
[Exeunt SEBASTIAN, and ANTONIO]
GONZALO All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after,
Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly
And hinder them from what this ecstasy
May now provoke them to.
ADRIAN Follow, I pray you.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT IV
SCENE I Before PROSPERO'S cell.
[Enter PROSPERO, FERDINAND, and MIRANDA]
PROSPERO If I have too austerely punish'd you,
Your compensation makes amends, for I
Have given you here a third of mine own life,
Or that for which I live; who once again
I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love and thou
Hast strangely stood the test here, afore Heaven,
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me that I boast her off,
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise
And make it halt behind her.
FERDINAND I do believe it
Against an oracle.
PROSPERO Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition
Worthily purchased take my daughter: but
If thou dost break her virgin-knot before
All sanctimonious ceremonies may
With full and holy rite be minister'd,
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow: but barren hate,
Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly
That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,
As Hymen's lamps shall light you.
FERDINAND As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue and long life,
With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den,
The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion.
Our worser genius can, shall never melt
Mine honour into lust, to take away
The edge of that day's celebration
When I shall think: or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd,
Or Night kept chain'd below.
PROSPERO Fairly spoke.
Sit then and talk with her; she is thine own.
What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!
[Enter ARIEL]
ARIEL What would my potent master? here I am.
PROSPERO Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service
Did worthily perform; and I must use you
In such another trick. Go bring the rabble,
O'er whom I give thee power, here to this place:
Incite them to quick motion; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple
Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,
And they expect it from me.
ARIEL Presently?
PROSPERO Ay, with a twink.
ARIEL Before you can say 'come' and 'go,'
And breathe twice and cry 'so, so,'
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mop and mow.
Do you love me, master? no?
PROSPERO Dearly my delicate Ariel. Do not approach
Till thou dost hear me call.
ARIEL Well, I conceive.
[Exit]
PROSPERO Look thou be true; do not give dalliance
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw
To the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious,
Or else, good night your vow!
FERDINAND I warrant you sir;
The white cold virgin snow upon my heart
Abates the ardour of my liver.
PROSPERO Well.
Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,
Rather than want a spirit: appear and pertly!
No tongue! all eyes! be silent.
[Soft music]
[Enter IRIS]
IRIS Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom -groves,
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn: thy pole-clipt vineyard;
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air;--the queen o' the sky,
Whose watery arch and messenger am I,
Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain:
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
[Enter CERES]
CERES Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;
Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers,
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown
My bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down,
Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen
Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green?
IRIS A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estate
On the blest lovers.
CERES Tell me, heavenly bow,
If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,
Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,
Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company
I have forsworn.
IRIS Of her society
Be not afraid: I met her deity
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son
Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,
Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid
Till Hymen's torch be lighted: but vain;
Mars's hot minion is returned again;
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,
Swears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows
And be a boy right out.
CERES High'st queen of state,
Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait.
[Enter JUNO]
JUNO How does my bounteous sister? Go with me
To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be
And honour'd in their issue.
[They sing:]
JUNO Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!
Juno sings her blessings upon you.
CERES Earth's increase, foison plenty,
Barns and garners never empty,
Vines and clustering bunches growing,
Plants with goodly burthen bowing;
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest!
Scarcity and want shall shun you;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.
FERDINAND This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmoniously charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits?
PROSPERO Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines call'd to enact
My present fancies.
FERDINAND Let me live here ever;
So rare a wonder'd father and a wife
Makes this place Paradise.
[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on
employment]
PROSPERO Sweet, now, silence!
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously;
There's something else to do: hush, and be mute,
Or else our spell is marr'd.
IRIS You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks,
With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks,
Leave your crisp channels and on this green land
Answer your summons; Juno does command:
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; be not too late.
[Enter certain Nymphs]
You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow and be merry:
Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
[Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they
join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance;
towards the end whereof PROSPERO starts
suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a
strange, hollow, and confused noise, they
heavily vanish]
PROSPERO [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come.
[To the Spirits]
Well done! avoid; no more!
FERDINAND This is strange: your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.
MIRANDA Never till this day
Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.
PROSPERO You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,
To still my beating mind.
FERDINAND |
| We wish your peace.
MIRANDA |
[Exeunt]
PROSPERO Come with a thought I thank thee, Ariel: come.
[Enter ARIEL]
ARIEL Thy thoughts I cleave to. What's thy pleasure?
PROSPERO Spirit,
We must prepare to meet with Caliban.
ARIEL Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,
I thought to have told thee of it, but I fear'd
Lest I might anger thee.
PROSPERO Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?
ARIEL I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;
So fun of valour that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
For kissing of their feet; yet always bending
Towards their project. Then I beat my tabour;
At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd
their ears,
Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses
As they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears
That calf-like they my lowing follow'd through
Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns,
Which entered their frail shins: at last I left them
I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
O'erstunk their feet.
PROSPERO This was well done, my bird.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still:
The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,
For stale to catch these thieves.
ARIEL I go, I go.
[Exit]
PROSPERO A devil, a born devil, on whose nature
Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;
And as with age his body uglier grows,
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,
Even to roaring.
[Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c]
Come, hang them on this line.
[PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter
CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet]
CALIBAN Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.
STEPHANO Monster, your fairy, which you say is
a harmless fairy, has done little better than
played the Jack with us.
TRINCULO Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at
which my nose is in great indignation.
STEPHANO So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take
a displeasure against you, look you,--
TRINCULO Thou wert but a lost monster.
CALIBAN Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to
Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.
All's hush'd as midnight yet.
TRINCULO Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,--
STEPHANO There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that,
monster, but an infinite loss.
TRINCULO That's more to me than my wetting: yet this is your
harmless fairy, monster.
STEPHANO I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears
for my labour.
CALIBAN Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,
This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter.
Do that good mischief which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.
STEPHANO Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
TRINCULO O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look
what a wardrobe here is for thee!
CALIBAN Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
TRINCULO O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.
O king Stephano!
STEPHANO Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I'll have
that gown.
TRINCULO Thy grace shall have it.
CALIBAN The dropsy drown this fool I what do you mean
To dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone
And do the murder first: if he awake,
From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches,
Make us strange stuff.
STEPHANO Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line,
is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under
the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your
hair and prove a bald jerkin.
TRINCULO Do, do: we steal by line and level, an't like your grace.
STEPHANO I thank thee for that jest; here's a garment for't:
wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this
country. 'Steal by line and level' is an excellent
pass of pate; there's another garment for't.
TRINCULO Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and
away with the rest.
CALIBAN I will have none on't: we shall lose our time,
And all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes
With foreheads villanous low.
STEPHANO Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this
away where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you
out of my kingdom: go to, carry this.
TRINCULO And this.
STEPHANO Ay, and this.
[A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits,
in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about,
PROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on]
PROSPERO Hey, Mountain, hey!
ARIEL Silver I there it goes, Silver!
PROSPERO Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! hark!
[CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, are
driven out]
Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints
With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews
With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them
Than pard or cat o' mountain.
ARIEL Hark, they roar!
PROSPERO Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:
Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou
Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little
Follow, and do me service.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
ACT V
SCENE I Before PROSPERO'S cell.
[Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes, and ARIEL]
PROSPERO Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time
Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day?
ARIEL On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
You said our work should cease.
PROSPERO I did say so,
When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,
How fares the king and's followers?
ARIEL Confined together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge,
Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,
In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;
They cannot budge till your release. The king,
His brother and yours, abide all three distracted
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
Him that you term'd, sir, 'The good old lord Gonzalo;'
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops
From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
PROSPERO Dost thou think so, spirit?
ARIEL Mine would, sir, were I human.
PROSPERO And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
Yet with my nobler reason 'gaitist my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:
My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,
And they shall be themselves.
ARIEL I'll fetch them, sir.
[Exit]
PROSPERO Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
[Solemn music]
[Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a
frantic gesture, attended by GONZALO;
SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner,
attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO they all
enter the circle which PROSPERO had made,
and there stand charmed; which PROSPERO
observing, speaks:]
A solemn air and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains,
Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand,
For you are spell-stopp'd.
Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace,
And as the morning steals upon the night,
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,
My true preserver, and a loyal sir
To him you follow'st! I will pay thy graces
Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.
Thou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,
You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,
Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,
Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,
Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee,
Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding
Begins to swell, and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shore
That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them
That yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel,
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:
I will discase me, and myself present
As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;
Thou shalt ere long be free.
[ARIEL sings and helps to attire him]
Where the bee sucks. there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
PROSPERO Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee:
But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art:
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain
Being awake, enforce them to this place,
And presently, I prithee.
ARIEL I drink the air before me, and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat.
[Exit]
GONZALO All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement
Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us
Out of this fearful country!
PROSPERO Behold, sir king,
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
And to thee and thy company I bid
A hearty welcome.
ALONSO Whether thou best he or no,
Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,
As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
Beats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,
The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
I fear, a madness held me: this must crave,
An if this be at all, a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero
Be living and be here?
PROSPERO First, noble friend,
Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot
Be measured or confined.
GONZALO Whether this be
Or be not, I'll not swear.
PROSPERO You do yet taste
Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all!
[Aside to SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO]
But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you
And justify you traitors: at this time
I will tell no tales.
SEBASTIAN [Aside] The devil speaks in him.
PROSPERO No.
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,
Thou must restore.
ALONSO If thou be'st Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation;
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost--
How sharp the point of this remembrance is!--
My dear son Ferdinand.
PROSPERO I am woe for't, sir.
ALONSO Irreparable is the loss, and patience
Says it is past her cure.
PROSPERO I rather think
You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid
And rest myself content.
ALONSO You the like loss!
PROSPERO As great to me as late; and, supportable
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you, for I
Have lost my daughter.
ALONSO A daughter?
O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen there! that they were, I wish
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed
Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?
PROSPERO In this last tempest. I perceive these lords
At this encounter do so much admire
That they devour their reason and scarce think
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
Are natural breath: but, howsoe'er you have
Been justled from your senses, know for certain
That I am Prospero and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely
Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed,
To be the lord on't. No more yet of this;
For 'tis a chronicle of day by day,
Not a relation for a breakfast nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;
This cell's my court: here have I few attendants
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again,
I will requite you with as good a thing;
At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye
As much as me my dukedom.
[Here PROSPERO discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA
playing at chess]
MIRANDA Sweet lord, you play me false.
FERDINAND No, my dear'st love,
I would not for the world.
MIRANDA Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,
And I would call it, fair play.
ALONSO If this prove
A vision of the Island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
SEBASTIAN A most high miracle!
FERDINAND Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;
I have cursed them without cause.
[Kneels]
ALONSO Now all the blessings
Of a glad father compass thee about!
Arise, and say how thou camest here.
MIRANDA O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!
PROSPERO 'Tis new to thee.
ALONSO What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours:
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us,
And brought us thus together?
FERDINAND Sir, she is mortal;
But by immortal Providence she's mine:
I chose her when I could not ask my father
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before; of whom I have
Received a second life; and second father
This lady makes him to me.
ALONSO I am hers:
But, O, how oddly will it sound that I
Must ask my child forgiveness!
PROSPERO There, sir, stop:
Let us not burthen our remembrance with
A heaviness that's gone.
GONZALO I have inly wept,
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you god,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown!
For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way
Which brought us hither.
ALONSO I say, Amen, Gonzalo!
GONZALO Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue
Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice
Beyond a common joy, and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife
Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom
In a poor isle and all of us ourselves
When no man was his own.
ALONSO [To FERDINAND and MIRANDA] Give me your hands:
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
That doth not wish you joy!
GONZALO Be it so! Amen!
[Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain
amazedly following]
O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:
I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,
This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,
That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore?
Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?
Boatswain The best news is, that we have safely found
Our king and company; the next, our ship--
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split--
Is tight and yare and bravely rigg'd as when
We first put out to sea.
ARIEL [Aside to PROSPERO] Sir, all this service
Have I done since I went.
PROSPERO [Aside to ARIEL] My tricksy spirit!
ALONSO These are not natural events; they strengthen
From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?
Boatswain If I did think, sir, I were well awake,
I'ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,
And--how we know not--all clapp'd under hatches;
Where but even now with strange and several noises
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,
We were awaked; straightway, at liberty;
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
Our royal, good and gallant ship, our master
Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,
Even in a dream, were we divided from them
And were brought moping hither.
ARIEL [Aside to PROSPERO] Was't well done?
PROSPERO [Aside to ARIEL] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.
ALONSO This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod
And there is in this business more than nature
Was ever conduct of: some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
PROSPERO Sir, my liege,
Do not infest your mind with beating on
The strangeness of this business; at pick'd leisure
Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you,
Which to you shall seem probable, of every
These happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerful
And think of each thing well.
[Aside to ARIEL]
Come hither, spirit:
Set Caliban and his companions free;
Untie the spell.
[Exit ARIEL]
How fares my gracious sir?
There are yet missing of your company
Some few odd lads that you remember not.
[Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO
and TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel]
STEPHANO Every man shift for all the rest, and
let no man take care for himself; for all is
but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!
TRINCULO If these be true spies which I wear in my head,
here's a goodly sight.
CALIBAN O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!
How fine my master is! I am afraid
He will chastise me.
SEBASTIAN Ha, ha!
What things are these, my lord Antonio?
Will money buy 'em?
ANTONIO Very like; one of them
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.
PROSPERO Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,
Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,
His mother was a witch, and one so strong
That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
And deal in her command without her power.
These three have robb'd me; and this demi-devil--
For he's a bastard one--had plotted with them
To take my life. Two of these fellows you
Must know and own; this thing of darkness!
Acknowledge mine.
CALIBAN I shall be pinch'd to death.
ALONSO Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?
SEBASTIAN He is drunk now: where had he wine?
ALONSO And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em?
How camest thou in this pickle?
TRINCULO I have been in such a pickle since I
saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of
my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.
SEBASTIAN Why, how now, Stephano!
STEPHANO O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp.
PROSPERO You'ld be king o' the isle, sirrah?
STEPHANO I should have been a sore one then.
ALONSO This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on.
[Pointing to Caliban]
PROSPERO He is as disproportion'd in his manners
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
CALIBAN Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god
And worship this dull fool!
PROSPERO Go to; away!
ALONSO Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.
SEBASTIAN Or stole it, rather.
[Exeunt CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO]
PROSPERO Sir, I invite your highness and your train
To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which, part of it, I'll waste
With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go quick away; the story of my life
And the particular accidents gone by
Since I came to this isle: and in the morn
I'll bring you to your ship and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-beloved solemnized;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.
ALONSO I long
To hear the story of your life, which must
Take the ear strangely.
PROSPERO I'll deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales
And sail so expeditious that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off.
[Aside to ARIEL]
My Ariel, chick,
That is thy charge: then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.
[Exeunt]
THE TEMPEST
EPILOGUE
SPOKEN BY PROSPERO
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.#19,219,099textDante's Inferno
Canto 4
BROKE the deep slumber in my brain a crash
Of heavy thunder, that I shook myself,
As one by main force rous'd. Risen upright,
My rested eyes I mov'd around, and search'd
With fixed ken to know what place it was,
Wherein I stood. For certain on the brink
I found me of the lamentable vale,
The dread abyss, that joins a thund'rous sound
Of plaints innumerable. Dark and deep,
And thick with clouds o'erspread, mine eye in vain
Explor'd its bottom, nor could aught discern.
"Now let us to the blind world there beneath
Descend;" the bard began all pale of look:
"I go the first, and thou shalt follow next."
Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus:
"How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread,
Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?"
He then: "The anguish of that race below
With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear
Mistakest. Let us on. Our length of way
Urges to haste." Onward, this said, he mov'd;
And ent'ring led me with him on the bounds
Of the first circle, that surrounds th' abyss.
Here, as mine ear could note, no plaint was heard
Except of sighs, that made th' eternal air
Tremble, not caus'd by tortures, but from grief
Felt by those multitudes, many and vast,
Of men, women, and infants. Then to me
The gentle guide: "Inquir'st thou not what spirits
Are these, which thou beholdest? Ere thou pass
Farther, I would thou know, that these of sin
Were blameless; and if aught they merited,
It profits not, since baptism was not theirs,
The portal to thy faith. If they before
The Gospel liv'd, they serv'd not God aright;
And among such am I. For these defects,
And for no other evil, we are lost;
"Only so far afflicted, that we live
Desiring without hope." So grief assail'd
My heart at hearing this, for well I knew
Suspended in that Limbo many a soul
Of mighty worth. "O tell me, sire rever'd!
Tell me, my master!" I began through wish
Of full assurance in that holy faith,
Which vanquishes all error; "say, did e'er
Any, or through his own or other's merit,
Come forth from thence, whom afterward was blest?"
Piercing the secret purport of my speech,
He answer'd: "I was new to that estate,
When I beheld a puissant one arrive
Amongst us, with victorious trophy crown'd.
He forth the shade of our first parent drew,
Abel his child, and Noah righteous man,
Of Moses lawgiver for faith approv'd,
Of patriarch Abraham, and David king,
Israel with his sire and with his sons,
Nor without Rachel whom so hard he won,
And others many more, whom he to bliss
Exalted. Before these, be thou assur'd,
No spirit of human kind was ever sav'd."
We, while he spake, ceas'd not our onward road,
Still passing through the wood; for so I name
Those spirits thick beset. We were not far
On this side from the summit, when I kenn'd
A flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere
Prevailing shin'd. Yet we a little space
Were distant, not so far but I in part
Discover'd, that a tribe in honour high
That place possess'd. "O thou, who every art
And science valu'st! who are these, that boast
Such honour, separate from all the rest?"
He answer'd: "The renown of their great names
That echoes through your world above, acquires
Favour in heaven, which holds them thus advanc'd."
Meantime a voice I heard: "Honour the bard
Sublime! his shade returns that left us late!"
No sooner ceas'd the sound, than I beheld
Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps,
Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad.
When thus my master kind began: "Mark him,
Who in his right hand bears that falchion keen,
The other three preceding, as their lord.
This is that Homer, of all bards supreme:
Flaccus the next in satire's vein excelling;
The third is Naso; Lucan is the last.
Because they all that appellation own,
With which the voice singly accosted me,
Honouring they greet me thus, and well they judge."
So I beheld united the bright school
Of him the monarch of sublimest song,
That o'er the others like an eagle soars.
When they together short discourse had held,
They turn'd to me, with salutation kind
Beck'ning me; at the which my master smil'd:
Nor was this all; but greater honour still
They gave me, for they made me of their tribe;
And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band.
Far as the luminous beacon on we pass'd
Speaking of matters, then befitting well
To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot
Of a magnificent castle we arriv'd,
Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round
Defended by a pleasant stream. O'er this
As o'er dry land we pass'd. Next through seven gates
I with those sages enter'd, and we came
Into a mead with lively verdure fresh.
There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around
Majestically mov'd, and in their port
Bore eminent authority; they spake
Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet.
We to one side retir'd, into a place
Open and bright and lofty, whence each one
Stood manifest to view. Incontinent
There on the green enamel of the plain
Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight
I am exalted in my own esteem.
Electra there I saw accompanied
By many, among whom Hector I knew,
Anchises' pious son, and with hawk's eye
Caesar all arm'd, and by Camilla there
Penthesilea. On the other side
Old King Latinus, seated by his child
Lavinia, and that Brutus I beheld,
Who Tarquin chas'd, Lucretia, Cato's wife
Marcia, with Julia and Cornelia there;
And sole apart retir'd, the Soldan fierce.
Then when a little more I rais'd my brow,
I spied the master of the sapient throng,
Seated amid the philosophic train.
Him all admire, all pay him rev'rence due.
There Socrates and Plato both I mark'd,
Nearest to him in rank; Democritus,
Who sets the world at chance, Diogenes,
With Heraclitus, and Empedocles,
And Anaxagoras, and Thales sage,
Zeno, and Dioscorides well read
In nature's secret lore. Orpheus I mark'd
And Linus, Tully and moral Seneca,
Euclid and Ptolemy, Hippocrates,
Galenus, Avicen, and him who made
That commentary vast, Averroes.
Of all to speak at full were vain attempt;
For my wide theme so urges, that ofttimes
My words fall short of what bechanc'd. In two
The six associates part. Another way
My sage guide leads me, from that air serene,
Into a climate ever vex'd with storms:
And to a part I come where no light shines.#19,188,249textDante's Inferno
Canto 5
FROM the first circle I descended thus
Down to the second, which, a lesser space
Embracing, so much more of grief contains
Provoking bitter moans. There, Minos stands
Grinning with ghastly feature: he, of all
Who enter, strict examining the crimes,
Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath,
According as he foldeth him around:
For when before him comes th' ill fated soul,
It all confesses; and that judge severe
Of sins, considering what place in hell
Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft
Himself encircles, as degrees beneath
He dooms it to descend. Before him stand
Always a num'rous throng; and in his turn
Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears
His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurl'd.
"O thou! who to this residence of woe
Approachest?" when he saw me coming, cried
Minos, relinquishing his dread employ,
"Look how thou enter here; beware in whom
Thou place thy trust; let not the entrance broad
Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide:
"Wherefore exclaimest? Hinder not his way
By destiny appointed; so 'tis will'd
Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more."
Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard.
Now am I come where many a plaining voice
Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came
Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan'd
A noise as of a sea in tempest torn
By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell
With restless fury drives the spirits on
Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy.
When they arrive before the ruinous sweep,
There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans,
And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven.
I understood that to this torment sad
The carnal sinners are condemn'd, in whom
Reason by lust is sway'd. As in large troops
And multitudinous, when winter reigns,
The starlings on their wings are borne abroad;
So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls.
On this side and on that, above, below,
It drives them: hope of rest to solace them
Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes,
Chanting their dol'rous notes, traverse the sky,
Stretch'd out in long array: so I beheld
Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on
By their dire doom. Then I: "Instructor! who
Are these, by the black air so scourg'd?"—"The first
'Mong those, of whom thou question'st," he replied,
"O'er many tongues was empress. She in vice
Of luxury was so shameless, that she made
Liking be lawful by promulg'd decree,
To clear the blame she had herself incurr'd.
This is Semiramis, of whom 'tis writ,
That she succeeded Ninus her espous'd;
And held the land, which now the Soldan rules.
The next in amorous fury slew herself,
And to Sicheus' ashes broke her faith:
Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen."
There mark'd I Helen, for whose sake so long
The time was fraught with evil; there the great
Achilles, who with love fought to the end.
Paris I saw, and Tristan; and beside
A thousand more he show'd me, and by name
Pointed them out, whom love bereav'd of life.
When I had heard my sage instructor name
Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpower'd
By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind
Was lost; and I began: "Bard! willingly
I would address those two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind." He thus:
"Note thou, when nearer they to us approach.
"Then by that love which carries them along,
Entreat; and they will come." Soon as the wind
Sway'd them toward us, I thus fram'd my speech:
"O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;
Thus issu'd from that troop, where Dido ranks,
They through the ill air speeding; with such force
My cry prevail'd by strong affection urg'd.
"O gracious creature and benign! who go'st
Visiting, through this element obscure,
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru'd;
If for a friend the King of all we own'd,
Our pray'r to him should for thy peace arise,
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.
()f whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind,
As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth,
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams.
"Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:
Love, that denial takes from none belov'd,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not.
"Love brought us to one death: Caina waits
The soul, who spilt our life." Such were their words;
At hearing which downward I bent my looks,
And held them there so long, that the bard cried:
"What art thou pond'ring?" I in answer thus:
"Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire
Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd!"
Then turning, I to them my speech address'd.
And thus began: "Francesca! your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what, and how love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes?" She replied:
"No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when mis'ry is at hand! That kens
Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do,
As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day
For our delight we read of Lancelot,
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, rapturously kiss'd
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more." While thus one spirit spake,
The other wail'd so sorely, that heartstruck
I through compassion fainting, seem'd not far
From death, and like a corpse fell to the ground.#19,188,239textDante's Inferno
Canto 6
MY sense reviving, that erewhile had droop'd
With pity for the kindred shades, whence grief
O'ercame me wholly, straight around I see
New torments, new tormented souls, which way
Soe'er I move, or turn, or bend my sight.
In the third circle I arrive, of show'rs
Ceaseless, accursed, heavy, and cold, unchang'd
For ever, both in kind and in degree.
Large hail, discolour'd water, sleety flaw
Through the dun midnight air stream'd down amain:
Stank all the land whereon that tempest fell.
Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange,
Through his wide threefold throat barks as a dog
Over the multitude immers'd beneath.
His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard,
His belly large, and claw'd the hands, with which
He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs
Piecemeal disparts. Howling there spread, as curs,
Under the rainy deluge, with one side
The other screening, oft they roll them round,
A wretched, godless crew. When that great worm
Descried us, savage Cerberus, he op'd
His jaws, and the fangs show'd us; not a limb
Of him but trembled. Then my guide, his palms
Expanding on the ground, thence filled with earth
Rais'd them, and cast it in his ravenous maw.
E'en as a dog, that yelling bays for food
His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall
His fury, bent alone with eager haste
To swallow it; so dropp'd the loathsome cheeks
Of demon Cerberus, who thund'ring stuns
The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain.
We, o'er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt
Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet
Upon their emptiness, that substance seem'd.
They all along the earth extended lay
Save one, that sudden rais'd himself to sit,
Soon as that way he saw us pass. "O thou!"
He cried, "who through the infernal shades art led,
Own, if again thou know'st me. Thou wast fram'd
Or ere my frame was broken." I replied:
"The anguish thou endur'st perchance so takes
Thy form from my remembrance, that it seems
As if I saw thee never. But inform
Me who thou art, that in a place so sad
Art set, and in such torment, that although
Other be greater, more disgustful none
Can be imagin'd." He in answer thus:
"Thy city heap'd with envy to the brim,
Ay that the measure overflows its bounds,
Held me in brighter days. Ye citizens
Were wont to name me Ciacco. For the sin
Of glutt'ny, damned vice, beneath this rain,
E'en as thou see'st, I with fatigue am worn;
Nor I sole spirit in this woe: all these
Have by like crime incurr'd like punishment."
No more he said, and I my speech resum'd:
"Ciacco! thy dire affliction grieves me much,
Even to tears. But tell me, if thou know'st,
What shall at length befall the citizens
Of the divided city; whether any just one
Inhabit there: and tell me of the cause,
Whence jarring discord hath assail'd it thus?"
He then: "After long striving they will come
To blood; and the wild party from the woods
Will chase the other with much injury forth.
Then it behoves, that this must fall, within
Three solar circles; and the other rise
By borrow'd force of one, who under shore
Now rests. It shall a long space hold aloof
Its forehead, keeping under heavy weight
The other oppress'd, indignant at the load,
And grieving sore. The just are two in number,
But they neglected. Av'rice, envy, pride,
Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all
On fire." Here ceas'd the lamentable sound;
And I continu'd thus: "Still would I learn
More from thee, farther parley still entreat.
Of Farinata and Tegghiaio say,
They who so well deserv'd, of Giacopo,
Arrigo, Mosca, and the rest, who bent
Their minds on working good. Oh! tell me where
They bide, and to their knowledge let me come.
For I am press'd with keen desire to hear,
If heaven's sweet cup or poisonous drug of hell
Be to their lip assign'd." He answer'd straight:
"These are yet blacker spirits. Various crimes
Have sunk them deeper in the dark abyss.
If thou so far descendest, thou mayst see them.
But to the pleasant world when thou return'st,
Of me make mention, I entreat thee, there.
No more I tell thee, answer thee no more."
This said, his fixed eyes he turn'd askance,
A little ey'd me, then bent down his head,
And 'midst his blind companions with it fell.
When thus my guide: "No more his bed he leaves,
Ere the last angel-trumpet blow. The Power
Adverse to these shall then in glory come,
Each one forthwith to his sad tomb repair,
Resume his fleshly vesture and his form,
And hear the eternal doom re-echoing rend
The vault." So pass'd we through that mixture foul
Of spirits and rain, with tardy steps; meanwhile
Touching, though slightly, on the life to come.
For thus I question'd: "Shall these tortures, Sir!
When the great sentence passes, be increas'd,
Or mitigated, or as now severe?"
He then: "Consult thy knowledge; that decides
That as each thing to more perfection grows,
It feels more sensibly both good and pain.
Though ne'er to true perfection may arrive
This race accurs'd, yet nearer then than now
They shall approach it." Compassing that path
Circuitous we journeyed, and discourse
Much more than I relate between us pass'd:
Till at the point, where the steps led below,
Arriv'd, there Plutus, the great foe, we found.#19,188,225textDante's Inferno
Canto 1
IN the midway of this our mortal life,
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray
Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell
It were no easy task, how savage wild
That forest, how robust and rough its growth,
Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet to discourse of what there good befell,
All else will I relate discover'd there.
How first I enter'd it I scarce can say,
Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh'd
My senses down, when the true path I left,
But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where clos'd
The valley, that had pierc'd my heart with dread,
I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad
Already vested with that planet's beam,
Who leads all wanderers safe through every way.
Then was a little respite to the fear,
That in my heart's recesses deep had lain,
All of that night, so pitifully pass'd:
And as a man, with difficult short breath,
Forespent with toiling, 'scap'd from sea to shore,
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands
At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd
Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits,
That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame
After short pause recomforted, again
I journey'd on over that lonely steep,
The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent
Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light,
And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd,
Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove
To check my onward going; that ofttimes
With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd.
The hour was morning's prime, and on his way
Aloft the sun ascended with those stars,
That with him rose, when Love divine first mov'd
Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope
All things conspir'd to fill me, the gay skin
Of that swift animal, the matin dawn
And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas'd,
And by new dread succeeded, when in view
A lion came, 'gainst me, as it appear'd,
With his head held aloft and hunger-mad,
That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf
Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd
Full of all wants, and many a land hath made
Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear
O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall'd,
That of the height all hope I lost. As one,
Who with his gain elated, sees the time
When all unwares is gone, he inwardly
Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I,
Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace,
Who coming o'er against me, by degrees
Impell'd me where the sun in silence rests.
While to the lower space with backward step
I fell, my ken discern'd the form one of one,
Whose voice seem'd faint through long disuse of speech.
When him in that great desert I espied,
"Have mercy on me!" cried I out aloud,
"Spirit! or living man! what e'er thou be!"
He answer'd: "Now not man, man once I was,
And born of Lombard parents, Mantuana both
By country, when the power of Julius yet
Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was past
Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time
Of fabled deities and false. A bard
Was I, and made Anchises' upright son
The subject of my song, who came from Troy,
When the flames prey'd on Ilium's haughty towers.
But thou, say wherefore to such perils past
Return'st thou? wherefore not this pleasant mount
Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?"
"And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring,
From which such copious floods of eloquence
Have issued?" I with front abash'd replied.
"Glory and light of all the tuneful train!
May it avail me that I long with zeal
Have sought thy volume, and with love immense
Have conn'd it o'er. My master thou and guide!
Thou he from whom alone I have deriv'd
That style, which for its beauty into fame
Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled.
O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!
"For every vein and pulse throughout my frame
She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw
That I was weeping, answer'd, "Thou must needs
Another way pursue, if thou wouldst 'scape
From out that savage wilderness. This beast,
At whom thou criest, her way will suffer none
To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death:
So bad and so accursed in her kind,
That never sated is her ravenous will,
Still after food more craving than before.
To many an animal in wedlock vile
She fastens, and shall yet to many more,
Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy
Her with sharp pain. He will not life support
By earth nor its base metals, but by love,
Wisdom, and virtue, and his land shall be
The land 'twixt either Feltro. In his might
Shall safety to Italia's plains arise,
For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure,
Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell.
He with incessant chase through every town
Shall worry, until he to hell at length
Restore her, thence by envy first let loose.
I for thy profit pond'ring now devise,
That thou mayst follow me, and I thy guide
Will lead thee hence through an eternal space,
Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see
Spirits of old tormented, who invoke
A second death; and those next view, who dwell
Content in fire, for that they hope to come,
Whene'er the time may be, among the blest,
Into whose regions if thou then desire
T' ascend, a spirit worthier then I
Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart,
Thou shalt be left: for that Almighty King,
Who reigns above, a rebel to his law,
Adjudges me, and therefore hath decreed,
That to his city none through me should come.
He in all parts hath sway; there rules, there holds
His citadel and throne. O happy those,
Whom there he chooses!" I to him in few:
"Bard! by that God, whom thou didst not adore,
I do beseech thee (that this ill and worse
I may escape) to lead me, where thou saidst,
That I Saint Peter's gate may view, and those
Who as thou tell'st, are in such dismal plight."
Onward he mov'd, I close his steps pursu'd.#19,113,986textDante's Inferno
Canto 2
NOW was the day departing, and the air,
Imbrown'd with shadows, from their toils releas'd
All animals on earth; and I alone
Prepar'd myself the conflict to sustain,
Both of sad pity, and that perilous road,
Which my unerring memory shall retrace.
O Muses! O high genius! now vouchsafe
Your aid! O mind! that all I saw hast kept
Safe in a written record, here thy worth
And eminent endowments come to proof.
I thus began: "Bard! thou who art my guide,
Consider well, if virtue be in me
Sufficient, ere to this high enterprise
Thou trust me. Thou hast told that Silvius' sire,
Yet cloth'd in corruptible flesh, among
Th' immortal tribes had entrance, and was there
Sensible present. Yet if heaven's great Lord,
Almighty foe to ill, such favour shew'd,
In contemplation of the high effect,
Both what and who from him should issue forth,
It seems in reason's judgment well deserv'd:
Sith he of Rome, and of Rome's empire wide,
In heaven's empyreal height was chosen sire:
Both which, if truth be spoken, were ordain'd
And 'stablish'd for the holy place, where sits
Who to great Peter's sacred chair succeeds.
He from this journey, in thy song renown'd,
Learn'd things, that to his victory gave rise
And to the papal robe. In after-times
The chosen vessel also travel'd there,
To bring us back assurance in that faith,
Which is the entrance to salvation's way.
But I, why should I there presume? or who
Permits it? not, Aeneas I nor Paul.
Myself I deem not worthy, and none else
Will deem me. I, if on this voyage then
I venture, fear it will in folly end.
Thou, who art wise, better my meaning know'st,
Than I can speak." As one, who unresolves
What he hath late resolv'd, and with new thoughts
Changes his purpose, from his first intent
Remov'd; e'en such was I on that dun coast,
Wasting in thought my enterprise, at first
So eagerly embrac'd. "If right thy words
I scan," replied that shade magnanimous,
"Thy soul is by vile fear assail'd, which oft
So overcasts a man, that he recoils
From noblest resolution, like a beast
At some false semblance in the twilight gloom.
That from this terror thou mayst free thyself,
I will instruct thee why I came, and what
I heard in that same instant, when for thee
Grief touch'd me first. I was among the tribe,
Who rest suspended, when a dame, so blest
And lovely, I besought her to command,
Call'd me; her eyes were brighter than the star
Of day; and she with gentle voice and soft
Angelically tun'd her speech address'd:
"O courteous shade of Mantua! thou whose fame
Yet lives, and shall live long as nature lasts!
A friend, not of my fortune but myself,
On the wide desert in his road has met
Hindrance so great, that he through fear has turn'd.
Now much I dread lest he past help have stray'd,
And I be ris'n too late for his relief,
From what in heaven of him I heard. Speed now,
And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue,
And by all means for his deliverance meet,
Assist him. So to me will comfort spring.
I who now bid thee on this errand forth
Am Beatrice; from a place I come.
(Note: Beatrice. I use this word, as it is
pronounced in the Italian, as consisting of four
syllables, of which the third is a long one.)
Revisited with joy. Love brought me thence,
Who prompts my speech. When in my Master's sight
I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell."
She then was silent, and I thus began:
"O Lady! by whose influence alone,
Mankind excels whatever is contain'd
Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb,
So thy command delights me, that to obey,
If it were done already, would seem late.
No need hast thou farther to speak thy will;
Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loth
To leave that ample space, where to return
Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath."
She then: "Since thou so deeply wouldst inquire,
I will instruct thee briefly, why no dread
Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone
Are to be fear'd, whence evil may proceed,
None else, for none are terrible beside.
I am so fram'd by God, thanks to his grace!
That any suff'rance of your misery
Touches me not, nor flame of that fierce fire
Assails me. In high heaven a blessed dame
Besides, who mourns with such effectual grief
That hindrance, which I send thee to remove,
That God's stern judgment to her will inclines."
To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake:
"Now doth thy faithful servant need thy aid
And I commend him to thee." At her word
Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe,
And coming to the place, where I abode
Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days,
She thus address'd me: "Thou true praise of God!
Beatrice! why is not thy succour lent
To him, who so much lov'd thee, as to leave
For thy sake all the multitude admires?
Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail,
Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood,
Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds?"
Ne'er among men did any with such speed
Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy,
As when these words were spoken, I came here,
Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force
Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all
Who well have mark'd it, into honour brings."
"When she had ended, her bright beaming eyes
Tearful she turn'd aside; whereat I felt
Redoubled zeal to serve thee. As she will'd,
Thus am I come: I sav'd thee from the beast,
Who thy near way across the goodly mount
Prevented. What is this comes o'er thee then?
Why, why dost thou hang back? why in thy breast
Harbour vile fear? why hast not courage there
And noble daring? Since three maids so blest
Thy safety plan, e'en in the court of heaven;
And so much certain good my words forebode."
As florets, by the frosty air of night
Bent down and clos'd, when day has blanch'd their leaves,
Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems;
So was my fainting vigour new restor'd,
And to my heart such kindly courage ran,
That I as one undaunted soon replied:
"O full of pity she, who undertook
My succour! and thou kind who didst perform
So soon her true behest! With such desire
Thou hast dispos'd me to renew my voyage,
That my first purpose fully is resum'd.
Lead on: one only will is in us both.
Thou art my guide, my master thou, and lord."
So spake I; and when he had onward mov'd,
I enter'd on the deep and woody way.#19,113,982textDante's Inferno
Canto 3
"THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
"All hope abandon ye who enter here."
Such characters in colour dim I mark'd
Over a portal's lofty arch inscrib'd:
Whereat I thus: "Master, these words import
Hard meaning." He as one prepar'd replied:
"Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;
Here be vile fear extinguish'd. We are come
Where I have told thee we shall see the souls
To misery doom'd, who intellectual good
Have lost." And when his hand he had stretch'd forth
To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheer'd,
Into that secret place he led me on.
Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans
Resounded through the air pierc'd by no star,
That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,
Horrible languages, outcries of woe,
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,
With hands together smote that swell'd the sounds,
Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls
Round through that air with solid darkness stain'd,
Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies.
I then, with error yet encompass'd, cried:
"O master! What is this I hear? What race
Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?"
He thus to me: "This miserable fate
Suffer the wretched souls of those, who liv'd
Without or praise or blame, with that ill band
Of angels mix'd, who nor rebellious prov'd
Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves
Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth,
Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth
Of Hell receives them, lest th' accursed tribe
Should glory thence with exultation vain."
I then: "Master! what doth aggrieve them thus,
That they lament so loud?" He straight replied:
"That will I tell thee briefly. These of death
No hope may entertain: and their blind life
So meanly passes, that all other lots
They envy. Fame of them the world hath none,
Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both.
Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by."
And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag,
Which whirling ran around so rapidly,
That it no pause obtain'd: and following came
Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er
Have thought, that death so many had despoil'd.
When some of these I recogniz'd, I saw
And knew the shade of him, who to base fear
Yielding, abjur'd his high estate. Forthwith
I understood for certain this the tribe
Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing
And to his foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived,
Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung
By wasps and hornets, which bedew'd their cheeks
With blood, that mix'd with tears dropp'd to their feet,
And by disgustful worms was gather'd there.
Then looking farther onwards I beheld
A throng upon the shore of a great stream:
Whereat I thus: "Sir! grant me now to know
Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they seem
So eager to pass o'er, as I discern
Through the blear light?" He thus to me in few:
"This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive
Beside the woeful tide of Acheron."
Then with eyes downward cast and fill'd with shame,
Fearing my words offensive to his ear,
Till we had reach'd the river, I from speech
Abstain'd. And lo! toward us in a bark
Comes on an old man hoary white with eld,
Crying, "Woe to you wicked spirits! hope not
Ever to see the sky again. I come
To take you to the other shore across,
Into eternal darkness, there to dwell
In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there
Standest, live spirit! get thee hence, and leave
These who are dead." But soon as he beheld
I left them not, "By other way," said he,
"By other haven shalt thou come to shore,
Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat
Must carry." Then to him thus spake my guide:
"Charon! thyself torment not: so 't is will'd,
Where will and power are one: ask thou no more."
Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks
Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake,
Around whose eyes glar'd wheeling flames. Meanwhile
Those spirits, faint and naked, color chang'd,
And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words
They heard. God and their parents they blasphem'd,
The human kind, the place, the time, and seed
That did engender them and give them birth.
Then all together sorely wailing drew
To the curs'd strand, that every man must pass
Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form,
With eyes of burning coal, collects them all,
Beck'ning, and each, that lingers, with his oar
Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves,
One still another following, till the bough
Strews all its honours on the earth beneath;
E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood
Cast themselves one by one down from the shore,
Each at a beck, as falcon at his call.
Thus go they over through the umber'd wave,
And ever they on the opposing bank
Be landed, on this side another throng
Still gathers. "Son," thus spake the courteous guide,
"Those, who die subject to the wrath of God,
All here together come from every clime,
And to o'erpass the river are not loth:
For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear
Is turn'd into desire. Hence ne'er hath past
Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain,
Now mayst thou know the import of his words."
This said, the gloomy region trembling shook
So terribly, that yet with clammy dews
Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast,
That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame,
Which all my senses conquer'd quite, and I
Down dropp'd, as one with sudden slumber seiz'd.#19,113,979textThe Analects
By Confucius
Part 1
The Master "Is it not pleasant to learn with a constant perseverance
and application?
"Is it not delightful to have friends coming from distant quarters?
"Is he not a man of complete virtue, who feels no discomposure though
men may take no note of him?"
The philosopher Yu said, "They are few who, being filial and fraternal,
are fond of offending against their superiors. There have been none,
who, not liking to offend against their superiors, have been fond
of stirring up confusion.
"The superior man bends his attention to what is radical. That being
established, all practical courses naturally grow up. Filial piety
and fraternal submission,-are they not the root of all benevolent
actions?"
The Master said, "Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom
associated with true virtue."
The philosopher Tsang said, "I daily examine myself on three points:-whether,
in transacting business for others, I may have been not faithful;-whether,
in intercourse with friends, I may have been not sincere;-whether
I may have not mastered and practiced the instructions of my teacher."
The Master said, "To rule a country of a thousand chariots, there
must be reverent attention to business, and sincerity; economy in
expenditure, and love for men; and the employment of the people at
the proper seasons."
The Master said, "A youth, when at home, should be filial, and, abroad,
respectful to his elders. He should be earnest and truthful. He should
overflow in love to all, and cultivate the friendship of the good.
When he has time and opportunity, after the performance of these things,
he should employ them in polite studies."
Tsze-hsia said, "If a man withdraws his mind from the love of beauty,
and applies it as sincerely to the love of the virtuous; if, in serving
his parents, he can exert his utmost strength; if, in serving his
prince, he can devote his life; if, in his intercourse with his friends,
his words are sincere:-although men say that he has not learned, I
will certainly say that he has.
The Master said, "If the scholar be not grave, he will not call forth
any veneration, and his learning will not be solid.
"Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles.
"Have no friends not equal to yourself.
"When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them."
The philosopher Tsang said, "Let there be a careful attention to perform
the funeral rites to parents, and let them be followed when long gone
with the ceremonies of sacrifice;-then the virtue of the people will
resume its proper excellence."
Tsze-ch'in asked Tsze-kung saying, "When our master comes to any country,
he does not fail to learn all about its government. Does he ask his
information? or is it given to him?"
Tsze-kung said, "Our master is benign, upright, courteous, temperate,
and complaisant and thus he gets his information. The master's mode
of asking information,-is it not different from that of other men?"
The Master said, "While a man's father is alive, look at the bent
of his will; when his father is dead, look at his conduct. If for
three years he does not alter from the way of his father, he may be
called filial."
The philosopher Yu said, "In practicing the rules of propriety, a
natural ease is to be prized. In the ways prescribed by the ancient
kings, this is the excellent quality, and in things small and great
we follow them.
"Yet it is not to be observed in all cases. If one, knowing how such
ease should be prized, manifests it, without regulating it by the
rules of propriety, this likewise is not to be done."
The philosopher Yu said, "When agreements are made according to what
is right, what is spoken can be made good. When respect is shown according
to what is proper, one keeps far from shame and disgrace. When the
parties upon whom a man leans are proper persons to be intimate with,
he can make them his guides and masters."
The Master said, "He who aims to be a man of complete virtue in his
food does not seek to gratify his appetite, nor in his dwelling place
does he seek the appliances of ease; he is earnest in what he is doing,
and careful in his speech; he frequents the company of men of principle
that he may be rectified:-such a person may be said indeed to love
to learn."
Tsze-kung said, "What do you pronounce concerning the poor man who
yet does not flatter, and the rich man who is not proud?" The Master
replied, "They will do; but they are not equal to him, who, though
poor, is yet cheerful, and to him, who, though rich, loves the rules
of propriety."
Tsze-kung replied, "It is said in the Book of Poetry, 'As you cut
and then file, as you carve and then polish.'-The meaning is the same,
I apprehend, as that which you have just expressed."
The Master said, "With one like Ts'ze, I can begin to talk about the
odes. I told him one point, and he knew its proper sequence."
The Master said, "I will not be afflicted at men's not knowing me;
I will be afflicted that I do not know men."
Part 2
The Master said, "He who exercises government by means of his virtue
may be compared to the north polar star, which keeps its place and
all the stars turn towards it."
The Master said, "In the Book of Poetry are three hundred pieces,
but the design of them all may be embraced in one sentence 'Having
no depraved thoughts.'"
The Master said, "If the people be led by laws, and uniformity sought
to be given them by punishments, they will try to avoid the punishment,
but have no sense of shame.
"If they be led by virtue, and uniformity sought to be given them
by the rules of propriety, they will have the sense of shame, and
moreover will become good."
The Master said, "At fifteen, I had my mind bent on learning.
"At thirty, I stood firm.
"At forty, I had no doubts.
"At fifty, I knew the decrees of Heaven.
"At sixty, my ear was an obedient organ for the reception of truth.
"At seventy, I could follow what my heart desired, without transgressing
what was right."
Mang I asked what filial piety was. The Master said, "It is not being
disobedient."
Soon after, as Fan Ch'ih was driving him, the Master told him, saying,
"Mang-sun asked me what filial piety was, and I answered him,-'not
being disobedient.'"
Fan Ch'ih said, "What did you mean?" The Master replied, "That parents,
when alive, be served according to propriety; that, when dead, they
should be buried according to propriety; and that they should be sacrificed
to according to propriety."
Mang Wu asked what filial piety was. The Master said, "Parents are
anxious lest their children should be sick."
Tsze-yu asked what filial piety was. The Master said, "The filial
piety nowadays means the support of one's parents. But dogs and horses
likewise are able to do something in the way of support;-without reverence,
what is there to distinguish the one support given from the other?"
Tsze-hsia asked what filial piety was. The Master said, "The difficulty
is with the countenance. If, when their elders have any troublesome
affairs, the young take the toil of them, and if, when the young have
wine and food, they set them before their elders, is THIS to be considered
filial piety?"
The Master said, "I have talked with Hui for a whole day, and he has
not made any objection to anything I said;-as if he were stupid. He
has retired, and I have examined his conduct when away from me, and
found him able to illustrate my teachings. Hui!-He is not stupid."
The Master said, "See what a man does.
"Mark his motives.
"Examine in what things he rests.
"How can a man conceal his character? How can a man conceal his character?"
The Master said, "If a man keeps cherishing his old knowledge, so
as continually to be acquiring new, he may be a teacher of others."
The Master said, "The accomplished scholar is not a utensil."
Tsze-kung asked what constituted the superior man. The Master said,
"He acts before he speaks, and afterwards speaks according to his
actions."
The Master said, "The superior man is catholic and not partisan. The
mean man is partisan and not catholic."
The Master said, "Learning without thought is labor lost; thought
without learning is perilous."
The Master said, "The study of strange doctrines is injurious indeed!"
The Master said, "Yu, shall I teach you what knowledge is? When you
know a thing, to hold that you know it; and when you do not know a
thing, to allow that you do not know it;-this is knowledge."
Tsze-chang was learning with a view to official emolument.
The Master said, "Hear much and put aside the points of which you
stand in doubt, while you speak cautiously at the same time of the
others:-then you will afford few occasions for blame. See much and
put aside the things which seem perilous, while you are cautious at
the same time in carrying the others into practice: then you will
have few occasions for repentance. When one gives few occasions for
blame in his words, and few occasions for repentance in his conduct,
he is in the way to get emolument."
The Duke Ai asked, saying, "What should be done in order to secure
the submission of the people?" Confucius replied, "Advance the upright
and set aside the crooked, then the people will submit. Advance the
crooked and set aside the upright, then the people will not submit."
Chi K'ang asked how to cause the people to reverence their ruler,
to be faithful to him, and to go on to nerve themselves to virtue.
The Master said, "Let him preside over them with gravity;-then they
will reverence him. Let him be final and kind to all;-then they will
be faithful to him. Let him advance the good and teach the incompetent;-then
they will eagerly seek to be virtuous."
Some one addressed Confucius, saying, "Sir, why are you not engaged
in the government?"
The Master said, "What does the Shu-ching say of filial piety?-'You
are final, you discharge your brotherly duties. These qualities are
displayed in government.' This then also constitutes the exercise
of government. Why must there be THAT-making one be in the government?"
The Master said, "I do not know how a man without truthfulness is
to get on. How can a large carriage be made to go without the crossbar
for yoking the oxen to, or a small carriage without the arrangement
for yoking the horses?"
Tsze-chang asked whether the affairs of ten ages after could be known.
Confucius said, "The Yin dynasty followed the regulations of the Hsia:
wherein it took from or added to them may be known. The Chau dynasty
has followed the regulations of Yin: wherein it took from or added
to them may be known. Some other may follow the Chau, but though it
should be at the distance of a hundred ages, its affairs may be known."
The Master said, "For a man to sacrifice to a spirit which does not
belong to him is flattery.
"To see what is right and not to do it is want of courage."
Part 3
Confucius said of the head of the Chi family, who had eight rows of
pantomimes in his area, "If he can bear to do this, what may he not
bear to do?"
The three families used the Yungode, while the vessels were being
removed, at the conclusion of the sacrifice. The Master said, "'Assisting
are the princes;-the son of heaven looks profound and grave';-what
application can these words have in the hall of the three families?"
The Master said, "If a man be without the virtues proper to humanity,
what has he to do with the rites of propriety? If a man be without
the virtues proper to humanity, what has he to do with music?"
Lin Fang asked what was the first thing to be attended to in ceremonies.
The Master said, "A great question indeed!
"In festive ceremonies, it is better to be sparing than extravagant.
In the ceremonies of mourning, it is better that there be deep sorrow
than in minute attention to observances."
The Master said, "The rude tribes of the east and north have their
princes, and are not like the States of our great land which are without
them."
The chief of the Chi family was about to sacrifice to the T'ai mountain.
The Master said to Zan Yu, "Can you not save him from this?" He answered,
"I cannot." Confucius said, "Alas! will you say that the T'ai mountain
is not so discerning as Lin Fang?"
The Master said, "The student of virtue has no contentions. If it
be said he cannot avoid them, shall this be in archery? But he bows
complaisantly to his competitors; thus he ascends the hall, descends,
and exacts the forfeit of drinking. In his contention, he is still
the Chun-tsze."
Tsze-hsia asked, saying, "What is the meaning of the passage-'The
pretty dimples of her artful smile! The well-defined black and white
of her eye! The plain ground for the colors?'"
The Master said, "The business of laying on the colors follows the
preparation of the plain ground."
"Ceremonies then are a subsequent thing?" The Master said, "It is
Shang who can bring out my meaning. Now I can begin to talk about
the odes with him."
The Master said, "I could describe the ceremonies of the Hsia dynasty,
but Chi cannot sufficiently attest my words. I could describe the
ceremonies of the Yin dynasty, but Sung cannot sufficiently attest
my words. They cannot do so because of the insufficiency of their
records and wise men. If those were sufficient, I could adduce them
in support of my words."
The Master said, "At the great sacrifice, after the pouring out of
the libation, I have no wish to look on."
Some one asked the meaning of the great sacrifice. The Master said,
"I do not know. He who knew its meaning would find it as easy to govern
the kingdom as to look on this"-pointing to his palm.
He sacrificed to the dead, as if they were present. He sacrificed
to the spirits, as if the spirits were present.
The Master said, "I consider my not being present at the sacrifice,
as if I did not sacrifice."
Wang-sun Chia asked, saying, "What is the meaning of the saying, 'It
is better to pay court to the furnace then to the southwest corner?'"
The Master said, "Not so. He who offends against Heaven has none to
whom he can pray."
The Master said, "Chau had the advantage of viewing the two past dynasties.
How complete and elegant are its regulations! I follow Chau."
The Master, when he entered the grand temple, asked about everything.
Some one said, "Who say that the son of the man of Tsau knows the
rules of propriety! He has entered the grand temple and asks about
everything." The Master heard the remark, and said, "This is a rule
of propriety."
The Master said, "In archery it is not going through the leather which
is the principal thing;-because people's strength is not equal. This
was the old way."
Tsze-kung wished to do away with the offering of a sheep connected
with the inauguration of the first day of each month.
The Master said, "Ts'ze, you love the sheep; I love the ceremony."
The Master said, "The full observance of the rules of propriety in
serving one's prince is accounted by people to be flattery."
The Duke Ting asked how a prince should employ his ministers, and
how ministers should serve their prince. Confucius replied, "A prince
should employ his minister according to according to the rules of
propriety; ministers should serve their prince with faithfulness."
The Master said, "The Kwan Tsu is expressive of enjoyment without
being licentious, and of grief without being hurtfully excessive."
The Duke Ai asked Tsai Wo about the altars of the spirits of the land.
Tsai Wo replied, "The Hsia sovereign planted the pine tree about them;
the men of the Yin planted the cypress; and the men of the Chau planted
the chestnut tree, meaning thereby to cause the people to be in awe."
When the Master heard it, he said, "Things that are done, it is needless
to speak about; things that have had their course, it is needless
to remonstrate about; things that are past, it is needless to blame."
The Master said, "Small indeed was the capacity of Kwan Chung!"
Some one said, "Was Kwan Chung parsimonious?" "Kwan," was the reply,
"had the San Kwei, and his officers performed no double duties; how
can he be considered parsimonious?"
"Then, did Kwan Chung know the rules of propriety?" The Master said,
"The princes of States have a screen intercepting the view at their
gates. Kwan had likewise a screen at his gate. The princes of States
on any friendly meeting between two of them, had a stand on which
to place their inverted cups. Kwan had also such a stand. If Kwan
knew the rules of propriety, who does not know them?"
The Master instructing the grand music master of Lu said, "How to
play music may be known. At the commencement of the piece, all the
parts should sound together. As it proceeds, they should be in harmony
while severally distinct and flowing without break, and thus on to
the conclusion."
The border warden at Yi requested to be introduced to the Master,
saying, "When men of superior virtue have come to this, I have never
been denied the privilege of seeing them." The followers of the sage
introduced him, and when he came out from the interview, he said,
"My friends, why are you distressed by your master's loss of office?
The kingdom has long been without the principles of truth and right;
Heaven is going to use your master as a bell with its wooden tongue."
The Master said of the Shao that it was perfectly beautiful and also
perfectly good. He said of the Wu that it was perfectly beautiful
but not perfectly good.
The Master said, "High station filled without indulgent generosity;
ceremonies performed without reverence; mourning conducted without
sorrow;-wherewith should I contemplate such ways?"
Part 4
The Master said, "It is virtuous manners which constitute the excellence
of a neighborhood. If a man in selecting a residence do not fix on
one where such prevail, how can he be wise?"
The Master said, "Those who are without virtue cannot abide long either
in a condition of poverty and hardship, or in a condition of enjoyment.
The virtuous rest in virtue; the wise desire virtue."
The Master said, "It is only the truly virtuous man, who can love,
or who can hate, others."
The Master said, "If the will be set on virtue, there will be no practice
of wickedness."
The Master said, "Riches and honors are what men desire. If they cannot
be obtained in the proper way, they should not be held. Poverty and
meanness are what men dislike. If they cannot be avoided in the proper
way, they should not be avoided.
"If a superior man abandon virtue, how can he fulfill the requirements
of that name?
"The superior man does not, even for the space of a single meal, act
contrary to virtue. In moments of haste, he cleaves to it. In seasons
of danger, he cleaves to it."
The Master said, "I have not seen a person who loved virtue, or one
who hated what was not virtuous. He who loved virtue, would esteem
nothing above it. He who hated what is not virtuous, would practice
virtue in such a way that he would not allow anything that is not
virtuous to approach his person.
"Is any one able for one day to apply his strength to virtue? I have
not seen the case in which his strength would be insufficient.
"Should there possibly be any such case, I have not seen it."
The Master said, "The faults of men are characteristic of the class
to which they belong. By observing a man's faults, it may be known
that he is virtuous."
The Master said, "If a man in the morning hear the right way, he may
die in the evening hear regret."
The Master said, "A scholar, whose mind is set on truth, and who is
ashamed of bad clothes and bad food, is not fit to be discoursed with."
The Master said, "The superior man, in the world, does not set his
mind either for anything, or against anything; what is right he will
follow."
The Master said, "The superior man thinks of virtue; the small man
thinks of comfort. The superior man thinks of the sanctions of law;
the small man thinks of favors which he may receive."
The Master said: "He who acts with a constant view to his own advantage
will be much murmured against."
The Master said, "If a prince is able to govern his kingdom with the
complaisance proper to the rules of propriety, what difficulty will
he have? If he cannot govern it with that complaisance, what has he
to do with the rules of propriety?"
The Master said, "A man should say, I am not concerned that I have
no place, I am concerned how I may fit myself for one. I am not concerned
that I am not known, I seek to be worthy to be known."
The Master said, "Shan, my doctrine is that of an all-pervading unity."
The disciple Tsang replied, "Yes."
The Master went out, and the other disciples asked, saying, "What
do his words mean?" Tsang said, "The doctrine of our master is to
be true to the principles-of our nature and the benevolent exercise
of them to others,-this and nothing more."
The Master said, "The mind of the superior man is conversant with
righteousness; the mind of the mean man is conversant with gain."
The Master said, "When we see men of worth, we should think of equaling
them; when we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inwards
and examine ourselves."
The Master said, "In serving his parents, a son may remonstrate with
them, but gently; when he sees that they do not incline to follow
his advice, he shows an increased degree of reverence, but does not
abandon his purpose; and should they punish him, he does not allow
himself to murmur."
The Master said, "While his parents are alive, the son may not go
abroad to a distance. If he does go abroad, he must have a fixed place
to which he goes."
The Master said, "If the son for three years does not alter from the
way of his father, he may be called filial."
The Master said, "The years of parents may by no means not be kept
in the memory, as an occasion at once for joy and for fear."
The Master said, "The reason why the ancients did not readily give
utterance to their words, was that they feared lest their actions
should not come up to them."
The Master said, "The cautious seldom err."
The Master said, "The superior man wishes to be slow in his speech
and earnest in his conduct."
The Master said, "Virtue is not left to stand alone. He who practices
it will have neighbors."
Tsze-yu said, "In serving a prince, frequent remonstrances lead to
disgrace. Between friends, frequent reproofs make the friendship distant."
Part 5
The Master said of Kung-ye Ch'ang that he might be wived; although
he was put in bonds, he had not been guilty of any crime. Accordingly,
he gave him his own daughter to wife.
Of Nan Yung he said that if the country were well governed he would
not be out of office, and if it were in governed, he would escape
punishment and disgrace. He gave him the daughter of his own elder
brother to wife.
The Master said of Tsze-chien, "Of superior virtue indeed is such
a man! If there were not virtuous men in Lu, how could this man have
acquired this character?"
Tsze-kung asked, "What do you say of me, Ts'ze!" The Master said,
"You are a utensil." "What utensil?" "A gemmed sacrificial utensil."
Some one said, "Yung is truly virtuous, but he is not ready with his
tongue."
The Master said, "What is the good of being ready with the tongue?
They who encounter men with smartness of speech for the most part
procure themselves hatred. I know not whether he be truly virtuous,
but why should he show readiness of the tongue?"
The Master was wishing Ch'i-tiao K'ai to enter an official employment.
He replied, "I am not yet able to rest in the assurance of this."
The Master was pleased.
The Master said, "My doctrines make no way. I will get upon a raft,
and float about on the sea. He that will accompany me will be Yu,
I dare say." Tsze-lu hearing this was glad, upon which the Master
said, "Yu is fonder of daring than I am. He does not exercise his
judgment upon matters."
Mang Wu asked about Tsze-lu, whether he was perfectly virtuous. The
Master said, "I do not know."
He asked again, when the Master replied, "In a kingdom of a thousand
chariots, Yu might be employed to manage the military levies, but
I do not know whether he be perfectly virtuous."
"And what do you say of Ch'iu?" The Master replied, "In a city of
a thousand families, or a clan of a hundred chariots, Ch'iu might
be employed as governor, but I do not know whether he is perfectly
virtuous."
"What do you say of Ch'ih?" The Master replied, "With his sash girt
and standing in a court, Ch'ih might be employed to converse with
the visitors and guests, but I do not know whether he is perfectly
virtuous."
The Master said to Tsze-kung, "Which do you consider superior, yourself
or Hui?"
Tsze-kung replied, "How dare I compare myself with Hui? Hui hears
one point and knows all about a subject; I hear one point, and know
a second."
The Master said, "You are not equal to him. I grant you, you are not
equal to him."
Tsai Yu being asleep during the daytime, the Master said, "Rotten
wood cannot be carved; a wall of dirty earth will not receive the
trowel. This Yu,-what is the use of my reproving him?"
The Master said, "At first, my way with men was to hear their words,
and give them credit for their conduct. Now my way is to hear their
words, and look at their conduct. It is from Yu that I have learned
to make this change."
The Master said, "I have not seen a firm and unbending man." Some
one replied, "There is Shan Ch'ang." "Ch'ang," said the Master, "is
under the influence of his passions; how can he be pronounced firm
and unbending?"
Tsze-kung said, "What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not
to do to men." The Master said, "Ts'ze, you have not attained to that."
Tsze-kung said, "The Master's personal displays of his principles
and ordinary descriptions of them may be heard. His discourses about
man's nature, and the way of Heaven, cannot be heard."
When Tsze-lu heard anything, if he had not yet succeeded in carrying
it into practice, he was only afraid lest he should hear something
else.
Tsze-kung asked, saying, "On what ground did Kung-wan get that title
of Wan?"
The Master said, "He was of an active nature and yet fond of learning,
and he was not ashamed to ask and learn of his inferiors!-On these
grounds he has been styled Wan."
The Master said of Tsze-ch'an that he had four of the characteristics
of a superior man-in his conduct of himself, he was humble; in serving
his superior, he was respectful; in nourishing the people, he was
kind; in ordering the people, he was just."
The Master said, "Yen P'ing knew well how to maintain friendly intercourse.
The acquaintance might be long, but he showed the same respect as
at first."
The Master said, "Tsang Wan kept a large tortoise in a house, on the
capitals of the pillars of which he had hills made, and with representations
of duckweed on the small pillars above the beams supporting the rafters.-Of
what sort was his wisdom?"
Tsze-chang asked, saying, "The minister Tsze-wan thrice took office,
and manifested no joy in his countenance. Thrice he retired from office,
and manifested no displeasure. He made it a point to inform the new
minister of the way in which he had conducted the government; what
do you say of him?" The Master replied. "He was loyal." "Was he perfectly
virtuous?" "I do not know. How can he be pronounced perfectly virtuous?"
Tsze-chang proceeded, "When the officer Ch'ui killed the prince of
Ch'i, Ch'an Wan, though he was the owner of forty horses, abandoned
them and left the country. Coming to another state, he said, 'They
are here like our great officer, Ch'ui,' and left it. He came to a
second state, and with the same observation left it also;-what do
you say of him?" The Master replied, "He was pure." "Was he perfectly
virtuous?" "I do not know. How can he be pronounced perfectly virtuous?"
Chi Wan thought thrice, and then acted. When the Master was informed
of it, he said, "Twice may do."
The Master said, "When good order prevailed in his country, Ning Wu
acted the part of a wise man. When his country was in disorder, he
acted the part of a stupid man. Others may equal his wisdom, but they
cannot equal his stupidity."
When the Master was in Ch'an, he said, "Let me return! Let me return!
The little children of my school are ambitious and too hasty. They
are accomplished and complete so far, but they do not know how to
restrict and shape themselves."
The Master said, "Po-i and Shu-ch'i did not keep the former wickednesses
of men in mind, and hence the resentments directed towards them were
few."
The Master said, "Who says of Weishang Kao that he is upright? One
begged some vinegar of him, and he begged it of a neighbor and gave
it to the man."
The Master said, "Fine words, an insinuating appearance, and excessive
respect;-Tso Ch'iu-ming was ashamed of them. I also am ashamed of
them. To conceal resentment against a person, and appear friendly
with him;-Tso Ch'iu-ming was ashamed of such conduct. I also am ashamed
of it."
Yen Yuan and Chi Lu being by his side, the Master said to them, "Come,
let each of you tell his wishes."
Tsze-lu said, "I should like, having chariots and horses, and light
fur clothes, to share them with my friends, and though they should
spoil them, I would not be displeased."
Yen Yuan said, "I should like not to boast of my excellence, nor to
make a display of my meritorious deeds."
Tsze-lu then said, "I should like, sir, to hear your wishes." The
Master said, "They are, in regard to the aged, to give them rest;
in regard to friends, to show them sincerity; in regard to the young,
to treat them tenderly."
The Master said, "It is all over. I have not yet seen one who could
perceive his faults, and inwardly accuse himself."
The Master said, "In a hamlet of ten families, there may be found
one honorable and sincere as I am, but not so fond of learning."
Part 6
The Master said, "There is Yung!-He might occupy the place of a prince."
Chung-kung asked about Tsze-sang Po-tsze. The Master said, "He may
pass. He does not mind small matters."
Chung-kung said, "If a man cherish in himself a reverential feeling
of the necessity of attention to business, though he may be easy in
small matters in his government of the people, that may be allowed.
But if he cherish in himself that easy feeling, and also carry it
out in his practice, is not such an easymode of procedure excessive?"
The Master said, "Yung's words are right."
The Duke Ai asked which of the disciples loved to learn.
Confucius replied to him, "There was Yen Hui; he loved to learn. He
did not transfer his anger; he did not repeat a fault. Unfortunately,
his appointed time was short and he died; and now there is not such
another. I have not yet heard of any one who loves to learn as he
did."
Tsze-hwa being employed on a mission to Ch'i, the disciple Zan requested
grain for his mother. The Master said, "Give her a fu." Yen requested
more. "Give her a yi," said the Master. Yen gave her five ping.
The Master said, "When Ch'ih was proceeding to Ch'i, he had fat horses
to his carriage, and wore light furs. I have heard that a superior
man helps the distressed, but does not add to the wealth of the rich."
Yuan Sze being made governor of his town by the Master, he gave him
nine hundred measures of grain, but Sze declined them.
The Master said, "Do not decline them. May you not give them away
in the neighborhoods, hamlets, towns, and villages?"
The Master, speaking of Chung-kung, said, "If the calf of a brindled
cow be red and homed, although men may not wish to use it, would the
spirits of the mountains and rivers put it aside?"
The Master said, "Such was Hui that for three months there would be
nothing in his mind contrary to perfect virtue. The others may attain
to this on some days or in some months, but nothing more."
Chi K'ang asked about Chung-yu, whether he was fit to be employed
as an officer of government. The Master said, "Yu is a man of decision;
what difficulty would he find in being an officer of government?"
K'ang asked, "Is Ts'ze fit to be employed as an officer of government?"
and was answered, "Ts'ze is a man of intelligence; what difficulty
would he find in being an officer of government?" And to the same
question about Ch'iu the Master gave the same reply, saying, "Ch'iu
is a man of various ability."
The chief of the Chi family sent to ask Min Tsze-ch'ien to be governor
of Pi. Min Tszech'ien said, "Decline the offer for me politely. If
any one come again to me with a second invitation, I shall be obliged
to go and live on the banks of the Wan."
Po-niu being ill, the Master went to ask for him. He took hold of
his hand through the window, and said, "It is killing him. It is the
appointment of Heaven, alas! That such a man should have such a sickness!
That such a man should have such a sickness!"
The Master said, "Admirable indeed was the virtue of Hui! With a single
bamboo dish of rice, a single gourd dish of drink, and living in his
mean narrow lane, while others could not have endured the distress,
he did not allow his joy to be affected by it. Admirable indeed was
the virtue of Hui!"
Yen Ch'iu said, "It is not that I do not delight in your doctrines,
but my strength is insufficient." The Master said, "Those whose strength
is insufficient give over in the middle of the way but now you limit
yourself."
The Master said to Tsze-hsia, "Do you be a scholar after the style
of the superior man, and not after that of the mean man."
Tsze-yu being governor of Wu-ch'ang, the Master said to him, "Have
you got good men there?" He answered, "There is Tan-t'ai Miehming,
who never in walking takes a short cut, and never comes to my office,
excepting on public business."
The Master said, "Mang Chih-fan does not boast of his merit. Being
in the rear on an occasion of flight, when they were about to enter
the gate, he whipped up his horse, saying, "It is not that I dare
to be last. My horse would not advance."
The Master said, "Without the specious speech of the litanist T'o
and the beauty of the prince Chao of Sung, it is difficult to escape
in the present age."
The Master said, "Who can go out but by the door? How is it that men
will not walk according to these ways?"
The Master said, "Where the solid qualities are in excess of accomplishments,
we have rusticity; where the accomplishments are in excess of the
solid qualities, we have the manners of a clerk. When the accomplishments
and solid qualities are equally blended, we then have the man of virtue."
The Master said, "Man is born for uprightness. If a man lose his uprightness,
and yet live, his escape from death is the effect of mere good fortune."
The Master said, "They who know the truth are not equal to those who
love it, and they who love it are not equal to those who delight in
it."
The Master said, "To those whose talents are above mediocrity, the
highest subjects may be announced. To those who are below mediocrity,
the highest subjects may not be announced."
Fan Ch'ih asked what constituted wisdom. The Master said, "To give
one's self earnestly to the duties due to men, and, while respecting
spiritual beings, to keep aloof from them, may be called wisdom."
He asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, "The man of virtue
makes the difficulty to be overcome his first business, and success
only a subsequent consideration;-this may be called perfect virtue."
The Master said, "The wise find pleasure in water; the virtuous find
pleasure in hills. The wise are active; the virtuous are tranquil.
The wise are joyful; the virtuous are long-lived."
The Master said, "Ch'i, by one change, would come to the State of
Lu. Lu, by one change, would come to a State where true principles
predominated."
The Master said, "A cornered vessel without corners-a strange cornered
vessel! A strange cornered vessel!"
Tsai Wo asked, saying, "A benevolent man, though it be told him,-'There
is a man in the well" will go in after him, I suppose." Confucius
said, "Why should he do so?" A superior man may be made to go to the
well, but he cannot be made to go down into it. He may be imposed
upon, but he cannot be fooled."
The Master said, "The superior man, extensively studying all learning,
and keeping himself under the restraint of the rules of propriety,
may thus likewise not overstep what is right."
The Master having visited Nan-tsze, Tsze-lu was displeased, on which
the Master swore, saying, "Wherein I have done improperly, may Heaven
reject me, may Heaven reject me!"
The Master said, "Perfect is the virtue which is according to the
Constant Mean! Rare for a long time has been its practice among the
people."
Tsze-kung said, "Suppose the case of a man extensively conferring
benefits on the people, and able to assist all, what would you say
of him? Might he be called perfectly virtuous?" The Master said, "Why
speak only of virtue in connection with him? Must he not have the
qualities of a sage? Even Yao and Shun were still solicitous about
this.
"Now the man of perfect virtue, wishing to be established himself,
seeks also to establish others; wishing to be enlarged himself, he
seeks also to enlarge others.
"To be able to judge of others by what is nigh in ourselves;-this
may be called the art of virtue."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
SECTION 2
Part 7
The Master said, "A transmitter and not a maker, believing in and
loving the ancients, I venture to compare myself with our old P'ang."
The Master said, "The silent treasuring up of knowledge; learning
without satiety; and instructing others without being wearied:-which
one of these things belongs to me?"
The Master said, "The leaving virtue without proper cultivation; the
not thoroughly discussing what is learned; not being able to move
towards righteousness of which a knowledge is gained; and not being
able to change what is not good:-these are the things which occasion
me solicitude."
When the Master was unoccupied with business, his manner was easy,
and he looked pleased.
The Master said, "Extreme is my decay. For a long time, I have not
dreamed, as I was wont to do, that I saw the duke of Chau."
The Master said, "Let the will be set on the path of duty.
"Let every attainment in what is good be firmly grasped.
"Let perfect virtue be accorded with.
"Let relaxation and enjoyment be found in the polite arts."
The Master said, "From the man bringing his bundle of dried flesh
for my teaching upwards, I have never refused instruction to any one."
The Master said, "I do not open up the truth to one who is not eager
to get knowledge, nor help out any one who is not anxious to explain
himself. When I have presented one corner of a subject to any one,
and he cannot from it learn the other three, I do not repeat my lesson."
When the Master was eating by the side of a mourner, he never ate
to the full.
He did not sing on the same day in which he had been weeping.
The Master said to Yen Yuan, "When called to office, to undertake
its duties; when not so called, to he retired;-it is only I and you
who have attained to this."
Tsze-lu said, "If you had the conduct of the armies of a great state,
whom would you have to act with you?"
The Master said, "I would not have him to act with me, who will unarmed
attack a tiger, or cross a river without a boat, dying without any
regret. My associate must be the man who proceeds to action full of
solicitude, who is fond of adjusting his plans, and then carries them
into execution."
The Master said, "If the search for riches is sure to be successful,
though I should become a groom with whip in hand to get them, I will
do so. As the search may not be successful, I will follow after that
which I love."
The things in reference to which the Master exercised the greatest
caution were-fasting, war, and sickness.
When the Master was in Ch'i, he heard the Shao, and for three months
did not know the taste of flesh. "I did not think'" he said, "that
music could have been made so excellent as this."
Yen Yu said, "Is our Master for the ruler of Wei?" Tsze-kung said,
"Oh! I will ask him."
He went in accordingly, and said, "What sort of men were Po-i and
Shu-ch'i?" "They were ancient worthies," said the Master. "Did they
have any repinings because of their course?" The Master again replied,
"They sought to act virtuously, and they did so; what was there for
them to repine about?" On this, Tsze-kung went out and said, "Our
Master is not for him."
The Master said, "With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and
my bended arm for a pillow;-I have still joy in the midst of these
things. Riches and honors acquired by unrighteousness, are to me as
a floating cloud."
The Master said, "If some years were added to my life, I would give
fifty to the study of the Yi, and then I might come to be without
great faults."
The Master's frequent themes of discourse were-the Odes, the History,
and the maintenance of the Rules of Propriety. On all these he frequently
discoursed.
The Duke of Sheh asked Tsze-lu about Confucius, and Tsze-lu did not
answer him.
The Master said, "Why did you not say to him,-He is simply a man,
who in his eager pursuit of knowledge forgets his food, who in the
joy of its attainment forgets his sorrows, and who does not perceive
that old age is coming on?"
The Master said, "I am not one who was born in the possession of knowledge;
I am one who is fond of antiquity, and earnest in seeking it there."
The subjects on which the Master did not talk, were-extraordinary
things, feats of strength, disorder, and spiritual beings.
The Master said, "When I walk along with two others, they may serve
me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities and follow them,
their bad qualities and avoid them."
The Master said, "Heaven produced the virtue that is in me. Hwan T'ui-what
can he do to me?"
The Master said, "Do you think, my disciples, that I have any concealments?
I conceal nothing from you. There is nothing which I do that is not
shown to you, my disciples; that is my way."
There were four things which the Master taught,-letters, ethics, devotion
of soul, and truthfulness.
The Master said, "A sage it is not mine to see; could I see a man
of real talent and virtue, that would satisfy me."
The Master said, "A good man it is not mine to see; could I see a
man possessed of constancy, that would satisfy me.
"Having not and yet affecting to have, empty and yet affecting to
be full, straitened and yet affecting to be at ease:-it is difficult
with such characteristics to have constancy."
The Master angled,-but did not use a net. He shot,-but not at birds
perching.
The Master said, "There may be those who act without knowing why.
I do not do so. Hearing much and selecting what is good and following
it; seeing much and keeping it in memory: this is the second style
of knowledge."
It was difficult to talk profitably and reputably with the people
of Hu-hsiang, and a lad of that place having had an interview with
the Master, the disciples doubted.
The Master said, "I admit people's approach to me without committing
myself as to what they may do when they have retired. Why must one
be so severe? If a man purify himself to wait upon me, I receive him
so purified, without guaranteeing his past conduct."
The Master said, "Is virtue a thing remote? I wish to be virtuous,
and lo! virtue is at hand."
The minister of crime of Ch'an asked whether the duke Chao knew propriety,
and Confucius said, "He knew propriety."
Confucius having retired, the minister bowed to Wu-ma Ch'i to come
forward, and said, "I have heard that the superior man is not a partisan.
May the superior man be a partisan also? The prince married a daughter
of the house of WU, of the same surname with himself, and called her,-'The
elder Tsze of Wu.' If the prince knew propriety, who does not know
it?"
Wu-ma Ch'i reported these remarks, and the Master said, "I am fortunate!
If I have any errors, people are sure to know them."
When the Master was in company with a person who was singing, if he
sang well, he would make him repeat the song, while he accompanied
it with his own voice.
The Master said, "In letters I am perhaps equal to other men, but
the character of the superior man, carrying out in his conduct what
he professes, is what I have not yet attained to."
The Master said, "The sage and the man of perfect virtue;-how dare
I rank myself with them? It may simply be said of me, that I strive
to become such without satiety, and teach others without weariness."
Kung-hsi Hwa said, "This is just what we, the disciples, cannot imitate
you in."
The Master being very sick, Tsze-lu asked leave to pray for him. He
said, "May such a thing be done?" Tsze-lu replied, "It may. In the
Eulogies it is said, 'Prayer has been made for thee to the spirits
of the upper and lower worlds.'" The Master said, "My praying has
been for a long time."
The Master said, "Extravagance leads to insubordination, and parsimony
to meanness. It is better to be mean than to be insubordinate."
The Master said, "The superior man is satisfied and composed; the
mean man is always full of distress."
The Master was mild, and yet dignified; majestic, and yet not fierce;
respectful, and yet easy.
Part 8
The Master said, "T'ai-po may be said to have reached the highest
point of virtuous action. Thrice he declined the kingdom, and the
people in ignorance of his motives could not express their approbation
of his conduct."
The Master said, "Respectfulness, without the rules of propriety,
becomes laborious bustle; carefulness, without the rules of propriety,
becomes timidity; boldness, without the rules of propriety, becomes
insubordination; straightforwardness, without the rules of propriety,
becomes rudeness.
"When those who are in high stations perform well all their duties
to their relations, the people are aroused to virtue. When old friends
are not neglected by them, the people are preserved from meanness."
The philosopher Tsang being ill, he cared to him the disciples of
his school, and said, "Uncover my feet, uncover my hands. It is said
in the Book of Poetry, 'We should be apprehensive and cautious, as
if on the brink of a deep gulf, as if treading on thin ice, I and
so have I been. Now and hereafter, I know my escape from all injury
to my person. O ye, my little children."
The philosopher Tsang being ill, Meng Chang went to ask how he was.
Tsang said to him, "When a bird is about to die, its notes are mournful;
when a man is about to die, his words are good.
"There are three principles of conduct which the man of high rank
should consider specially important:-that in his deportment and manner
he keep from violence and heedlessness; that in regulating his countenance
he keep near to sincerity; and that in his words and tones he keep
far from lowness and impropriety. As to such matters as attending
to the sacrificial vessels, there are the proper officers for them."
The philosopher Tsang said, "Gifted with ability, and yet putting
questions to those who were not so; possessed of much, and yet putting
questions to those possessed of little; having, as though he had not;
full, and yet counting himself as empty; offended against, and yet
entering into no altercation; formerly I had a friend who pursued
this style of conduct."
The philosopher Tsang said, "Suppose that there is an individual who
can be entrusted with the charge of a young orphan prince, and can
be commissioned with authority over a state of a hundred li, and whom
no emergency however great can drive from his principles:-is such
a man a superior man? He is a superior man indeed."
The philosopher Tsang said, "The officer may not be without breadth
of mind and vigorous endurance. His burden is heavy and his course
is long.
"Perfect virtue is the burden which he considers it is his to sustain;-is
it not heavy? Only with death does his course stop;-is it not long?
The Master said, "It is by the Odes that the mind is aroused.
"It is by the Rules of Propriety that the character is established.
"It is from Music that the finish is received."
The Master said, "The people may be made to follow a path of action,
but they may not be made to understand it."
The Master said, "The man who is fond of daring and is dissatisfied
with poverty, will proceed to insubordination. So will the man who
is not virtuous, when you carry your dislike of him to an extreme."
The Master said, "Though a man have abilities as admirable as those
of the Duke of Chau, yet if he be proud and niggardly, those other
things are really not worth being looked at."
The Master said, "It is not easy to find a man who has learned for
three years without coming to be good."
The Master said, "With sincere faith he unites the love of learning;
holding firm to death, he is perfecting the excellence of his course.
"Such an one will not enter a tottering state, nor dwell in a disorganized
one. When right principles of government prevail in the kingdom, he
will show himself; when they are prostrated, he will keep concealed.
"When a country is well governed, poverty and a mean condition are
things to be ashamed of. When a country is ill governed, riches and
honor are things to be ashamed of."
The Master said, "He who is not in any particular office has nothing
to do with plans for the administration of its duties."
The Master said, "When the music master Chih first entered on his
office, the finish of the Kwan Tsu was magnificent;-how it filled
the ears!"
The Master said, "Ardent and yet not upright, stupid and yet not attentive;
simple and yet not sincere:-such persons I do not understand."
The Master said, "Learn as if you could not reach your object, and
were always fearing also lest you should lose it."
The Master said, "How majestic was the manner in which Shun and Yu
held possession of the empire, as if it were nothing to them!
The Master said, "Great indeed was Yao as a sovereign! How majestic
was he! It is only Heaven that is grand, and only Yao corresponded
to it. How vast was his virtue! The people could find no name for
it.
"How majestic was he in the works which he accomplished! How glorious
in the elegant regulations which he instituted!"
Shun had five ministers, and the empire was well governed.
King Wu said, "I have ten able ministers."
Confucius said, "Is not the saying that talents are difficult to find,
true? Only when the dynasties of T'ang and Yu met, were they more
abundant than in this of Chau, yet there was a woman among them. The
able ministers were no more than nine men.
"King Wan possessed two of the three parts of the empire, and with
those he served the dynasty of Yin. The virtue of the house of Chau
may be said to have reached the highest point indeed."
The Master said, "I can find no flaw in the character of Yu. He used
himself coarse food and drink, but displayed the utmost filial piety
towards the spirits. His ordinary garments were poor, but he displayed
the utmost elegance in his sacrificial cap and apron. He lived in
a low, mean house, but expended all his strength on the ditches and
water channels. I can find nothing like a flaw in Yu."
Part 9
The subjects of which the Master seldom spoke were-profitableness,
and also the appointments of Heaven, and perfect virtue.
A man of the village of Ta-hsiang said, "Great indeed is the philosopher
K'ung! His learning is extensive, and yet he does not render his name
famous by any particular thing."
The Master heard the observation, and said to his disciples, "What
shall I practice? Shall I practice charioteering, or shall I practice
archery? I will practice charioteering."
The Master said, "The linen cap is that prescribed by the rules of
ceremony, but now a silk one is worn. It is economical, and I follow
the common practice.
"The rules of ceremony prescribe the bowing below the hall, but now
the practice is to bow only after ascending it. That is arrogant.
I continue to bow below the hall, though I oppose the common practice."
There were four things from which the Master was entirely free. He
had no foregone conclusions, no arbitrary predeterminations, no obstinacy,
and no egoism.
The Master was put in fear in K'wang.
He said, "After the death of King Wan, was not the cause of truth
lodged here in me?
"If Heaven had wished to let this cause of truth perish, then I, a
future mortal! should not have got such a relation to that cause.
While Heaven does not let the cause of truth perish, what can the
people of K'wang do to me?"
A high officer asked Tsze-kung, saying, "May we not say that your
Master is a sage? How various is his ability!"
Tsze-kung said, "Certainly Heaven has endowed him unlimitedly. He
is about a sage. And, moreover, his ability is various."
The Master heard of the conversation and said, "Does the high officer
know me? When I was young, my condition was low, and I acquired my
ability in many things, but they were mean matters. Must the superior
man have such variety of ability? He does not need variety of ability.
Lao said, "The Master said, 'Having no official employment, I acquired
many arts.'"
The Master said, "Am I indeed possessed of knowledge? I am not knowing.
But if a mean person, who appears quite empty-like, ask anything of
me, I set it forth from one end to the other, and exhaust it."
The Master said, "The Fang bird does not come; the river sends forth
no map:-it is all over with me!"
When the Master saw a person in a mourning dress, or any one with
the cap and upper and lower garments of full dress, or a blind person,
on observing them approaching, though they were younger than himself,
he would rise up, and if he had to pass by them, he would do so hastily.
Yen Yuan, in admiration of the Master's doctrines, sighed and said,
"I looked up to them, and they seemed to become more high; I tried
to penetrate them, and they seemed to become more firm; I looked at
them before me, and suddenly they seemed to be behind.
"The Master, by orderly method, skillfully leads men on. He enlarged
my mind with learning, and taught me the restraints of propriety.
"When I wish to give over the study of his doctrines, I cannot do
so, and having exerted all my ability, there seems something to stand
right up before me; but though I wish to follow and lay hold of it,
I really find no way to do so."
The Master being very ill, Tsze-lu wished the disciples to act as
ministers to him.
During a remission of his illness, he said, "Long has the conduct
of Yu been deceitful! By pretending to have ministers when I have
them not, whom should I impose upon? Should I impose upon Heaven?
"Moreover, than that I should die in the hands of ministers, is it
not better that I should die in the hands of you, my disciples? And
though I may not get a great burial, shall I die upon the road?"
Tsze-kung said, "There is a beautiful gem here. Should I lay it up
in a case and keep it? or should I seek for a good price and sell
it?" The Master said, "Sell it! Sell it! But I would wait for one
to offer the price."
The Master was wishing to go and live among the nine wild tribes of
the east.
Some one said, "They are rude. How can you do such a thing?" The Master
said, "If a superior man dwelt among them, what rudeness would there
be?"
The Master said, "I returned from Wei to Lu, and then the music was
reformed, and the pieces in the Royal songs and Praise songs all found
their proper places."
The Master said, "Abroad, to serve the high ministers and nobles;
at home, to serve one's father and elder brothers; in all duties to
the dead, not to dare not to exert one's self; and not to be overcome
of wine:-which one of these things do I attain to?"
The Master standing by a stream, said, "It passes on just like this,
not ceasing day or night!"
The Master said, "I have not seen one who loves virtue as he loves
beauty."
The Master said, "The prosecution of learning may be compared to what
may happen in raising a mound. If there want but one basket of earth
to complete the work, and I stop, the stopping is my own work. It
may be compared to throwing down the earth on the level ground. Though
but one basketful is thrown at a time, the advancing with it my own
going forward."
The Master said, "Never flagging when I set forth anything to him;-ah!
that is Hui." The Master said of Yen Yuan, "Alas! I saw his constant
advance. I never saw him stop in his progress."
The Master said, "There are cases in which the blade springs, but
the plant does not go on to flower! There are cases where it flowers
but fruit is not subsequently produced!"
The Master said, "A youth is to be regarded with respect. How do we
know that his future will not be equal to our present? If he reach
the age of forty or fifty, and has not made himself heard of, then
indeed he will not be worth being regarded with respect."
The Master said, "Can men refuse to assent to the words of strict
admonition? But it is reforming the conduct because of them which
is valuable. Can men refuse to be pleased with words of gentle advice?
But it is unfolding their aim which is valuable. If a man be pleased
with these words, but does not unfold their aim, and assents to those,
but does not reform his conduct, I can really do nothing with him."
The Master said, "Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles.
Have no friends not equal to yourself. When you have faults, do not
fear to abandon them."
The Master said, "The commander of the forces of a large state may
be carried off, but the will of even a common man cannot be taken
from him."
The Master said, "Dressed himself in a tattered robe quilted with
hemp, yet standing by the side of men dressed in furs, and not ashamed;-ah!
it is Yu who is equal to this!
"He dislikes none, he covets nothing;-what can he do but what is good!"
Tsze-lu kept continually repeating these words of the ode, when the
Master said, "Those things are by no means sufficient to constitute
perfect excellence."
The Master said, "When the year becomes cold, then we know how the
pine and the cypress are the last to lose their leaves."
The Master said, "The wise are free from perplexities; the virtuous
from anxiety; and the bold from fear."
The Master said, "There are some with whom we may study in common,
but we shall find them unable to go along with us to principles. Perhaps
we may go on with them to principles, but we shall find them unable
to get established in those along with us. Or if we may get so established
along with them, we shall find them unable to weigh occurring events
along with us."
"How the flowers of the aspen-plum flutter and turn! Do I not think
of you? But your house is distant."
The Master said, "It is the want of thought about it. How is it distant?"
Part 10
Confucius, in his village, looked simple and sincere, and as if he
were not able to speak.
When he was in the prince's ancestral temple, or in the court, he
spoke minutely on every point, but cautiously.
When he was waiting at court, in speaking with the great officers
of the lower grade, he spoke freely, but in a straightforward manner;
in speaking with those of the higher grade, he did so blandly, but
precisely.
When the ruler was present, his manner displayed respectful uneasiness;
it was grave, but self-possessed.
When the prince called him to employ him in the reception of a visitor,
his countenance appeared to change, and his legs to move forward with
difficulty.
He inclined himself to the other officers among whom he stood, moving
his left or right arm, as their position required, but keeping the
skirts of his robe before and behind evenly adjusted.
He hastened forward, with his arms like the wings of a bird.
When the guest had retired, he would report to the prince, "The visitor
is not turning round any more."
When he entered the palace gate, he seemed to bend his body, as if
it were not sufficient to admit him.
When he was standing, he did not occupy the middle of the gateway;
when he passed in or out, he did not tread upon the threshold.
When he was passing the vacant place of the prince, his countenance
appeared to change, and his legs to bend under him, and his words
came as if he hardly had breath to utter them.
He ascended the reception hall, holding up his robe with both his
hands, and his body bent; holding in his breath also, as if he dared
not breathe.
When he came out from the audience, as soon as he had descended one
step, he began to relax his countenance, and had a satisfied look.
When he had got the bottom of the steps, he advanced rapidly to his
place, with his arms like wings, and on occupying it, his manner still
showed respectful uneasiness.
When he was carrying the scepter of his ruler, he seemed to bend his
body, as if he were not able to bear its weight. He did not hold it
higher than the position of the hands in making a bow, nor lower than
their position in giving anything to another. His countenance seemed
to change, and look apprehensive, and he dragged his feet along as
if they were held by something to the ground.
In presenting the presents with which he was charged, he wore a placid
appearance.
At his private audience, he looked highly pleased.
The superior man did not use a deep purple, or a puce color, in the
ornaments of his dress.
Even in his undress, he did not wear anything of a red or reddish
color.
In warm weather, he had a single garment either of coarse or fine
texture, but he wore it displayed over an inner garment.
Over lamb's fur he wore a garment of black; over fawn's fur one of
white; and over fox's fur one of yellow.
The fur robe of his undress was long, with the right sleeve short.
He required his sleeping dress to be half as long again as his body.
When staying at home, he used thick furs of the fox or the badger.
When he put off mourning, he wore all the appendages of the girdle.
His undergarment, except when it was required to be of the curtain
shape, was made of silk cut narrow above and wide below.
He did not wear lamb's fur or a black cap on a visit of condolence.
On the first day of the month he put on his court robes, and presented
himself at court.
When fasting, he thought it necessary to have his clothes brightly
clean and made of linen cloth.
When fasting, he thought it necessary to change his food, and also
to change the place where he commonly sat in the apartment.
He did not dislike to have his rice finely cleaned, nor to have his
mince meat cut quite small.
He did not eat rice which had been injured by heat or damp and turned
sour, nor fish or flesh which was gone. He did not eat what was discolored,
or what was of a bad flavor, nor anything which was ill-cooked, or
was not in season.
He did not eat meat which was not cut properly, nor what was served
without its proper sauce.
Though there might be a large quantity of meat, he would not allow
what he took to exceed the due proportion for the rice. It was only
in wine that he laid down no limit for himself, but he did not allow
himself to be confused by it.
He did not partake of wine and dried meat bought in the market.
He was never without ginger when he ate. He did not eat much.
When he had been assisting at the prince's sacrifice, he did not keep
the flesh which he received overnight. The flesh of his family sacrifice
he did not keep over three days. If kept over three days, people could
not eat it.
When eating, he did not converse. When in bed, he did not speak.
Although his food might be coarse rice and vegetable soup, he would
offer a little of it in sacrifice with a grave, respectful air.
If his mat was not straight, he did not sit on it.
When the villagers were drinking together, upon those who carried
staffs going out, he also went out immediately after.
When the villagers were going through their ceremonies to drive away
pestilential influences, he put on his court robes and stood on the
eastern steps.
When he was sending complimentary inquiries to any one in another
state, he bowed twice as he escorted the messenger away.
Chi K'ang having sent him a present of physic, he bowed and received
it, saying, "I do not know it. I dare not taste it."
The stable being burned down, when he was at court, on his return
he said, "Has any man been hurt?" He did not ask about the horses.
When the he would adjust his mat, first taste it, and then give it
away to others. When the prince sent him a gift of undressed meat,
he would have it cooked, and offer it to the spirits of his ancestors.
When the prince sent him a gift of a living animal, he would keep
it alive.
When he was in attendance on the prince and joining in the entertainment,
the prince only sacrificed. He first tasted everything.
When he was ill and the prince came to visit him, he had his head
to the east, made his court robes be spread over him, and drew his
girdle across them.
When the prince's order called him, without waiting for his carriage
to be yoked, he went at once.
When he entered the ancestral temple of the state, he asked about
everything.
When any of his friends died, if he had no relations offices, he would
say, "I will bury him."
When a friend sent him a present, though it might be a carriage and
horses, he did not bow.
The only present for which he bowed was that of the flesh of sacrifice.
In bed, he did not lie like a corpse. At home, he did not put on any
formal deportment.
When he saw any one in a mourning dress, though it might be an acquaintance,
he would change countenance; when he saw any one wearing the cap of
full dress, or a blind person, though he might be in his undress,
he would salute him in a ceremonious manner.
To any person in mourning he bowed forward to the crossbar of his
carriage; he bowed in the same way to any one bearing the tables of
population.
When he was at an entertainment where there was an abundance of provisions
set before him, he would change countenance and rise up.
On a sudden clap of thunder, or a violent wind, he would change countenance.
When he was about to mount his carriage, he would stand straight,
holding the cord.
When he was in the carriage, he did not turn his head quite round,
he did not talk hastily, he did not point with his hands.
Seeing the countenance, it instantly rises. It flies round, and by
and by settles.
The Master said, "There is the hen-pheasant on the hill bridge. At
its season! At its season!" Tsze-lu made a motion to it. Thrice it
smelt him and then rose.
Part 11
The Master said, "The men of former times in the matters of ceremonies
and music were rustics, it is said, while the men of these latter
times, in ceremonies and music, are accomplished gentlemen.
"If I have occasion to use those things, I follow the men of former
times."
The Master said, "Of those who were with me in Ch'an and Ts'ai, there
are none to be found to enter my door."
Distinguished for their virtuous principles and practice, there were
Yen Yuan, Min Tsze-ch'ien, Zan Po-niu, and Chung-kung; for their ability
in speech, Tsai Wo and Tsze-kung; for their administrative talents,
Zan Yu and Chi Lu; for their literary acquirements, Tsze-yu and Tsze-hsia.
The Master said, "Hui gives me no assistance. There is nothing that
I say in which he does not delight."
The Master said, "Filial indeed is Min Tsze-ch'ien! Other people say
nothing of him different from the report of his parents and brothers."
Nan Yung was frequently repeating the lines about a white scepter
stone. Confucius gave him the daughter of his elder brother to wife.
Chi K'ang asked which of the disciples loved to learn. Confucius replied
to him, "There was Yen Hui; he loved to learn. Unfortunately his appointed
time was short, and he died. Now there is no one who loves to learn,
as he did."
When Yen Yuan died, Yen Lu begged the carriage of the Master to sell
and get an outer shell for his son's coffin.
The Master said, "Every one calls his son his son, whether he has
talents or has not talents. There was Li; when he died, he had a coffin
but no outer shell. I would not walk on foot to get a shell for him,
because, having followed in the rear of the great officers, it was
not proper that I should walk on foot."
When Yen Yuan died, the Master said, "Alas! Heaven is destroying me!
Heaven is destroying me!"
When Yen Yuan died, the Master bewailed him exceedingly, and the disciples
who were with him said, "Master, your grief is excessive!"
"Is it excessive?" said he. "If I am not to mourn bitterly for this
man, for whom should I mourn?"
When Yen Yuan died, the disciples wished to give him a great funeral,
and the Master said, "You may not do so."
The disciples did bury him in great style.
The Master said, "Hui behaved towards me as his father. I have not
been able to treat him as my son. The fault is not mine; it belongs
to you, O disciples."
Chi Lu asked about serving the spirits of the dead. The Master said,
"While you are not able to serve men, how can you serve their spirits?"
Chi Lu added, "I venture to ask about death?" He was answered, "While
you do not know life, how can you know about death?"
The disciple Min was standing by his side, looking bland and precise;
Tsze-lu, looking bold and soldierly; Zan Yu and Tsze-kung, with a
free and straightforward manner. The Master was pleased.
He said, "Yu, there!-he will not die a natural death."
Some parties in Lu were going to take down and rebuild the Long Treasury.
Min Tsze-ch'ien said, "Suppose it were to be repaired after its old
style;-why must it be altered and made anew?"
The Master said, "This man seldom speaks; when he does, he is sure
to hit the point."
The Master said, "What has the lute of Yu to do in my door?"
The other disciples began not to respect Tszelu. The Master said,
"Yu has ascended to the hall, though he has not yet passed into the
inner apartments."
Tsze-kung asked which of the two, Shih or Shang, was the superior.
The Master said, "Shih goes beyond the due mean, and Shang does not
come up to it."
"Then," said Tsze-kung, "the superiority is with Shih, I suppose."
The Master said, "To go beyond is as wrong as to fall short."
The head of the Chi family was richer than the duke of Chau had been,
and yet Ch'iu collected his imposts for him, and increased his wealth.
The Master said, "He is no disciple of mine. My little children, beat
the drum and assail him."
Ch'ai is simple. Shan is dull. Shih is specious. Yu is coarse.
The Master said, "There is Hui! He has nearly attained to perfect
virtue. He is often in want.
"Ts'ze does not acquiesce in the appointments of Heaven, and his goods
are increased by him. Yet his judgments are often correct."
Tsze-chang asked what were the characteristics of the good man. The
Master said, "He does not tread in the footsteps of others, but moreover,
he does not enter the chamber of the sage."
The Master said, "If, because a man's discourse appears solid and
sincere, we allow him to be a good man, is he really a superior man?
or is his gravity only in appearance?"
Tsze-lu asked whether he should immediately carry into practice what
he heard. The Master said, "There are your father and elder brothers
to be consulted;-why should you act on that principle of immediately
carrying into practice what you hear?" Zan Yu asked the same, whether
he should immediately carry into practice what he heard, and the Master
answered, "Immediately carry into practice what you hear." Kung-hsi
Hwa said, "Yu asked whether he should carry immediately into practice
what he heard, and you said, 'There are your father and elder brothers
to be consulted.' Ch'iu asked whether he should immediately carry
into practice what he heard, and you said, 'Carry it immediately into
practice.' I, Ch'ih, am perplexed, and venture to ask you for an explanation."
The Master said, "Ch'iu is retiring and slow; therefore I urged him
forward. Yu has more than his own share of energy; therefore I kept
him back."
The Master was put in fear in K'wang and Yen Yuan fell behind. The
Master, on his rejoining him, said, "I thought you had died." Hui
replied, "While you were alive, how should I presume to die?"
Chi Tsze-zan asked whether Chung Yu and Zan Ch'iu could be called
great ministers.
The Master said, "I thought you would ask about some extraordinary
individuals, and you only ask about Yu and Ch'iu!
"What is called a great minister, is one who serves his prince according
to what is right, and when he finds he cannot do so, retires.
"Now, as to Yu and Ch'iu, they may be called ordinary ministers."
Tsze-zan said, "Then they will always follow their chief;-win they?"
The Master said, "In an act of parricide or regicide, they would not
follow him."
Tsze-lu got Tsze-kao appointed governor of Pi.
The Master said, "You are injuring a man's son."
Tsze-lu said, "There are, there, common people and officers; there
are the altars of the spirits of the land and grain. Why must one
read books before he can be considered to have learned?"
The Master said, "It is on this account that I hate your glib-tongued
people."
Tsze-lu, Tsang Hsi, Zan Yu, and Kunghsi Hwa were sitting by the Master.
He said to them, "Though I am a day or so older than you, do not think
of that.
"From day to day you are saying, 'We are not known.' If some ruler
were to know you, what would you like to do?"
Tsze-lu hastily and lightly replied, "Suppose the case of a state
of ten thousand chariots; let it be straitened between other large
cities; let it be suffering from invading armies; and to this let
there be added a famine in corn and in all vegetables:-if I were intrusted
with the government of it, in three years' time I could make the people
to be bold, and to recognize the rules of righteous conduct." The
Master smiled at him.
Turning to Yen Yu, he said, "Ch'iu, what are your wishes?" Ch'iu replied,
"Suppose a state of sixty or seventy li square, or one of fifty or
sixty, and let me have the government of it;-in three years' time,
I could make plenty to abound among the people. As to teaching them
the principles of propriety, and music, I must wait for the rise of
a superior man to do that."
"What are your wishes, Ch'ih," said the Master next to Kung-hsi Hwa.
Ch'ih replied, "I do not say that my ability extends to these things,
but I should wish to learn them. At the services of the ancestral
temple, and at the audiences of the princes with the sovereign, I
should like, dressed in the dark square-made robe and the black linen
cap, to act as a small assistant."
Last of all, the Master asked Tsang Hsi, "Tien, what are your wishes?"
Tien, pausing as he was playing on his lute, while it was yet twanging,
laid the instrument aside, and "My wishes," he said, "are different
from the cherished purposes of these three gentlemen." "What harm
is there in that?" said the Master; "do you also, as well as they,
speak out your wishes." Tien then said, "In this, the last month of
spring, with the dress of the season all complete, along with five
or six young men who have assumed the cap, and six or seven boys,
I would wash in the I, enjoy the breeze among the rain altars, and
return home singing." The Master heaved a sigh and said, "I give my
approval to Tien."
The three others having gone out, Tsang Hsi remained behind, and said,
"What do you think of the words of these three friends?" The Master
replied, "They simply told each one his wishes."
Hsi pursued, "Master, why did you smile at Yu?"
He was answered, "The management of a state demands the rules of propriety.
His words were not humble; therefore I smiled at him."
Hsi again said, "But was it not a state which Ch'iu proposed for himself?"
The reply was, "Yes; did you ever see a territory of sixty or seventy
li or one of fifty or sixty, which was not a state?"
Once more, Hsi inquired, "And was it not a state which Ch'ih proposed
for himself?" The Master again replied, "Yes; who but princes have
to do with ancestral temples, and with audiences but the sovereign?
If Ch'ih were to be a small assistant in these services, who could
be a great one?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
SECTION 3
Part 12
Yen Yuan asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, "To subdue one's self
and return to propriety, is perfect virtue. If a man can for one day subdue
himself and return to propriety, an under heaven will ascribe perfect
virtue to him. Is the practice of perfect virtue from a man himself, or is
it from others?"
Yen Yuan said, "I beg to ask the steps of that process." The Master
replied, "Look not at what is contrary to propriety; listen not to what is
contrary to propriety; speak not what is contrary to propriety; make no
movement which is contrary to propriety." Yen Yuan then said, "Though I am
deficient in intelligence and vigor, I will make it my business to practice
this lesson."
Chung-kung asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, "It is, when you go
abroad, to behave to every one as if you were receiving a great guest; to
employ the people as if you were assisting at a great sacrifice; not to do
to others as you would not wish done to yourself; to have no murmuring
against you in the country, and none in the family." Chung-kung said,
"Though I am deficient in intelligence and vigor, I will make it my
business to practice this lesson."
Sze-ma Niu asked about perfect virtue.
The Master said, "The man of perfect virtue is cautious and slow in his
speech."
"Cautious and slow in his speech!" said Niu;-"is this what is meant by
perfect virtue?" The Master said, "When a man feels the difficulty of
doing, can he be other than cautious and slow in speaking?"
Sze-ma Niu asked about the superior man. The Master said, "The superior man
has neither anxiety nor fear."
"Being without anxiety or fear!" said Nui;"does this constitute what we
call the superior man?"
The Master said, "When internal examination discovers nothing wrong, what
is there to be anxious about, what is there to fear?"
Sze-ma Niu, full of anxiety, said, "Other men all have their brothers, I
only have not."
Tsze-hsia said to him, "There is the following saying which I have
heard-'Death and life have their determined appointment; riches and honors
depend upon Heaven.'
"Let the superior man never fail reverentially to order his own conduct,
and let him be respectful to others and observant of propriety:-then all
within the four seas will be his brothers. What has the superior man to do
with being distressed because he has no brothers?"
Tsze-chang asked what constituted intelligence. The Master said, "He with
whom neither slander that gradually soaks into the mind, nor statements
that startle like a wound in the flesh, are successful may be called
intelligent indeed. Yea, he with whom neither soaking slander, nor
startling statements, are successful, may be called farseeing."
Tsze-kung asked about government. The Master said, "The requisites of
government are that there be sufficiency of food, sufficiency of military
equipment, and the confidence of the people in their ruler."
Tsze-kung said, "If it cannot be helped, and one of these must be dispensed
with, which of the three should be foregone first?" "The military
equipment," said the Master.
Tsze-kung again asked, "If it cannot be helped, and one of the remaining
two must be dispensed with, which of them should be foregone?" The Master
answered, "Part with the food. From of old, death has been the lot of an
men; but if the people have no faith in their rulers, there is no standing
for the state."
Chi Tsze-ch'ang said, "In a superior man it is only the substantial
qualities which are wanted;-why should we seek for ornamental
accomplishments?"
Tsze-kung said, "Alas! Your words, sir, show you to be a superior man, but
four horses cannot overtake the tongue. Ornament is as substance; substance
is as ornament. The hide of a tiger or a leopard stripped of its hair, is
like the hide of a dog or a goat stripped of its hair."
The Duke Ai inquired of Yu Zo, saying, "The year is one of scarcity, and
the returns for expenditure are not sufficient;-what is to be done?"
Yu Zo replied to him, "Why not simply tithe the people?"
"With two tenths, said the duke, "I find it not enough;-how could I do with
that system of one tenth?"
Yu Zo answered, "If the people have plenty, their prince will not be left
to want alone. If the people are in want, their prince cannot enjoy plenty
alone."
Tsze-chang having asked how virtue was to be exalted, and delusions to be
discovered, the Master said, "Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first
principles, and be moving continually to what is right,-this is the way to
exalt one's virtue.
"You love a man and wish him to live; you hate him and wish him to die.
Having wished him to live, you also wish him to die. This is a case of
delusion. 'It may not be on account of her being rich, yet you come to make
a difference.'"
The Duke Ching, of Ch'i, asked Confucius about government. Confucius
replied, "There is government, when the prince is prince, and the minister
is minister; when the father is father, and the son is son."
"Good!" said the duke; "if, indeed, the prince be not prince, the not
minister, the father not father, and the son not son, although I have my
revenue, can I enjoy it?"
The Master said, "Ah! it is Yu, who could with half a word settle
litigations!"
Tsze-lu never slept over a promise.
The Master said, "In hearing litigations, I am like any other body. What is
necessary, however, is to cause the people to have no litigations."
Tsze-chang asked about government. The Master said, "The art of governing
is to keep its affairs before the mind without weariness, and to practice
them with undeviating consistency."
The Master said, "By extensively studying all learning, and keeping himself
under the restraint of the rules of propriety, one may thus likewise not
err from what is right."
The Master said, "The superior man seeks to perfect the admirable qualities
of men, and does not seek to perfect their bad qualities. The mean man does
the opposite of this."
Chi K'ang asked Confucius about government. Confucius replied, "To govern
means to rectify. If you lead on the people with correctness, who will dare
not to be correct?"
Chi K'ang, distressed about the number of thieves in the state, inquired of
Confucius how to do away with them. Confucius said, "If you, sir, were not
covetous, although you should reward them to do it, they would not steal."
Chi K'ang asked Confucius about government, saying, "What do you say to
killing the unprincipled for the good of the principled?" Confucius
replied, "Sir, in carrying on your government, why should you use killing
at all? Let your evinced desires be for what is good, and the people will
be good. The relation between superiors and inferiors is like that between
the wind and the grass. The grass must bend, when the wind blows across
it."
Tsze-chang asked, "What must the officer be, who may be said to be
distinguished?"
The Master said, "What is it you call being distinguished?"
Tsze-chang replied, "It is to be heard of through the state, to be heard of
throughout his clan."
The Master said, "That is notoriety, not distinction.
"Now the man of distinction is solid and straightforward, and loves
righteousness. He examines people's words, and looks at their countenances.
He is anxious to humble himself to others. Such a man will be distinguished
in the country; he will be distinguished in his clan.
"As to the man of notoriety, he assumes the appearance of virtue, but his
actions are opposed to it, and he rests in this character without any
doubts about himself. Such a man will be heard of in the country; he will
be heard of in the clan."
Fan Ch'ih rambling with the Master under the trees about the rain altars,
said, "I venture to ask how to exalt virtue, to correct cherished evil, and
to discover delusions."
The Master said, "Truly a good question!
"If doing what is to be done be made the first business, and success a
secondary consideration:-is not this the way to exalt virtue? To assail
one's own wickedness and not assail that of others;-is not this the way to
correct cherished evil? For a morning's anger to disregard one's own life,
and involve that of his parents;-is not this a case of delusion?"
Fan Ch'ih asked about benevolence. The Master said, "It is to love all
men." He asked about knowledge. The Master said, "It is to know all men."
Fan Ch'ih did not immediately understand these answers.
The Master said, "Employ the upright and put aside all the crooked; in this
way the crooked can be made to be upright."
Fan Ch'ih retired, and, seeing Tsze-hsia, he said to him, "A Little while
ago, I had an interview with our Master, and asked him about knowledge. He
said, 'Employ the upright, and put aside all the crooked;-in this way, the
crooked will be made to be upright.' What did he mean?"
Tsze-hsia said, "Truly rich is his saying!
"Shun, being in possession of the kingdom, selected from among all the
people, and employed Kai-yao-on which all who were devoid of virtue
disappeared. T'ang, being in possession of the kingdom, selected from among
all the people, and employed I Yin-and an who were devoid of virtue
disappeared."
Tsze-kung asked about friendship. The Master said, "Faithfully admonish
your friend, and skillfully lead him on. If you find him impracticable,
stop. Do not disgrace yourself."
The philosopher Tsang said, "The superior man on grounds of culture meets
with his friends, and by friendship helps his virtue."
Part 13
Tsze-lu asked about government. The Master said, "Go before the people with
your example, and be laborious in their affairs."
He requested further instruction, and was answered, "Be not weary in these
things."
Chung-kung, being chief minister to the head of the Chi family, asked about
government. The Master said, "Employ first the services of your various
officers, pardon small faults, and raise to office men of virtue and
talents."
Chung-kung said, "How shall I know the men of virtue and talent, so that I
may raise them to office?" He was answered, "Raise to office those whom you
know. As to those whom you do not know, will others neglect them?"
Tsze-lu said, "The ruler of Wei has been waiting for you, in order with you
to administer the government. What will you consider the first thing to be
done?"
The Master replied, "What is necessary is to rectify names."
"So! indeed!" said Tsze-lu. "You are wide of the mark! Why must there be
such rectification?"
The Master said, "How uncultivated you are, Yu! A superior man, in regard
to what he does not know, shows a cautious reserve.
"If names be not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of
things. If language be not in accordance with the truth of things, affairs
cannot be carried on to success.
"When affairs cannot be carried on to success, proprieties and music do not
flourish. When proprieties and music do not flourish, punishments will not
be properly awarded. When punishments are not properly awarded, the people
do not know how to move hand or foot.
"Therefore a superior man considers it necessary that the names he uses may
be spoken appropriately, and also that what he speaks may be carried out
appropriately. What the superior man requires is just that in his words
there may be nothing incorrect."
Fan Ch'ih requested to be taught husbandry. The Master said, "I am not so
good for that as an old husbandman." He requested also to be taught
gardening, and was answered, "I am not so good for that as an old
gardener."
Fan Ch'ih having gone out, the Master said, "A small man, indeed, is Fan
Hsu! If a superior man love propriety, the people will not dare not to be
reverent. If he love righteousness, the people will not dare not to submit
to his example. If he love good faith, the people will not dare not to be
sincere. Now, when these things obtain, the people from all quarters will
come to him, bearing their children on their backs; what need has he of a
knowledge of husbandry?"
The Master said, "Though a man may be able to recite the three hundred
odes, yet if, when intrusted with a governmental charge, he knows not how
to act, or if, when sent to any quarter on a mission, he cannot give his
replies unassisted, notwithstanding the extent of his learning, of what
practical use is it?"
The Master said, "When a prince's personal conduct is correct, his
government is effective without the issuing of orders. If his personal
conduct is not correct, he may issue orders, but they will not be
followed."
The Master said, "The governments of Lu and Wei are brothers."
The Master said of Ching, a scion of the ducal family of Wei, that he knew
the economy of a family well. When he began to have means, he said, "Ha!
here is a collection-!" When they were a little increased, he said, "Ha!
this is complete!" When he had become rich, he said, "Ha! this is
admirable!"
When the Master went to Weil Zan Yu acted as driver of his carriage.
The Master observed, "How numerous are the people!"
Yu said, "Since they are thus numerous, what more shall be done for them?"
"Enrich them, was the reply.
"And when they have been enriched, what more shall be done?" The Master
said, "Teach them."
The Master said, "If there were any of the princes who would employ me, in
the course of twelve months, I should have done something considerable. In
three years, the government would be perfected."
The Master said, "'If good men were to govern a country in succession for a
hundred years, they would be able to transform the violently bad, and
dispense with capital punishments.' True indeed is this saying!"
The Master said, "If a truly royal ruler were to arise, it would stir
require a generation, and then virtue would prevail."
The Master said, "If a minister make his own conduct correct, what
difficulty will he have in assisting in government? If he cannot rectify
himself, what has he to do with rectifying others?"
The disciple Zan returning from the court, the Master said to him, "How are
you so late?" He replied, "We had government business." The Master said,
"It must have been family affairs. If there had been government business,
though I am not now in office, I should have been consulted about it."
The Duke Ting asked whether there was a single sentence which could make a
country prosperous. Confucius replied, "Such an effect cannot be expected
from one sentence.
"There is a saying, however, which people have -'To be a prince is
difficult; to be a minister is not easy.'
"If a ruler knows this,-the difficulty of being a prince,-may there not be
expected from this one sentence the prosperity of his country?"
The duke then said, "Is there a single sentence which can ruin a country?"
Confucius replied, "Such an effect as that cannot be expected from one
sentence. There is, however, the saying which people have-'I have no
pleasure in being a prince, but only in that no one can offer any
opposition to what I say!'
"If a ruler's words be good, is it not also good that no one oppose them?
But if they are not good, and no one opposes them, may there not be
expected from this one sentence the ruin of his country?"
The Duke of Sheh asked about government.
The Master said, "Good government obtains when those who are near are made
happy, and those who are far off are attracted."
Tsze-hsia! being governor of Chu-fu, asked about government. The Master
said, "Do not be desirous to have things done quickly; do not look at small
advantages. Desire to have things done quickly prevents their being done
thoroughly. Looking at small advantages prevents great affairs from being
accomplished."
The Duke of Sheh informed Confucius, saying, "Among us here there are those
who may be styled upright in their conduct. If their father have stolen a
sheep, they will bear witness to the fact."
Confucius said, "Among us, in our part of the country, those who are
upright are different from this. The father conceals the misconduct of the
son, and the son conceals the misconduct of the father. Uprightness is to
be found in this."
Fan Ch'ih asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, "It is, in
retirement, to be sedately grave; in the management of business, to be
reverently attentive; in intercourse with others, to be strictly sincere.
Though a man go among rude, uncultivated tribes, these qualities may not be
neglected."
Tsze-kung asked, saying, "What qualities must a man possess to entitle him
to be called an officer? The Master said, "He who in his conduct of himself
maintains a sense of shame, and when sent to any quarter will not disgrace
his prince's commission, deserves to be called an officer."
Tsze-kung pursued, "I venture to ask who may be placed in the next lower
rank?" And he was told, "He whom the circle of his relatives pronounce to
be filial, whom his fellow villagers and neighbors pronounce to be
fraternal."
Again the disciple asked, "I venture to ask about the class still next in
order." The Master said, "They are determined to be sincere in what they
say, and to carry out what they do. They are obstinate little men. Yet
perhaps they may make the next class."
Tsze-kung finally inquired, "Of what sort are those of the present day, who
engage in government?" The Master said "Pooh! they are so many pecks and
hampers, not worth being taken into account."
The Master said, "Since I cannot get men pursuing the due medium, to whom I
might communicate my instructions, I must find the ardent and the
cautiously-decided. The ardent will advance and lay hold of truth; the
cautiously-decided will keep themselves from what is wrong."
The Master said, "The people of the south have a saying -'A man without
constancy cannot be either a wizard or a doctor.' Good!
"Inconstant in his virtue, he will be visited with disgrace."
The Master said, "This arises simply from not attending to the
prognostication."
The Master said, "The superior man is affable, but not adulatory; the mean
man is adulatory, but not affable."
Tsze-kung asked, saying, "What do you say of a man who is loved by all the
people of his neighborhood?" The Master replied, "We may not for that
accord our approval of him." "And what do you say of him who is hated by
all the people of his neighborhood?" The Master said, "We may not for that
conclude that he is bad. It is better than either of these cases that the
good in the neighborhood love him, and the bad hate him."
The Master said, "The superior man is easy to serve and difficult to
please. If you try to please him in any way which is not accordant with
right, he will not be pleased. But in his employment of men, he uses them
according to their capacity. The mean man is difficult to serve, and easy
to please. If you try to please him, though it be in a way which is not
accordant with right, he may be pleased. But in his employment of men, he
wishes them to be equal to everything."
The Master said, "The superior man has a dignified ease without pride. The
mean man has pride without a dignified ease."
The Master said, "The firm, the enduring, the simple, and the modest are
near to virtue."
Tsze-lu asked, saying, "What qualities must a man possess to entitle him to
be called a scholar?" The Master said, "He must be thus,-earnest, urgent,
and bland:-among his friends, earnest and urgent; among his brethren,
bland."
The Master said, "Let a good man teach the people seven years, and they may
then likewise be employed in war."
The Master said, "To lead an uninstructed people to war, is to throw them
away."
Part 14
Hsien asked what was shameful. The Master said, "When good government
prevails in a state, to be thinking only of salary; and, when bad
government prevails, to be thinking, in the same way, only of salary;-this
is shameful."
"When the love of superiority, boasting, resentments, and covetousness are
repressed, this may be deemed perfect virtue."
The Master said, "This may be regarded as the achievement of what is
difficult. But I do not know that it is to be deemed perfect virtue."
The Master said, "The scholar who cherishes the love of comfort is not fit
to be deemed a scholar."
The Master said, "When good government prevails in a state, language may be
lofty and bold, and actions the same. When bad government prevails, the
actions may be lofty and bold, but the language may be with some reserve."
The Master said, "The virtuous will be sure to speak correctly, but those
whose speech is good may not always be virtuous. Men of principle are sure
to be bold, but those who are bold may not always be men of principle."
Nan-kung Kwo, submitting an inquiry to Confucius, said, "I was skillful at
archery, and Ao could move a boat along upon the land, but neither of them
died a natural death. Yu and Chi personally wrought at the toils of
husbandry, and they became possessors of the kingdom." The Master made no
reply; but when Nan-kung Kwo went out, he said, "A superior man indeed is
this! An esteemer of virtue indeed is this!"
The Master said, "Superior men, and yet not always virtuous, there have
been, alas! But there never has been a mean man, and, at the same time,
virtuous."
The Master said, "Can there be love which does not lead to strictness with
its object? Can there be loyalty which does not lead to the instruction of
its object?"
The Master said, "In preparing the governmental notifications, P'i Shan
first made the rough draft; Shi-shu examined and discussed its contents;
Tsze-yu, the manager of foreign intercourse, then polished the style; and,
finally, Tsze-ch'an of Tung-li gave it the proper elegance and finish."
Some one asked about Tsze-ch'an. The Master said, "He was a kind man."
He asked about Tsze-hsi. The Master said, "That man! That man!"
He asked about Kwan Chung. "For him," said the Master, "the city of Pien,
with three hundred families, was taken from the chief of the Po family, who
did not utter a murmuring word, though, to the end of his life, he had only
coarse rice to eat."
The Master said, "To be poor without murmuring is difficult. To be rich
without being proud is easy."
The Master said, "Mang Kung-ch'o is more than fit to be chief officer in
the families of Chao and Wei, but he is not fit to be great officer to
either of the states Tang or Hsieh."
Tsze-lu asked what constituted a COMPLETE man. The Master said, "Suppose a
man with the knowledge of Tsang Wu-chung, the freedom from covetousness of
Kung-ch'o, the bravery of Chwang of Pien, and the varied talents of Zan
Ch'iu; add to these the accomplishments of the rules of propriety and
music;-such a one might be reckoned a Complete man."
He then added, "But what is the necessity for a complete man of the present
day to have all these things? The man, who in the view of gain, thinks of
righteousness; who in the view of danger is prepared to give up his life;
and who does not forget an old agreement however far back it extends:-such
a man may be reckoned a COMPLETE man."
The Master asked Kung-ming Chia about Kung-shu Wan, saying, "Is it true
that your master speaks not, laughs not, and takes not?"
Kung-ming Chia replied, "This has arisen from the reporters going beyond
the truth.-My master speaks when it is the time to speak, and so men do not
get tired of his speaking. He laughs when there is occasion to be joyful,
and so men do not get tired of his laughing. He takes when it is consistent
with righteousness to do so, and so men do not get tired of his taking."
The Master said, "So! But is it so with him?"
The Master said, "Tsang Wu-chung, keeping possession of Fang, asked of the
duke of Lu to appoint a successor to him in his family. Although it may be
said that he was not using force with his sovereign, I believe he was."
The Master said, "The duke Wan of Tsin was crafty and not upright. The duke
Hwan of Ch'i was upright and not crafty."
Tsze-lu said, "The Duke Hwan caused his brother Chiu to be killed, when
Shao Hu died, with his master, but Kwan Chung did not die. May not I say
that he was wanting in virtue?"
The Master said, "The Duke Hwan assembled all the princes together, and
that not with weapons of war and chariots:-it was all through the influence
of Kwan Chung. Whose beneficence was like his? Whose beneficence was like
his?"
Tsze-kung said, "Kwan Chung, I apprehend was wanting in virtue. When the
Duke Hwan caused his brother Chiu to be killed, Kwan Chung was not able to
die with him. Moreover, he became prime minister to Hwan."
The Master said, "Kwan Chung acted as prime minister to the Duke Hwan made
him leader of all the princes, and united and rectified the whole kingdom.
Down to the present day, the people enjoy the gifts which he conferred. But
for Kwan Chung, we should now be wearing our hair unbound, and the lappets
of our coats buttoning on the left side.
"Will you require from him the small fidelity of common men and common
women, who would commit suicide in a stream or ditch, no one knowing
anything about them?"
The great officer, Hsien, who had been family minister to Kung-shu Wan,
ascended to the prince's court in company with Wan.
The Master, having heard of it, said, "He deserved to be considered WAN
(the accomplished)."
The Master was speaking about the unprincipled course of the duke Ling of
Weil when Ch'i K'ang said, "Since he is of such a character, how is it he
does not lose his state?"
Confucius said, "The Chung-shu Yu has the superintendence of his guests and
of strangers; the litanist, T'o, has the management of his ancestral
temple; and Wang-sun Chia has the direction of the army and forces:-with
such officers as these, how should he lose his state?"
The Master said, "He who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to
make his words good."
Chan Ch'ang murdered the Duke Chien of Ch'i.
Confucius bathed, went to court and informed the Duke Ai, saying, "Chan
Hang has slain his sovereign. I beg that you will undertake to punish him."
The duke said, "Inform the chiefs of the three families of it."
Confucius retired, and said, "Following in the rear of the great officers,
I did not dare not to represent such a matter, and my prince says, "Inform
the chiefs of the three families of it."
He went to the chiefs, and informed them, but they would not act. Confucius
then said, "Following in the rear of the great officers, I did not dare not
to represent such a matter."
Tsze-lu asked how a ruler should be served. The Master said, "Do not impose
on him, and, moreover, withstand him to his face."
The Master said, "The progress of the superior man is upwards; the progress
of the mean man is downwards."
The Master said, "In ancient times, men learned with a view to their own
improvement. Nowadays, men learn with a view to the approbation of others."
Chu Po-yu sent a messenger with friendly inquiries to Confucius.
Confucius sat with him, and questioned him. "What," said he! "is your
master engaged in?" The messenger replied, "My master is anxious to make
his faults few, but he has not yet succeeded." He then went out, and the
Master said, "A messenger indeed! A messenger indeed!"
The Master said, "He who is not in any particular office has nothing to do
with plans for the administration of its duties."
The philosopher Tsang said, "The superior man, in his thoughts, does not go
out of his place."
The Master said, "The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in
his actions."
The Master said, "The way of the superior man is threefold, but I am not
equal to it. Virtuous, he is free from anxieties; wise, he is free from
perplexities; bold, he is free from fear.
Tsze-kung said, "Master, that is what you yourself say."
Tsze-kung was in the habit of comparing men together. The Master said,
"Tsze must have reached a high pitch of excellence! Now, I have not leisure
for this."
The Master said, "I will not be concerned at men's not knowing me; I will
be concerned at my own want of ability."
The Master said, "He who does not anticipate attempts to deceive him, nor
think beforehand of his not being believed, and yet apprehends these things
readily when they occur;-is he not a man of superior worth?"
Wei-shang Mau said to Confucius, "Ch'iu, how is it that you keep roosting
about? Is it not that you are an insinuating talker?
Confucius said, "I do not dare to play the part of such a talker, but I
hate obstinacy."
The Master said, "A horse is called a ch'i, not because of its strength,
but because of its other good qualities."
Some one said, "What do you say concerning the principle that injury should
be recompensed with kindness?"
The Master said, "With what then will you recompense kindness?"
"Recompense injury with justice, and recompense kindness with kindness."
The Master said, "Alas! there is no one that knows me."
Tsze-kung said, "What do you mean by thus saying-that no one knows you?"
The Master replied, "I do not murmur against Heaven. I do not grumble
against men. My studies lie low, and my penetration rises high. But there
is Heaven;-that knows me!"
The Kung-po Liao, having slandered Tsze-lu to Chi-sun, Tsze-fu Ching-po
informed Confucius of it, saying, "Our master is certainly being led astray
by the Kung-po Liao, but I have still power enough left to cut Liao off,
and expose his corpse in the market and in the court."
The Master said, "If my principles are to advance, it is so ordered. If
they are to fall to the ground, it is so ordered. What can the Kung-po Liao
do where such ordering is concerned?"
The Master said, "Some men of worth retire from the world. Some retire from
particular states. Some retire because of disrespectful looks. Some retire
because of contradictory language."
The Master said, "Those who have done this are seven men."
Tsze-lu happening to pass the night in Shih-man, the gatekeeper said to
him, "Whom do you come from?" Tsze-lu said, "From Mr. K'ung." "It is he,-is
it not?"-said the other, "who knows the impracticable nature of the times
and yet will be doing in them."
The Master was playing, one day, on a musical stone in Weil when a man
carrying a straw basket passed door of the house where Confucius was, and
said, "His heart is full who so beats the musical stone."
A little while after, he added, "How contemptible is the one-ideaed
obstinacy those sounds display! When one is taken no notice of, he has
simply at once to give over his wish for public employment. 'Deep water
must be crossed with the clothes on; shallow water may be crossed with the
clothes held up.'"
The Master said, "How determined is he in his purpose! But this is not
difficult!"
Tsze-chang said, "What is meant when the Shu says that Kao-tsung, while
observing the usual imperial mourning, was for three years without
speaking?"
The Master said, "Why must Kao-tsung be referred to as an example of this?
The ancients all did so. When the sovereign died, the officers all attended
to their several duties, taking instructions from the prime minister for
three years."
The Master said, "When rulers love to observe the rules of propriety, the
people respond readily to the calls on them for service."
Tsze-lu asked what constituted the superior man. The Master said, "The
cultivation of himself in reverential carefulness." "And is this all?" said
Tsze-lu. "He cultivates himself so as to give rest to others," was the
reply. "And is this all?" again asked Tsze-lu. The Master said, "He
cultivates himself so as to give rest to all the people. He cultivates
himself so as to give rest to all the people:-even Yao and Shun were still
solicitous about this."
Yuan Zang was squatting on his heels, and so waited the approach of the
Master, who said to him, "In youth not humble as befits a junior; in
manhood, doing nothing worthy of being handed down; and living on to old
age:-this is to be a pest." With this he hit him on the shank with his
staff.
A youth of the village of Ch'ueh was employed by Confucius to carry the
messages between him and his visitors. Some one asked about him, saying, "I
suppose he has made great progress."
The Master said, "I observe that he is fond of occupying the seat of a
full-grown man; I observe that he walks shoulder to shoulder with his
elders. He is not one who is seeking to make progress in learning. He
wishes quickly to become a man."
Part 15
The Duke Ling of Wei asked Confucius about tactics. Confucius replied, "I
have heard all about sacrificial vessels, but I have not learned military
matters." On this, he took his departure the next day.
When he was in Chan, their provisions were exhausted, and his followers
became so in that they were unable to rise.
Tsze-lu, with evident dissatisfaction, said, "Has the superior man likewise
to endure in this way?" The Master said, "The superior man may indeed have
to endure want, but the mean man, when he is in want, gives way to
unbridled license."
The Master said, "Ts'ze, you think, I suppose, that I am one who learns
many things and keeps them in memory?"
Tsze-kung replied, "Yes,-but perhaps it is not so?"
"No," was the answer; "I seek a unity all pervading."
The Master said, "Yu I those who know virtue are few."
The Master said, "May not Shun be instanced as having governed efficiently
without exertion? What did he do? He did nothing but gravely and reverently
occupy his royal seat."
Tsze-chang asked how a man should conduct himself, so as to be everywhere
appreciated.
The Master said, "Let his words be sincere and truthful and his actions
honorable and careful;-such conduct may be practiced among the rude tribes
of the South or the North. If his words be not sincere and truthful and his
actions not honorable and carefull will he, with such conduct, be
appreciated, even in his neighborhood?
"When he is standing, let him see those two things, as it were, fronting
him. When he is in a carriage, let him see them attached to the yoke. Then
may he subsequently carry them into practice."
Tsze-chang wrote these counsels on the end of his sash.
The Master said, "Truly straightforward was the historiographer Yu. When
good government prevailed in his state, he was like an arrow. When bad
government prevailed, he was like an arrow. A superior man indeed is Chu
Po-yu! When good government prevails in his state, he is to be found in
office. When bad government prevails, he can roll his principles up, and
keep them in his breast."
The Master said, "When a man may be spoken with, not to speak to him is to
err in reference to the man. When a man may not be spoken with, to speak to
him is to err in reference to our words. The wise err neither in regard to
their man nor to their words."
The Master said, "The determined scholar and the man of virtue will not
seek to live at the expense of injuring their virtue. They will even
sacrifice their lives to preserve their virtue complete."
Tsze-kung asked about the practice of virtue. The Master said, "The
mechanic, who wishes to do his work well, must first sharpen his tools.
When you are living in any state, take service with the most worthy among
its great officers, and make friends of the most virtuous among its
scholars."
Yen Yuan asked how the government of a country should be administered.
The Master said, "Follow the seasons of Hsia.
"Ride in the state carriage of Yin.
"Wear the ceremonial cap of Chau.
"Let the music be the Shao with its pantomimes. Banish the songs of Chang,
and keep far from specious talkers. The songs of Chang are licentious;
specious talkers are dangerous."
The Master said, "If a man take no thought about what is distant, he will
find sorrow near at hand."
The Master said, "It is all over! I have not seen one who loves virtue as
he loves beauty."
The Master said, "Was not Tsang Wan like one who had stolen his situation?
He knew the virtue and the talents of Hui of Liu-hsia, and yet did not
procure that he should stand with him in court."
The Master said, "He who requires much from himself and little from others,
will keep himself from being the object of resentment."
The Master said, "When a man is not in the habit of saying-'What shall I
think of this? What shall I think of this?' I can indeed do nothing with
him!"
The Master said, "When a number of people are together, for a whole day,
without their conversation turning on righteousness, and when they are fond
of carrying out the suggestions of a small shrewdness;-theirs is indeed a
hard case."
The Master said, "The superior man in everything considers righteousness to
be essential. He performs it according to the rules of propriety. He brings
it forth in humility. He completes it with sincerity. This is indeed a
superior man."
The Master said, "The superior man is distressed by his want of ability. He
is not distressed by men's not knowing him."
The Master said, "The superior man dislikes the thought of his name not
being mentioned after his death."
The Master said, "What the superior man seeks, is in himself. What the mean
man seeks, is in others."
The Master said, "The superior man is dignified, but does not wrangle. He
is sociable, but not a partisan."
The Master said, "The superior man does not promote a man simply on account
of his words, nor does he put aside good words because of the man."
Tsze-kung asked, saying, "Is there one word which may serve as a rule of
practice for all one's life?" The Master said, "Is not Reciprocity such a
word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others."
The Master said, "In my dealings with men, whose evil do I blame, whose
goodness do I praise, beyond what is proper? If I do sometimes exceed in
praise, there must be ground for it in my examination of the individual.
"This people supplied the ground why the three dynasties pursued the path
of straightforwardness."
The Master said, "Even in my early days, a historiographer would leave a
blank in his text, and he who had a horse would lend him to another to
ride. Now, alas! there are no such things."
The Master said, "Specious words confound virtue. Want of forbearance in
small matters confounds great plans."
The Master said, "When the multitude hate a man, it is necessary to examine
into the case. When the multitude like a man, it is necessary to examine
into the case."
The Master said, "A man can enlarge the principles which he follows; those
principles do not enlarge the man."
The Master said, "To have faults and not to reform them,-this, indeed,
should be pronounced having faults."
The Master said, "I have been the whole day without eating, and the whole
night without sleeping:-occupied with thinking. It was of no use. better
plan is to learn."
The Master said, "The object of the superior man is truth. Food is not his
object. There is plowing;-even in that there is sometimes want. So with
learning;-emolument may be found in it. The superior man is anxious lest he
should not get truth; he is not anxious lest poverty should come upon him."
The Master said, "When a man's knowledge is sufficient to attain, and his
virtue is not sufficient to enable him to hold, whatever he may have
gained, he will lose again.
"When his knowledge is sufficient to attain, and he has virtue enough to
hold fast, if he cannot govern with dignity, the people will not respect
him.
"When his knowledge is sufficient to attain, and he has virtue enough to
hold fast; when he governs also with dignity, yet if he try to move the
people contrary to the rules of propriety:-full excellence is not reached."
The Master said, "The superior man cannot be known in little matters; but
he may be intrusted with great concerns. The small man may not be intrusted
with great concerns, but he may be known in little matters."
The Master said, "Virtue is more to man than either water or fire. I have
seen men die from treading on water and fire, but I have never seen a man
die from treading the course of virtue."
The Master said, "Let every man consider virtue as what devolves on
himself. He may not yield the performance of it even to his teacher."
The Master said, "The superior man is correctly firm, and not firm merely."
The Master said, "A minister, in serving his prince, reverently discharges
his duties, and makes his emolument a secondary consideration."
The Master said, "In teaching there should be no distinction of classes."
The Master said, "Those whose courses are different cannot lay plans for
one another."
The Master said, "In language it is simply required that it convey the
meaning."
The music master, Mien, having called upon him, when they came to the
steps, the Master said, "Here are the steps." When they came to the mat for
the guest to sit upon, he said, "Here is the mat." When all were seated,
the Master informed him, saying, "So and so is here; so and so is here."
The music master, Mien, having gone out, Tsze-chang asked, saying. "Is it
the rule to tell those things to the music master?"
The Master said, "Yes. This is certainly the rule for those who lead the
blind."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
SECTION 4
Part 16
The head of the Chi family was going to attack Chwan-yu.
Zan Yu and Chi-lu had an interview with Confucius, and said, "Our chief,
Chil is going to commence operations against Chwan-yu."
Confucius said, "Ch'iu, is it not you who are in fault here?
"Now, in regard to Chwan-yu, long ago, a former king appointed its ruler to
preside over the sacrifices to the eastern Mang; moreover, it is in the
midst of the territory of our state; and its ruler is a minister in direct
connection with the sovereign: What has your chief to do with attacking it?
"
Zan Yu said, "Our master wishes the thing; neither of us two ministers
wishes it."
Confucius said, "Ch'iu, there are the words of Chau Zan, -'When he can put
forth his ability, he takes his place in the ranks of office; when he finds
himself unable to do so, he retires from it. How can he be used as a guide
to a blind man, who does not support him when tottering, nor raise him up
when fallen?'
"And further, you speak wrongly. When a tiger or rhinoceros escapes from
his cage; when a tortoise or piece of jade is injured in its
repository:-whose is the fault?"
Zan Yu said, "But at present, Chwan-yu is strong and near to Pi; if our
chief do not now take it, it will hereafter be a sorrow to his
descendants."
Confucius said. "Ch'iu, the superior man hates those declining to say-'I
want such and such a thing,' and framing explanations for their conduct.
"I have heard that rulers of states and chiefs of families are not troubled
lest their people should be few, but are troubled lest they should not keep
their several places; that they are not troubled with fears of poverty, but
are troubled with fears of a want of contented repose among the people in
their several places. For when the people keep their several places, there
will be no poverty; when harmony prevails, there will be no scarcity of
people; and when there is such a contented repose, there will be no
rebellious upsettings.
"So it is.-Therefore, if remoter people are not submissive, all the
influences of civil culture and virtue are to be cultivated to attract them
to be so; and when they have been so attracted, they must be made contented
and tranquil.
"Now, here are you, Yu and Ch'iu, assisting your chief. Remoter people are
not submissive, and, with your help, he cannot attract them to him. In his
own territory there are divisions and downfalls, leavings and separations,
and, with your help, he cannot preserve it.
"And yet he is planning these hostile movements within the state.-I am
afraid that the sorrow of the Chi-sun family will not be on account of
Chwan-yu, but will be found within the screen of their own court."
Confucius said, "When good government prevails in the empire, ceremonies,
music, and punitive military expeditions proceed from the son of Heaven.
When bad government prevails in the empire, ceremonies, music, and punitive
military expeditions proceed from the princes. When these things proceed
from the princes, as a rule, the cases will be few in which they do not
lose their power in ten generations. When they proceed from the great
officers of the princes, as a rule, the case will be few in which they do
not lose their power in five generations. When the subsidiary ministers of
the great officers hold in their grasp the orders of the state, as a rule
the cases will be few in which they do not lose their power in three
generations.
"When right principles prevail in the kingdom, government will not be in
the hands of the great officers.
"When right principles prevail in the kingdom, there will be no discussions
among the common people."
Confucius said, "The revenue of the state has left the ducal house now for
five generations. The government has been in the hands of the great
officers for four generations. On this account, the descendants of the
three Hwan are much reduced."
Confucius said, "There are three friendships which are advantageous, and
three which are injurious. Friendship with the uplight; friendship with the
sincere; and friendship with the man of much observation:-these are
advantageous. Friendship with the man of specious airs; friendship with the
insinuatingly soft; and friendship with the glib-tongued:-these are
injurious."
Confucius said, "There are three things men find enjoyment in which are
advantageous, and three things they find enjoyment in which are injurious.
To find enjoyment in the discriminating study of ceremonies and music; to
find enjoyment in speaking of the goodness of others; to find enjoyment in
having many worthy friends:-these are advantageous. To find enjoyment in
extravagant pleasures; to find enjoyment in idleness and sauntering; to
find enjoyment in the pleasures of feasting:-these are injurious."
Confucius said, "There are three errors to which they who stand in the
presence of a man of virtue and station are liable. They may speak when it
does not come to them to speak;-this is called rashness. They may not speak
when it comes to them to speak;-this is called concealment. They may speak
without looking at the countenance of their superior;-this is called
blindness."
Confucius said, "There are three things which the superior man guards
against. In youth, when the physical powers are not yet settled, he guards
against lust. When he is strong and the physical powers are full of vigor,
he guards against quarrelsomeness. When he is old, and the animal powers
are decayed, he guards against covetousness."
Confucius said, "There are three things of which the superior man stands in
awe. He stands in awe of the ordinances of Heaven. He stands in awe of
great men. He stands in awe of the words of sages.
"The mean man does not know the ordinances of Heaven, and consequently does
not stand in awe of them. He is disrespectful to great men. He makes sport
of the words of sages."
Confucius said, "Those who are born with the possession of knowledge are
the highest class of men. Those who learn, and so readily get possession of
knowledge, are the next. Those who are dull and stupid, and yet compass the
learning, are another class next to these. As to those who are dull and
stupid and yet do not learn;-they are the lowest of the people."
Confucius said, "The superior man has nine things which are subjects with
him of thoughtful consideration. In regard to the use of his eyes, he is
anxious to see clearly. In regard to the use of his ears, he is anxious to
hear distinctly. In regard to his countenance, he is anxious that it should
be benign. In regard to his demeanor, he is anxious that it should be
respectful. In regard to his speech, he is anxious that it should be
sincere. In regard to his doing of business, he is anxious that it should
be reverently careful. In regard to what he doubts about, he is anxious to
question others. When he is angry, he thinks of the difficulties his anger
may involve him in. When he sees gain to be got, he thinks of
righteousness."
Confucius said, "Contemplating good, and pursuing it, as if they could not
reach it; contemplating evil! and shrinking from it, as they would from
thrusting the hand into boiling water:-I have seen such men, as I have
heard such words.
"Living in retirement to study their aims, and practicing righteousness to
carry out their principles:-I have heard these words, but I have not seen
such men."
The Duke Ching of Ch'i had a thousand teams, each of four horses, but on
the day of his death, the people did not praise him for a single virtue.
Po-i and Shu-ch'i died of hunger at the foot of the Shau-yang mountains,
and the people, down to the present time, praise them.
"Is not that saying illustrated by this?"
Ch'an K'ang asked Po-yu, saying, "Have you heard any lessons from your
father different from what we have all heard?"
Po-yu replied, "No. He was standing alone once, when I passed below the
hall with hasty steps, and said to me, 'Have you learned the Odes?' On my
replying 'Not yet,' he added, If you do not learn the Odes, you will not be
fit to converse with.' I retired and studied the Odes.
"Another day, he was in the same way standing alone, when I passed by below
the hall with hasty steps, and said to me, 'Have you learned the rules of
Propriety?' On my replying 'Not yet,' he added, 'If you do not learn the
rules of Propriety, your character cannot be established.' I then retired,
and learned the rules of Propriety.
"I have heard only these two things from him."
Ch'ang K'ang retired, and, quite delighted, said, "I asked one thing, and I
have got three things. I have heard about the Odes. I have heard about the
rules of Propriety. I have also heard that the superior man maintains a
distant reserve towards his son."
The wife of the prince of a state is called by him Fu Zan. She calls
herself Hsiao T'ung. The people of the state call her Chun Fu Zan, and, to
the people of other states, they call her K'wa Hsiao Chun. The people of
other states also call her Chun Fu Zan.
Part 17
Yang Ho wished to see Confucius, but Confucius would not go to see him. On
this, he sent a present of a pig to Confucius, who, having chosen a time
when Ho was not at home went to pay his respects for the gift. He met him,
however, on the way.
Ho said to Confucius, "Come, let me speak with you." He then asked, "Can he
be called benevolent who keeps his jewel in his bosom, and leaves his
country to confusion?" Confucius replied, "No." "Can he be called wise, who
is anxious to be engaged in public employment, and yet is constantly losing
the opportunity of being so?" Confucius again said, "No." "The days and
months are passing away; the years do not wait for us." Confucius said,
"Right; I will go into office."
The Master said, "By nature, men are nearly alike; by practice, they get to
be wide apart."
The Master said, "There are only the wise of the highest class, and the
stupid of the lowest class, who cannot be changed."
The Master, having come to Wu-ch'ang, heard there the sound of stringed
instruments and singing.
Well pleased and smiling, he said, "Why use an ox knife to kill a fowl?"
Tsze-yu replied, "Formerly, Master, I heard you say,-'When the man of high
station is well instructed, he loves men; when the man of low station is
well instructed, he is easily ruled.'"
The Master said, "My disciples, Yen's words are right. What I said was only
in sport."
Kung-shan Fu-zao, when he was holding Pi, and in an attitude of rebellion,
invited the Master to visit him, who was rather inclined to go.
Tsze-lu was displeased. and said, "Indeed, you cannot go! Why must you
think of going to see Kung-shan?"
The Master said, "Can it be without some reason that he has invited ME? If
any one employ me, may I not make an eastern Chau?"
Tsze-chang asked Confucius about perfect virtue. Confucius said, "To be
able to practice five things everywhere under heaven constitutes perfect
virtue." He begged to ask what they were, and was told, "Gravity,
generosity of soul, sincerity, earnestness, and kindness. If you are grave,
you will not be treated with disrespect. If you are generous, you will win
all. If you are sincere, people will repose trust in you. If you are
earnest, you will accomplish much. If you are kind, this will enable you to
employ the services of others.
Pi Hsi inviting him to visit him, the Master was inclined to go.
Tsze-lu said, "Master, formerly I have heard you say, 'When a man in his
own person is guilty of doing evil, a superior man will not associate with
him.' Pi Hsi is in rebellion, holding possession of Chung-mau; if you go to
him, what shall be said?"
The Master said, "Yes, I did use these words. But is it not said, that, if
a thing be really hard, it may be ground without being made thin? Is it not
said, that, if a thing be really white, it may be steeped in a dark fluid
without being made black?
"Am I a bitter gourd? How can I be hung up out of the way of being eaten?"
The Master said, "Yu, have you heard the six words to which are attached
six becloudings?" Yu replied, "I have not."
"Sit down, and I will tell them to you.
"There is the love of being benevolent without the love of learning;-the
beclouding here leads to a foolish simplicity. There is the love of knowing
without the love of learning;-the beclouding here leads to dissipation of
mind. There is the love of being sincere without the love of learning;-the
beclouding here leads to an injurious disregard of consequences. There is
the love of straightforwardness without the love of learning;-the
beclouding here leads to rudeness. There is the love of boldness without
the love of learning;-the beclouding here leads to insubordination. There
is the love of firmness without the love of learning;-the beclouding here
leads to extravagant conduct."
The Master said, "My children, why do you not study the Book of Poetry?
"The Odes serve to stimulate the mind.
"They may be used for purposes of self-contemplation.
"They teach the art of sociability.
"They show how to regulate feelings of resentment.
"From them you learn the more immediate duty of serving one's father, and
the remoter one of serving one's prince.
"From them we become largely acquainted with the names of birds, beasts,
and plants."
The Master said to Po-yu, "Do you give yourself to the Chau-nan and the
Shao-nan. The man who has not studied the Chau-nan and the Shao-nan is like
one who stands with his face right against a wall. Is he not so?" The
Master said, "'It is according to the rules of propriety,' they say.-'It is
according to the rules of propriety,' they say. Are gems and silk all that
is meant by propriety? 'It is music,' they say.-'It is music,' they say.
Are hers and drums all that is meant by music?"
The Master said, "He who puts on an appearance of stern firmness, while
inwardly he is weak, is like one of the small, mean people;-yea, is he not
like the thief who breaks through, or climbs over, a wall?"
The Master said, "Your good, careful people of the villages are the thieves
of virtue."
The Master said, To tell, as we go along, what we have heard on the way, is
to cast away our virtue."
The Master said, "There are those mean creatures! How impossible it is
along with them to serve one's prince!
"While they have not got their aims, their anxiety is how to get them. When
they have got them, their anxiety is lest they should lose them.
"When they are anxious lest such things should be lost, there is nothing to
which they will not proceed."
The Master said, "Anciently, men had three failings, which now perhaps are
not to be found.
"The high-mindedness of antiquity showed itself in a disregard of small
things; the high-mindedness of the present day shows itself in wild
license. The stern dignity of antiquity showed itself in grave reserve; the
stern dignity of the present day shows itself in quarrelsome perverseness.
The stupidity of antiquity showed itself in straightforwardness; the
stupidity of the present day shows itself in sheer deceit."
The Master said, "Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom
associated with virtue."
The Master said, "I hate the manner in which purple takes away the luster
of vermilion. I hate the way in which the songs of Chang confound the music
of the Ya. I hate those who with their sharp mouths overthrow kingdoms and
families."
The Master said, "I would prefer not speaking."
Tsze-kung said, "If you, Master, do not speak, what shall we, your
disciples, have to record?"
The Master said, "Does Heaven speak? The four seasons pursue their courses,
and all things are continually being produced, but does Heaven say
anything?"
Zu Pei wished to see Confucius, but Confucius declined, on the ground of
being sick, to see him. When the bearer of this message went out at the
door, the Master took his lute and sang to it, in order that Pei might hear
him.
Tsai Wo asked about the three years' mourning for parents, saying that one
year was long enough.
"If the superior man," said he, "abstains for three years from the
observances of propriety, those observances will be quite lost. If for
three years he abstains from music, music will be ruined. Within a year the
old grain is exhausted, and the new grain has sprung up, and, in procuring
fire by friction, we go through all the changes of wood for that purpose.
After a complete year, the mourning may stop."
The Master said, "If you were, after a year, to eat good rice, and wear
embroidered clothes, would you feel at ease?" "I should," replied Wo.
The Master said, "If you can feel at ease, do it. But a superior man,
during the whole period of mourning, does not enjoy pleasant food which he
may eat, nor derive pleasure from music which he may hear. He also does not
feel at ease, if he is comfortably lodged. Therefore he does not do what
you propose. But now you feel at ease and may do it."
Tsai Wo then went out, and the Master said, "This shows Yu's want of
virtue. It is not till a child is three years old that it is allowed to
leave the arms of its parents. And the three years' mourning is universally
observed throughout the empire. Did Yu enjoy the three years' love of his
parents?"
The Master said, "Hard is it to deal with who will stuff himself with food
the whole day, without applying his mind to anything good! Are there not
gamesters and chess players? To be one of these would still be better than
doing nothing at all."
Tsze-lu said, "Does the superior man esteem valor?" The Master said, "The
superior man holds righteousness to be of highest importance. A man in a
superior situation, having valor without righteousness, will be guilty of
insubordination; one of the lower people having valor without
righteousness, will commit robbery."
Tsze-kung said, "Has the superior man his hatreds also?" The Master said,
"He has his hatreds. He hates those who proclaim the evil of others. He
hates the man who, being in a low station, slanders his superiors. He hates
those who have valor merely, and are unobservant of propriety. He hates
those who are forward and determined, and, at the same time, of contracted
understanding."
The Master then inquired, "Ts'ze, have you also your hatreds?" Tsze-kung
replied, "I hate those who pry out matters, and ascribe the knowledge to
their wisdom. I hate those who are only not modest, and think that they are
valorous. I hate those who make known secrets, and think that they are
straightforward."
The Master said, "Of all people, girls and servants are the most difficult
to behave to. If you are familiar with them, they lose their humility. If
you maintain a reserve towards them, they are discontented."
The Master said, "When a man at forty is the object of dislike, he will
always continue what he is."
Part 18
The Viscount of Wei withdrew from the court. The Viscount of Chi became a
slave to Chau. Pi-kan remonstrated with him and died.
Confucius said, "The Yin dynasty possessed these three men of virtue."
Hui of Liu-hsia, being chief criminal judge, was thrice dismissed from his
office. Some one said to him, "Is it not yet time for you, sir, to leave
this?" He replied, "Serving men in an upright way, where shall I go to, and
not experience such a thrice-repeated dismissal? If I choose to serve men
in a crooked way, what necessity is there for me to leave the country of my
parents?"
The duke Ching of Ch'i, with reference to the manner in which he should
treat Confucius, said, "I cannot treat him as I would the chief of the Chi
family. I will treat him in a manner between that accorded to the chief of
the Chil and that given to the chief of the Mang family." He also said, "I
am old; I cannot use his doctrines." Confucius took his departure.
The people of Ch'i sent to Lu a present of female musicians, which Chi Hwan
received, and for three days no court was held. Confucius took his
departure.
The madman of Ch'u, Chieh-yu, passed by Confucius, singing and saying, "O
FANG! O FANG! How is your virtue degenerated! As to the past, reproof is
useless; but the future may still be provided against. Give up your vain
pursuit. Give up your vain pursuit. Peril awaits those who now engage in
affairs of government."
Confucius alighted and wished to converse with him, but Chieh-yu hastened
away, so that he could not talk with him.
Ch'ang-tsu and Chieh-ni were at work in the field together, when Confucius
passed by them, and sent Tsze-lu to inquire for the ford.
Ch'ang-tsu said, "Who is he that holds the reins in the carriage there?"
Tsze-lu told him, "It is K'ung Ch'iu.', "Is it not K'ung of Lu?" asked he.
"Yes," was the reply, to which the other rejoined, "He knows the ford."
Tsze-lu then inquired of Chieh-ni, who said to him, "Who are you, sir?" He
answered, "I am Chung Yu." "Are you not the disciple of K'ung Ch'iu of Lu?"
asked the other. "I am," replied he, and then Chieh-ni said to him,
"Disorder, like a swelling flood, spreads over the whole empire, and who is
he that will change its state for you? Rather than follow one who merely
withdraws from this one and that one, had you not better follow those who
have withdrawn from the world altogether?" With this he fell to covering up
the seed, and proceeded with his work, without stopping.
Tsze-lu went and reported their remarks, when the Master observed with a
sigh, "It is impossible to associate with birds and beasts, as if they were
the same with us. If I associate not with these people,-with mankind,-with
whom shall I associate? If right principles prevailed through the empire,
there would be no use for me to change its state."
Tsze-lu, following the Master, happened to fall behind, when he met an old
man, carrying across his shoulder on a staff a basket for weeds. Tsze-lu
said to him, "Have you seen my master, sir?" The old man replied, "Your
four limbs are unaccustomed to toil; you cannot distinguish the five kinds
of grain:-who is your master?" With this, he planted his staff in the
ground, and proceeded to weed.
Tsze-lu joined his hands across his breast, and stood before him.
The old man kept Tsze-lu to pass the night in his house, killed a fowl,
prepared millet, and feasted him. He also introduced to him his two sons.
Next day, Tsze-lu went on his way, and reported his adventure. The Master
said, "He is a recluse," and sent Tsze-lu back to see him again, but when
he got to the place, the old man was gone.
Tsze-lu then said to the family, "Not to take office is not righteous. If
the relations between old and young may not be neglected, how is it that he
sets aside the duties that should be observed between sovereign and
minister? Wishing to maintain his personal purity, he allows that great
relation to come to confusion. A superior man takes office, and performs
the righteous duties belonging to it. As to the failure of right principles
to make progress, he is aware of that."
The men who have retired to privacy from the world have been Po-i,
Shu-ch'i, Yuchung, I-yi, Chu-chang, Hui of Liu-hsia, and Shao-lien.
The Master said, "Refusing to surrender their wills, or to submit to any
taint in their persons; such, I think, were Po-i and Shu-ch'i.
"It may be said of Hui of Liu-hsia! and of Shaolien, that they surrendered
their wills, and submitted to taint in their persons, but their words
corresponded with reason, and their actions were such as men are anxious to
see. This is all that is to be remarked in them.
"It may be said of Yu-chung and I-yi, that, while they hid themselves in
their seclusion, they gave a license to their words; but in their persons,
they succeeded in preserving their purity, and, in their retirement, they
acted according to the exigency of the times.
"I am different from all these. I have no course for which I am
predetermined, and no course against which I am predetermined."
The grand music master, Chih, went to Ch'i.
Kan, the master of the band at the second meal, went to Ch'u. Liao, the
band master at the third meal, went to Ts'ai. Chueh, the band master at the
fourth meal, went to Ch'in.
Fang-shu, the drum master, withdrew to the north of the river.
Wu, the master of the hand drum, withdrew to the Han.
Yang, the assistant music master, and Hsiang, master of the musical stone,
withdrew to an island in the sea.
The duke of Chau addressed his son, the duke of Lu, saying, "The virtuous
prince does not neglect his relations. He does not cause the great
ministers to repine at his not employing them. Without some great cause, he
does not dismiss from their offices the members of old families. He does
not seek in one man talents for every employment."
To Chau belonged the eight officers, Po-ta, Po-kwo, Chung-tu, Chung-hwu,
Shu-ya, Shuhsia, Chi-sui, and Chi-kwa.
Part 19
Tsze-chang said, "The scholar, trained for public duty, seeing threatening
danger, is prepared to sacrifice his life. When the opportunity of gain is
presented to him, he thinks of righteousness. In sacrificing, his thoughts
are reverential. In mourning, his thoughts are about the grief which he
should feel. Such a man commands our approbation indeed
Tsze-chang said, "When a man holds fast to virtue, but without seeking to
enlarge it, and believes in right principles, but without firm sincerity,
what account can be made of his existence or non-existence?"
The disciples of Tsze-hsia asked Tsze-chang about the principles that
should characterize mutual intercourse. Tsze-chang asked, "What does
Tsze-hsia say on the subject?" They replied, "Tsze-hsia says: 'Associate
with those who can advantage you. Put away from you those who cannot do
so.'" Tsze-chang observed, "This is different from what I have learned. The
superior man honors the talented and virtuous, and bears with all. He
praises the good, and pities the incompetent. Am I possessed of great
talents and virtue?-who is there among men whom I will not bear with? Am I
devoid of talents and virtue?-men will put me away from them. What have we
to do with the putting away of others?"
Tsze-hsia said, "Even in inferior studies and employments there is
something worth being looked at; but if it be attempted to carry them out
to what is remote, there is a danger of their proving inapplicable.
Therefore, the superior man does not practice them."
Tsze-hsia said, "He, who from day to day recognizes what he has not yet,
and from month to month does not forget what he has attained to, may be
said indeed to love to learn."
Tsze-hsia said, "There are learning extensively, and having a firm and
sincere aim; inquiring with earnestness, and reflecting with
self-application:-virtue is in such a course."
Tsze-hsia said, "Mechanics have their shops to dwell in, in order to
accomplish their works. The superior man learns, in order to reach to the
utmost of his principles."
Tsze-hsia said, "The mean man is sure to gloss his faults."
Tsze-hsia said, "The superior man undergoes three changes. Looked at from a
distance, he appears stern; when approached, he is mild; when he is heard
to speak, his language is firm and decided."
Tsze-hsia said, "The superior man, having obtained their confidence, may
then impose labors on his people. If he have not gained their confidence,
they will think that he is oppressing them. Having obtained the confidence
of his prince, one may then remonstrate with him. If he have not gained his
confidence, the prince will think that he is vilifying him."
Tsze-hsia said, "When a person does not transgress the boundary line in the
great virtues, he may pass and repass it in the small virtues."
Tsze-yu said, "The disciples and followers of Tsze-hsia, in sprinkling and
sweeping the ground, in answering and replying, in advancing and receding,
are sufficiently accomplished. But these are only the branches of learning,
and they are left ignorant of what is essential.-How can they be
acknowledged as sufficiently taught?"
Tsze-hsia heard of the remark and said, "Alas! Yen Yu is wrong. According
to the way of the superior man in teaching, what departments are there
which he considers of prime importance, and delivers? what are there which
he considers of secondary importance, and allows himself to be idle about?
But as in the case of plants, which are assorted according to their
classes, so he deals with his disciples. How can the way of a superior man
be such as to make fools of any of them? Is it not the sage alone, who can
unite in one the beginning and the consummation of learning?"
Tsze-hsia said, "The officer, having discharged all his duties, should
devote his leisure to learning. The student, having completed his learning,
should apply himself to be an officer."
Tsze-hsia said, "Mourning, having been carried to the utmost degree of
grief, should stop with that."
Tsze-hsia said, "My friend Chang can do things which are hard to be done,
but yet he is not perfectly virtuous."
The philosopher Tsang said, "How imposing is the manner of Chang! It is
difficult along with him to practice virtue."
The philosopher Tsang said, "I heard this from our Master: 'Men may not
have shown what is in them to the full extent, and yet they will be found
to do so, on the occasion of mourning for their parents."
The philosopher Tsang said, "I have heard this from our Master:-'The filial
piety of Mang Chwang, in other matters, was what other men are competent
to, but, as seen in his not changing the ministers of his father, nor his
father's mode of government, it is difficult to be attained to.'"
The chief of the Mang family having appointed Yang Fu to be chief criminal
judge, the latter consulted the philosopher Tsang. Tsang said, "The rulers
have failed in their duties, and the people consequently have been
disorganized for a long time. When you have found out the truth of any
accusation, be grieved for and pity them, and do not feel joy at your own
ability."
Tsze-kung said, "Chau's wickedness was not so great as that name implies.
Therefore, the superior man hates to dwell in a low-lying situation, where
all the evil of the world will flow in upon him."
Tsze-kung said, "The faults of the superior man are like the eclipses of
the sun and moon. He has his faults, and all men see them; he changes
again, and all men look up to him."
Kung-sun Ch'ao of Wei asked Tszekung, saying. "From whom did Chung-ni get
his learning?"
Tsze-kung replied, "The doctrines of Wan and Wu have not yet fallen to the
ground. They are to be found among men. Men of talents and virtue remember
the greater principles of them, and others, not possessing such talents and
virtue, remember the smaller. Thus, all possess the doctrines of Wan and
Wu. Where could our Master go that he should not have an opportunity of
learning them? And yet what necessity was there for his having a regular
master?"
Shu-sun Wu-shu observed to the great officers in the court, saying,
"Tsze-kung is superior to Chung-ni."
Tsze-fu Ching-po reported the observation to Tsze-kung, who said, "Let me
use the comparison of a house and its encompassing wall. My wall only
reaches to the shoulders. One may peep over it, and see whatever is
valuable in the apartments.
"The wall of my Master is several fathoms high. If one do not find the door
and enter by it, he cannot see the ancestral temple with its beauties, nor
all the officers in their rich array.
"But I may assume that they are few who find the door. Was not the
observation of the chief only what might have been expected?"
Shu-sun Wu-shu having spoken revilingly of Chung-ni, Tsze-kung said, "It is
of no use doing so. Chung-ni cannot be reviled. The talents and virtue of
other men are hillocks and mounds which may be stepped over. Chung-ni is
the sun or moon, which it is not possible to step over. Although a man may
wish to cut himself off from the sage, what harm can he do to the sun or
moon? He only shows that he does not know his own capacity.
Ch'an Tsze-ch' in, addressing Tsze-kung, said, "You are too modest. How can
Chung-ni be said to be superior to you?"
Tsze-kung said to him, "For one word a man is often deemed to be wise, and
for one word he is often deemed to be foolish. We ought to be careful
indeed in what we say.
"Our Master cannot be attained to, just in the same way as the heavens
cannot be gone up by the steps of a stair.
"Were our Master in the position of the ruler of a state or the chief of a
family, we should find verified the description which has been given of a
sage's rule:-he would plant the people, and forthwith they would be
established; he would lead them on, and forthwith they would follow him; he
would make them happy, and forthwith multitudes would resort to his
dominions; he would stimulate them, and forthwith they would be harmonious.
While he lived, he would be glorious. When he died, he would be bitterly
lamented. How is it possible for him to be attained to?"
Part 20
Yao said, "Oh! you, Shun, the Heaven-determined order of succession now
rests in your person. Sincerely hold fast the due Mean. If there shall be
distress and want within the four seas, the Heavenly revenue will come to a
perpetual end."
Shun also used the same language in giving charge to Yu.
T'ang said, "I the child Li, presume to use a dark-colored victim, and
presume to announce to Thee, O most great and sovereign God, that the
sinner I dare not pardon, and thy ministers, O God, I do not keep in
obscurity. The examination of them is by thy mind, O God. If, in my person,
I commit offenses, they are not to be attributed to you, the people of the
myriad regions. If you in the myriad regions commit offenses, these
offenses must rest on my person."
Chau conferred great gifts, and the good were enriched.
"Although he has his near relatives, they are not equal to my virtuous men.
The people are throwing blame upon me, the One man."
He carefully attended to the weights and measures, examined the body of the
laws, restored the discarded officers, and the good government of the
kingdom took its course.
He revived states that had been extinguished, restored families whose line
of succession had been broken, and called to office those who had retired
into obscurity, so that throughout the kingdom the hearts of the people
turned towards him.
What he attached chief importance to were the food of the people, the
duties of mourning, and sacrifices.
By his generosity, he won all. By his sincerity, he made the people repose
trust in him. By his earnest activity, his achievements were great. By his
justice, all were delighted.
Tsze-chang asked Confucius, saying, "In what way should a person in
authority act in order that he may conduct government properly?" The Master
replied, "Let him honor the five excellent, and banish away the four bad,
things;-then may he conduct government properly." Tsze-chang said, "What
are meant by the five excellent things?" The Master said, "When the person
in authority is beneficent without great expenditure; when he lays tasks on
the people without their repining; when he pursues what he desires without
being covetous; when he maintains a dignified ease without being proud;
when he is majestic without being fierce."
Tsze-chang said, "What is meant by being beneficent without great
expenditure?" The Master replied, "When the person in authority makes more
beneficial to the people the things from which they naturally derive
benefit;-is not this being beneficent without great expenditure? When he
chooses the labors which are proper, and makes them labor on them, who will
repine? When his desires are set on benevolent government, and he secures
it, who will accuse him of covetousness? Whether he has to do with many
people or few, or with things great or small, he does not dare to indicate
any disrespect;-is not this to maintain a dignified ease without any pride?
He adjusts his clothes and cap, and throws a dignity into his looks, so
that, thus dignified, he is looked at with awe;-is not this to be majestic
without being fierce?"
Tsze-chang then asked, "What are meant by the four bad things?" The Master
said, "To put the people to death without having instructed them;-this is
called cruelty. To require from them, suddenly, the full tale of work,
without having given them warning;-this is called oppression. To issue
orders as if without urgency, at first, and, when the time comes, to insist
on them with severity;-this is called injury. And, generally, in the giving
pay or rewards to men, to do it in a stingy way;-this is called acting the
part of a mere official."
The Master said, "Without recognizing the ordinances of Heaven, it is
impossible to be a superior man.
"Without an acquaintance with the rules of Propriety, it is impossible for
the character to be established.
"Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know men."
THE END#18,942,225textBible, King James Version (KJV)
Book of Matthew
Matthew.1
[1] The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.
[2] Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren;
[3] And Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram;
[4] And Aram begat Aminadab; and Aminadab begat Naasson; and Naasson begat Salmon;
[5] And Salmon begat Booz of Rachab; and Booz begat Obed of Ruth; and Obed begat Jesse;
[6] And Jesse begat David the king; and David the king begat Solomon of her that had been the wife of Urias;
[7] And Solomon begat Roboam; and Roboam begat Abia; and Abia begat Asa;
[8] And Asa begat Josaphat; and Josaphat begat Joram; and Joram begat Ozias;
[9] And Ozias begat Joatham; and Joatham begat Achaz; and Achaz begat Ezekias;
[10] And Ezekias begat Manasses; and Manasses begat Amon; and Amon begat Josias;
[11] And Josias begat Jechonias and his brethren, about the time they were carried away to Babylon:
[12] And after they were brought to Babylon, Jechonias begat Salathiel; and Salathiel begat Zorobabel;
[13] And Zorobabel begat Abiud; and Abiud begat Eliakim; and Eliakim begat Azor;
[14] And Azor begat Sadoc; and Sadoc begat Achim; and Achim begat Eliud;
[15] And Eliud begat Eleazar; and Eleazar begat Matthan; and Matthan begat Jacob;
[16] And Jacob begat Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ.
[17] So all the generations from Abraham to David are fourteen generations; and from David until the carrying away into Babylon are fourteen generations; and from the carrying away into Babylon unto Christ are fourteen generations.
[18] Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.
[19] Then Joseph her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a publick example, was minded to put her away privily.
[20] But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.
[21] And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins.
[22] Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying,
[23] Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.
[24] Then Joseph being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife:
[25] And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son: and he called his name JESUS.
Matthew.2
[1] Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,
[2] Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.
[3] When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him.
[4] And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born.
[5] And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judaea: for thus it is written by the prophet,
[6] And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the princes of Juda: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule my people Israel.
[7] Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them diligently what time the star appeared.
[8] And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also.
[9] When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.
[10] When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.
[11] And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.
[12] And being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod, they departed into their own country another way.
[13] And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him.
[14] When he arose, he took the young child and his mother by night, and departed into Egypt:
[15] And was there until the death of Herod: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying, Out of Egypt have I called my son.
[16] Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently inquired of the wise men.
[17] Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying,
[18] In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.
[19] But when Herod was dead, behold, an angel of the Lord appeareth in a dream to Joseph in Egypt,
[20] Saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and go into the land of Israel: for they are dead which sought the young child's life.
[21] And he arose, and took the young child and his mother, and came into the land of Israel.
[22] But when he heard that Archelaus did reign in Judaea in the room of his father Herod, he was afraid to go thither: notwithstanding, being warned of God in a dream, he turned aside into the parts of Galilee:
[23] And he came and dwelt in a city called Nazareth: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophets, He shall be called a Nazarene.
Matthew.3
[1] In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judaea,
[2] And saying, Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.
[3] For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.
[4] And the same John had his raiment of camel's hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins; and his meat was locusts and wild honey.
[5] Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judaea, and all the region round about Jordan,
[6] And were baptized of him in Jordan, confessing their sins.
[7] But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees come to his baptism, he said unto them, O generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come?
[8] Bring forth therefore fruits meet for repentance:
[9] And think not to say within yourselves, We have Abraham to our father: for I say unto you, that God is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham.
[10] And now also the axe is laid unto the root of the trees: therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
[11] I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance: but he that cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear: he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost, and with fire:
[12] Whose fan is in his hand, and he will throughly purge his floor, and gather his wheat into the garner; but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire.
[13] Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John, to be baptized of him.
[14] But John forbad him, saying, I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me?
[15] And Jesus answering said unto him, Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness. Then he suffered him.
[16] And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him:
[17] And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.
Matthew.4
[1] Then was Jesus led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil.
[2] And when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward an hungred.
[3] And when the tempter came to him, he said, If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread.
[4] But he answered and said, It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.
[5] Then the devil taketh him up into the holy city, and setteth him on a pinnacle of the temple,
[6] And saith unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down: for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.
[7] Jesus said unto him, It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.
[8] Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them;
[9] And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.
[10] Then saith Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.
[11] Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered unto him.
[12] Now when Jesus had heard that John was cast into prison, he departed into Galilee;
[13] And leaving Nazareth, he came and dwelt in Capernaum, which is upon the sea coast, in the borders of Zabulon and Nephthalim:
[14] That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying,
[15] The land of Zabulon, and the land of Nephthalim, by the way of the sea, beyond Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles;
[16] The people which sat in darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up.
[17] From that time Jesus began to preach, and to say, Repent: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.
[18] And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers.
[19] And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.
[20] And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.
[21] And going on from thence, he saw other two brethren, James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother, in a ship with Zebedee their father, mending their nets; and he called them.
[22] And they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him.
[23] And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people.
[24] And his fame went throughout all Syria: and they brought unto him all sick people that were taken with divers diseases and torments, and those which were possessed with devils, and those which were lunatick, and those that had the palsy; and he healed them.
[25] And there followed him great multitudes of people from Galilee, and from Decapolis, and from Jerusalem, and from Judaea, and from beyond Jordan.
Matthew.5
[1] And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:
[2] And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,
[3] Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
[4] Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
[5] Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
[6] Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
[7] Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
[8] Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
[9] Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
[10] Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
[11] Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
[12] Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.
[13] Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
[14] Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.
[15] Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.
[16] Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.
[17] Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.
[18] For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled.
[19] Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.
[20] For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.
[21] Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment:
[22] But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.
[23] Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee;
[24] Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.
[25] Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.
[26] Verily I say unto thee, Thou shalt by no means come out thence, till thou hast paid the uttermost farthing.
[27] Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery:
[28] But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.
[29] And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.
[30] And if thy right hand offend thee, cut if off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.
[31] It hath been said, Whosoever shall put away his wife, let him give her a writing of divorcement:
[32] But I say unto you, That whosoever shall put away his wife, saving for the cause of fornication, causeth her to commit adultery: and whosoever shall marry her that is divorced committeth adultery.
[33] Again, ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths:
[34] But I say unto you, Swear not at all; neither by heaven; for it is God's throne:
[35] Nor by the earth; for it is his footstool: neither by Jerusalem; for it is the city of the great King.
[36] Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black.
[37] But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.
[38] Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:
[39] But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.
[40] And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also.
[41] And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.
[42] Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.
[43] Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.
[44] But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;
[45] That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
[46] For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?
[47] And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so?
[48] Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.
Matthew.6
[1] Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.
[2] Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
[3] But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth:
[4] That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.
[5] And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
[6] But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.
[7] But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.
[8] Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.
[9] After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.
[10] Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
[11] Give us this day our daily bread.
[12] And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
[13] And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
[14] For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you:
[15] But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
[16] Moreover when ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance: for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
[17] But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face;
[18] That thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret: and thy Father, which seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly.
[19] Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
[20] But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:
[21] For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
[22] The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.
[23] But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!
[24] No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.
[25] Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?
[26] Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
[27] Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?
[28] And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
[29] And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
[30] Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
[31] Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
[32] (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
[33] But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
[34] Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
Matthew.7
[1] Judge not, that ye be not judged.
[2] For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
[3] And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
[4] Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?
[5] Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye.
[6] Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.
[7] Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:
[8] For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.
[9] Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
[10] Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
[11] If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?
[12] Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.
[13] Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:
[14] Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.
[15] Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
[16] Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?
[17] Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.
[18] A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.
[19] Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
[20] Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.
[21] Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.
[22] Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works?
[23] And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.
[24] Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
[25] And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
[26] And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:
[27] And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
[28] And it came to pass, when Jesus had ended these sayings, the people were astonished at his doctrine:
[29] For he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.
Matthew.8
[1] When he was come down from the mountain, great multitudes followed him.
[2] And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
[3] And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.
[4] And Jesus saith unto him, See thou tell no man; but go thy way, shew thyself to the priest, and offer the gift that Moses commanded, for a testimony unto them.
[5] And when Jesus was entered into Capernaum, there came unto him a centurion, beseeching him,
[6] And saying, Lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, grievously tormented.
[7] And Jesus saith unto him, I will come and heal him.
[8] The centurion answered and said, Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof: but speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed.
[9] For I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it.
[10] When Jesus heard it, he marvelled, and said to them that followed, Verily I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel.
[11] And I say unto you, That many shall come from the east and west, and shall sit down with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven.
[12] But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
[13] And Jesus said unto the centurion, Go thy way; and as thou hast believed, so be it done unto thee. And his servant was healed in the selfsame hour.
[14] And when Jesus was come into Peter's house, he saw his wife's mother laid, and sick of a fever.
[15] And he touched her hand, and the fever left her: and she arose, and ministered unto them.
[16] When the even was come, they brought unto him many that were possessed with devils: and he cast out the spirits with his word, and healed all that were sick:
[17] That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying, Himself took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses.
[18] Now when Jesus saw great multitudes about him, he gave commandment to depart unto the other side.
[19] And a certain scribe came, and said unto him, Master, I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest.
[20] And Jesus saith unto him, The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.
[21] And another of his disciples said unto him, Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father.
[22] But Jesus said unto him, Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead.
[23] And when he was entered into a ship, his disciples followed him.
[24] And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves: but he was asleep.
[25] And his disciples came to him, and awoke him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish.
[26] And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.
[27] But the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him!
[28] And when he was come to the other side into the country of the Gergesenes, there met him two possessed with devils, coming out of the tombs, exceeding fierce, so that no man might pass by that way.
[29] And, behold, they cried out, saying, What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before the time?
[30] And there was a good way off from them an herd of many swine feeding.
[31] So the devils besought him, saying, If thou cast us out, suffer us to go away into the herd of swine.
[32] And he said unto them, Go. And when they were come out, they went into the herd of swine: and, behold, the whole herd of swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea, and perished in the waters.
[33] And they that kept them fled, and went their ways into the city, and told every thing, and what was befallen to the possessed of the devils.
[34] And, behold, the whole city came out to meet Jesus: and when they saw him, they besought him that he would depart out of their coasts.
Matthew.9
[1] And he entered into a ship, and passed over, and came into his own city.
[2] And, behold, they brought to him a man sick of the palsy, lying on a bed: and Jesus seeing their faith said unto the sick of the palsy; Son, be of good cheer; thy sins be forgiven thee.
[3] And, behold, certain of the scribes said within themselves, This man blasphemeth.
[4] And Jesus knowing their thoughts said, Wherefore think ye evil in your hearts?
[5] For whether is easier, to say, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Arise, and walk?
[6] But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins, (then saith he to the sick of the palsy,) Arise, take up thy bed, and go unto thine house.
[7] And he arose, and departed to his house.
[8] But when the multitudes saw it, they marvelled, and glorified God, which had given such power unto men.
[9] And as Jesus passed forth from thence, he saw a man, named Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom: and he saith unto him, Follow me. And he arose, and followed him.
[10] And it came to pass, as Jesus sat at meat in the house, behold, many publicans and sinners came and sat down with him and his disciples.
[11] And when the Pharisees saw it, they said unto his disciples, Why eateth your Master with publicans and sinners?
[12] But when Jesus heard that, he said unto them, They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick.
[13] But go ye and learn what that meaneth, I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
[14] Then came to him the disciples of John, saying, Why do we and the Pharisees fast oft, but thy disciples fast not?
[15] And Jesus said unto them, Can the children of the bridechamber mourn, as long as the bridegroom is with them? but the days will come, when the bridegroom shall be taken from them, and then shall they fast.
[16] No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment, for that which is put in to fill it up taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse.
[17] Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.
[18] While he spake these things unto them, behold, there came a certain ruler, and worshipped him, saying, My daughter is even now dead: but come and lay thy hand upon her, and she shall live.
[19] And Jesus arose, and followed him, and so did his disciples.
[20] And, behold, a woman, which was diseased with an issue of blood twelve years, came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment:
[21] For she said within herself, If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole.
[22] But Jesus turned him about, and when he saw her, he said, Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole. And the woman was made whole from that hour.
[23] And when Jesus came into the ruler's house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a noise,
[24] He said unto them, Give place: for the maid is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed him to scorn.
[25] But when the people were put forth, he went in, and took her by the hand, and the maid arose.
[26] And the fame hereof went abroad into all that land.
[27] And when Jesus departed thence, two blind men followed him, crying, and saying, Thou Son of David, have mercy on us.
[28] And when he was come into the house, the blind men came to him: and Jesus saith unto them, Believe ye that I am able to do this? They said unto him, Yea, Lord.
[29] Then touched he their eyes, saying, According to your faith be it unto you.
[30] And their eyes were opened; and Jesus straitly charged them, saying, See that no man know it.
[31] But they, when they were departed, spread abroad his fame in all that country.
[32] As they went out, behold, they brought to him a dumb man possessed with a devil.
[33] And when the devil was cast out, the dumb spake: and the multitudes marvelled, saying, It was never so seen in Israel.
[34] But the Pharisees said, He casteth out devils through the prince of the devils.
[35] And Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every sickness and every disease among the people.
[36] But when he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted, and were scattered abroad, as sheep having no shepherd.
[37] Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few;
[38] Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest.
Matthew.10
[1] And when he had called unto him his twelve disciples, he gave them power against unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease.
[2] Now the names of the twelve apostles are these; The first, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother; James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother;
[3] Philip, and Bartholomew; Thomas, and Matthew the publican; James the son of Alphaeus, and Lebbaeus, whose surname was Thaddaeus;
[4] Simon the Canaanite, and Judas Iscariot, who also betrayed him.
[5] These twelve Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not:
[6] But go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
[7] And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand.
[8] Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely ye have received, freely give.
[9] Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses,
[10] Nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats, neither shoes, nor yet staves: for the workman is worthy of his meat.
[11] And into whatsoever city or town ye shall enter, inquire who in it is worthy; and there abide till ye go thence.
[12] And when ye come into an house, salute it.
[13] And if the house be worthy, let your peace come upon it: but if it be not worthy, let your peace return to you.
[14] And whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house or city, shake off the dust of your feet.
[15] Verily I say unto you, It shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrha in the day of judgment, than for that city.
[16] Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.
[17] But beware of men: for they will deliver you up to the councils, and they will scourge you in their synagogues;
[18] And ye shall be brought before governors and kings for my sake, for a testimony against them and the Gentiles.
[19] But when they deliver you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak.
[20] For it is not ye that speak, but the Spirit of your Father which speaketh in you.
[21] And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death.
[22] And ye shall be hated of all men for my name's sake: but he that endureth to the end shall be saved.
[23] But when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another: for verily I say unto you, Ye shall not have gone over the cities of Israel, till the Son of man be come.
[24] The disciple is not above his master, nor the servant above his lord.
[25] It is enough for the disciple that he be as his master, and the servant as his lord. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebub, how much more shall they call them of his household?
[26] Fear them not therefore: for there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.
[27] What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light: and what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye upon the housetops.
[28] And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
[29] Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
[30] But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
[31] Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.
[32] Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.
[33] But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven.
[34] Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.
[35] For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law.
[36] And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.
[37] He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.
[38] And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.
[39] He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.
[40] He that receiveth you receiveth me, and he that receiveth me receiveth him that sent me.
[41] He that receiveth a prophet in the name of a prophet shall receive a prophet's reward; and he that receiveth a righteous man in the name of a righteous man shall receive a righteous man's reward.
[42] And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.
Matthew.11
[1] And it came to pass, when Jesus had made an end of commanding his twelve disciples, he departed thence to teach and to preach in their cities.
[2] Now when John had heard in the prison the works of Christ, he sent two of his disciples,
[3] And said unto him, Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?
[4] Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again those things which ye do hear and see:
[5] The blind receive their sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, and the poor have the gospel preached to them.
[6] And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me.
[7] And as they departed, Jesus began to say unto the multitudes concerning John, What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind?
[8] But what went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that wear soft clothing are in kings' houses.
[9] But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet.
[10] For this is he, of whom it is written, Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee.
[11] Verily I say unto you, Among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater than John the Baptist: notwithstanding he that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.
[12] And from the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.
[13] For all the prophets and the law prophesied until John.
[14] And if ye will receive it, this is Elias, which was for to come.
[15] He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.
[16] But whereunto shall I liken this generation? It is like unto children sitting in the markets, and calling unto their fellows,
[17] And saying, We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.
[18] For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, He hath a devil.
[19] The Son of man came eating and drinking, and they say, Behold a man gluttonous, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners. But wisdom is justified of her children.
[20] Then began he to upbraid the cities wherein most of his mighty works were done, because they repented not:
[21] Woe unto thee, Chorazin! woe unto thee, Bethsaida! for if the mighty works, which were done in you, had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes.
[22] But I say unto you, It shall be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon at the day of judgment, than for you.
[23] And thou, Capernaum, which art exalted unto heaven, shalt be brought down to hell: for if the mighty works, which have been done in thee, had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day.
[24] But I say unto you, That it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom in the day of judgment, than for thee.
[25] At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.
[26] Even so, Father: for so it seemed good in thy sight.
[27] All things are delivered unto me of my Father: and no man knoweth the Son, but the Father; neither knoweth any man the Father, save the Son, and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him.
[28] Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
[29] Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
[30] For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
Matthew.12
[1] At that time Jesus went on the sabbath day through the corn; and his disciples were an hungred, and began to pluck the ears of corn, and to eat.
[2] But when the Pharisees saw it, they said unto him, Behold, thy disciples do that which is not lawful to do upon the sabbath day.
[3] But he said unto them, Have ye not read what David did, when he was an hungred, and they that were with him;
[4] How he entered into the house of God, and did eat the shewbread, which was not lawful for him to eat, neither for them which were with him, but only for the priests?
[5] Or have ye not read in the law, how that on the sabbath days the priests in the temple profane the sabbath, and are blameless?
[6] But I say unto you, That in this place is one greater than the temple.
[7] But if ye had known what this meaneth, I will have mercy, and not sacrifice, ye would not have condemned the guiltless.
[8] For the Son of man is Lord even of the sabbath day.
[9] And when he was departed thence, he went into their synagogue:
[10] And, behold, there was a man which had his hand withered. And they asked him, saying, Is it lawful to heal on the sabbath days? that they might accuse him.
[11] And he said unto them, What man shall there be among you, that shall have one sheep, and if it fall into a pit on the sabbath day, will he not lay hold on it, and lift it out?
[12] How much then is a man better than a sheep? Wherefore it is lawful to do well on the sabbath days.
[13] Then saith he to the man, Stretch forth thine hand. And he stretched it forth; and it was restored whole, like as the other.
[14] Then the Pharisees went out, and held a council against him, how they might destroy him.
[15] But when Jesus knew it, he withdrew himself from thence: and great multitudes followed him, and he healed them all;
[16] And charged them that they should not make him known:
[17] That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying,
[18] Behold my servant, whom I have chosen; my beloved, in whom my soul is well pleased: I will put my spirit upon him, and he shall shew judgment to the Gentiles.
[19] He shall not strive, nor cry; neither shall any man hear his voice in the streets.
[20] A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory.
[21] And in his name shall the Gentiles trust.
[22] Then was brought unto him one possessed with a devil, blind, and dumb: and he healed him, insomuch that the blind and dumb both spake and saw.
[23] And all the people were amazed, and said, Is not this the son of David?
[24] But when the Pharisees heard it, they said, This fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub the prince of the devils.
[25] And Jesus knew their thoughts, and said unto them, Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand:
[26] And if Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against himself; how shall then his kingdom stand?
[27] And if I by Beelzebub cast out devils, by whom do your children cast them out? therefore they shall be your judges.
[28] But if I cast out devils by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God is come unto you.
[29] Or else how can one enter into a strong man's house, and spoil his goods, except he first bind the strong man? and then he will spoil his house.
[30] He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad.
[31] Wherefore I say unto you, All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men.
[32] And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come.
[33] Either make the tree good, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by his fruit.
[34] O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.
[35] A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things.
[36] But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.
[37] For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.
[38] Then certain of the scribes and of the Pharisees answered, saying, Master, we would see a sign from thee.
[39] But he answered and said unto them, An evil and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given to it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas:
[40] For as Jonas was three days and three nights in the whale's belly; so shall the Son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.
[41] The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: because they repented at the preaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.
[42] The queen of the south shall rise up in the judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.
[43] When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none.
[44] Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished.
[45] Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation.
[46] While he yet talked to the people, behold, his mother and his brethren stood without, desiring to speak with him.
[47] Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee.
[48] But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren?
[49] And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren!
[50] For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.
Matthew.13
[1] The same day went Jesus out of the house, and sat by the sea side.
[2] And great multitudes were gathered together unto him, so that he went into a ship, and sat; and the whole multitude stood on the shore.
[3] And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow;
[4] And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up:
[5] Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth:
[6] And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away.
[7] And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them:
[8] But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold.
[9] Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.
[10] And the disciples came, and said unto him, Why speakest thou unto them in parables?
[11] He answered and said unto them, Because it is given unto you to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it is not given.
[12] For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance: but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.
[13] Therefore speak I to them in parables: because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand.
[14] And in them is fulfilled the prophecy of Esaias, which saith, By hearing ye shall hear, and shall not understand; and seeing ye shall see, and shall not perceive:
[15] For this people's heart is waxed gross, and their ears are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and should understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them.
[16] But blessed are your eyes, for they see: and your ears, for they hear.
[17] For verily I say unto you, That many prophets and righteous men have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them; and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.
[18] Hear ye therefore the parable of the sower.
[19] When any one heareth the word of the kingdom, and understandeth it not, then cometh the wicked one, and catcheth away that which was sown in his heart. This is he which received seed by the way side.
[20] But he that received the seed into stony places, the same is he that heareth the word, and anon with joy receiveth it;
[21] Yet hath he not root in himself, but dureth for a while: for when tribulation or persecution ariseth because of the word, by and by he is offended.
[22] He also that received seed among the thorns is he that heareth the word; and the care of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, choke the word, and he becometh unfruitful.
[23] But he that received seed into the good ground is he that heareth the word, and understandeth it; which also beareth fruit, and bringeth forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty.
[24] Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is likened unto a man which sowed good seed in his field:
[25] But while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way.
[26] But when the blade was sprung up, and brought forth fruit, then appeared the tares also.
[27] So the servants of the householder came and said unto him, Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? from whence then hath it tares?
[28] He said unto them, An enemy hath done this. The servants said unto him, Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up?
[29] But he said, Nay; lest while ye gather up the tares, ye root up also the wheat with them.
[30] Let both grow together until the harvest: and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn.
[31] Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field:
[32] Which indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof.
[33] Another parable spake he unto them; The kingdom of heaven is like unto leaven, which a woman took, and hid in three measures of meal, till the whole was leavened.
[34] All these things spake Jesus unto the multitude in parables; and without a parable spake he not unto them:
[35] That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying, I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world.
[36] Then Jesus sent the multitude away, and went into the house: and his disciples came unto him, saying, Declare unto us the parable of the tares of the field.
[37] He answered and said unto them, He that soweth the good seed is the Son of man;
[38] The field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one;
[39] The enemy that sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels.
[40] As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire; so shall it be in the end of this world.
[41] The Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity;
[42] And shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.
[43] Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.
[44] Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.
[45] Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls:
[46] Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.
[47] Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a net, that was cast into the sea, and gathered of every kind:
[48] Which, when it was full, they drew to shore, and sat down, and gathered the good into vessels, but cast the bad away.
[49] So shall it be at the end of the world: the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from among the just,
[50] And shall cast them into the furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.
[51] Jesus saith unto them, Have ye understood all these things? They say unto him, Yea, Lord.
[52] Then said he unto them, Therefore every scribe which is instructed unto the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and old.
[53] And it came to pass, that when Jesus had finished these parables, he departed thence.
[54] And when he was come into his own country, he taught them in their synagogue, insomuch that they were astonished, and said, Whence hath this man this wisdom, and these mighty works?
[55] Is not this the carpenter's son? is not his mother called Mary? and his brethren, James, and Joses, and Simon, and Judas?
[56] And his sisters, are they not all with us? Whence then hath this man all these things?
[57] And they were offended in him. But Jesus said unto them, A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country, and in his own house.
[58] And he did not many mighty works there because of their unbelief.
Matthew.14
[1] At that time Herod the tetrarch heard of the fame of Jesus,
[2] And said unto his servants, This is John the Baptist; he is risen from the dead; and therefore mighty works do shew forth themselves in him.
[3] For Herod had laid hold on John, and bound him, and put him in prison for Herodias' sake, his brother Philip's wife.
[4] For John said unto him, It is not lawful for thee to have her.
[5] And when he would have put him to death, he feared the multitude, because they counted him as a prophet.
[6] But when Herod's birthday was kept, the daughter of Herodias danced before them, and pleased Herod.
[7] Whereupon he promised with an oath to give her whatsoever she would ask.
[8] And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, Give me here John Baptist's head in a charger.
[9] And the king was sorry: nevertheless for the oath's sake, and them which sat with him at meat, he commanded it to be given her.
[10] And he sent, and beheaded John in the prison.
[11] And his head was brought in a charger, and given to the damsel: and she brought it to her mother.
[12] And his disciples came, and took up the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus.
[13] When Jesus heard of it, he departed thence by ship into a desert place apart: and when the people had heard thereof, they followed him on foot out of the cities.
[14] And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick.
[15] And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, This is a desert place, and the time is now past; send the multitude away, that they may go into the villages, and buy themselves victuals.
[16] But Jesus said unto them, They need not depart; give ye them to eat.
[17] And they say unto him, We have here but five loaves, and two fishes.
[18] He said, Bring them hither to me.
[19] And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude.
[20] And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up of the fragments that remained twelve baskets full.
[21] And they that had eaten were about five thousand men, beside women and children.
[22] And straightway Jesus constrained his disciples to get into a ship, and to go before him unto the other side, while he sent the multitudes away.
[23] And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray: and when the evening was come, he was there alone.
[24] But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary.
[25] And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.
[26] And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.
[27] But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.
[28] And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.
[29] And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.
[30] But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.
[31] And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?
[32] And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased.
[33] Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.
[34] And when they were gone over, they came into the land of Gennesaret.
[35] And when the men of that place had knowledge of him, they sent out into all that country round about, and brought unto him all that were diseased;
[36] And besought him that they might only touch the hem of his garment: and as many as touched were made perfectly whole.
Matthew.15
[1] Then came to Jesus scribes and Pharisees, which were of Jerusalem, saying,
[2] Why do thy disciples transgress the tradition of the elders? for they wash not their hands when they eat bread.
[3] But he answered and said unto them, Why do ye also transgress the commandment of God by your tradition?
[4] For God commanded, saying, Honour thy father and mother: and, He that curseth father or mother, let him die the death.
[5] But ye say, Whosoever shall say to his father or his mother, It is a gift, by whatsoever thou mightest be profited by me;
[6] And honour not his father or his mother, he shall be free. Thus have ye made the commandment of God of none effect by your tradition.
[7] Ye hypocrites, well did Esaias prophesy of you, saying,
[8] This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me.
[9] But in vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.
[10] And he called the multitude, and said unto them, Hear, and understand:
[11] Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man.
[12] Then came his disciples, and said unto him, Knowest thou that the Pharisees were offended, after they heard this saying?
[13] But he answered and said, Every plant, which my heavenly Father hath not planted, shall be rooted up.
[14] Let them alone: they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch.
[15] Then answered Peter and said unto him, Declare unto us this parable.
[16] And Jesus said, Are ye also yet without understanding?
[17] Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught?
[18] But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man.
[19] For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies:
[20] These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man.
[21] Then Jesus went thence, and departed into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon.
[22] And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou Son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.
[23] But he answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, Send her away; for she crieth after us.
[24] But he answered and said, I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
[25] Then came she and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me.
[26] But he answered and said, It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs.
[27] And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table.
[28] Then Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour.
[29] And Jesus departed from thence, and came nigh unto the sea of Galilee; and went up into a mountain, and sat down there.
[30] And great multitudes came unto him, having with them those that were lame, blind, dumb, maimed, and many others, and cast them down at Jesus' feet; and he healed them:
[31] Insomuch that the multitude wondered, when they saw the dumb to speak, the maimed to be whole, the lame to walk, and the blind to see: and they glorified the God of Israel.
[32] Then Jesus called his disciples unto him, and said, I have compassion on the multitude, because they continue with me now three days, and have nothing to eat: and I will not send them away fasting, lest they faint in the way.
[33] And his disciples say unto him, Whence should we have so much bread in the wilderness, as to fill so great a multitude?
[34] And Jesus saith unto them, How many loaves have ye? And they said, Seven, and a few little fishes.
[35] And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the ground.
[36] And he took the seven loaves and the fishes, and gave thanks, and brake them, and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude.
[37] And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up of the broken meat that was left seven baskets full.
[38] And they that did eat were four thousand men, beside women and children.
[39] And he sent away the multitude, and took ship, and came into the coasts of Magdala,
Matthew.16
[1] The Pharisees also with the Sadducees came, and tempting desired him that he would shew them a sign from heaven.
[2] He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red.
[3] And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?
[4] A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given unto it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas. And he left them, and departed.
[5] And when his disciples were come to the other side, they had forgotten to take bread.
[6] Then Jesus said unto them, Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees.
[7] And they reasoned among themselves, saying, It is because we have taken no bread.
[8] Which when Jesus perceived, he said unto them, O ye of little faith, why reason ye among yourselves, because ye have brought no bread?
[9] Do ye not yet understand, neither remember the five loaves of the five thousand, and how many baskets ye took up?
[10] Neither the seven loaves of the four thousand, and how many baskets ye took up?
[11] How is it that ye do not understand that I spake it not to you concerning bread, that ye should beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees?
[12] Then understood they how that he bade them not beware of the leaven of bread, but of the doctrine of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees.
[13] When Jesus came into the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?
[14] And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets.
[15] He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?
[16] And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.
[17] And Jesus answered and said unto him, Blessed art thou, Simon Barjona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven.
[18] And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
[19] And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.
[20] Then charged he his disciples that they should tell no man that he was Jesus the Christ.
[21] From that time forth began Jesus to shew unto his disciples, how that he must go unto Jerusalem, and suffer many things of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.
[22] Then Peter took him, and began to rebuke him, saying, Be it far from thee, Lord: this shall not be unto thee.
[23] But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.
[24] Then said Jesus unto his disciples, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.
[25] For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.
[26] For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
[27] For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father with his angels; and then he shall reward every man according to his works.
[28] Verily I say unto you, There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom.
Matthew.17
[1] And after six days Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John his brother, and bringeth them up into an high mountain apart,
[2] And was transfigured before them: and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as the light.
[3] And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias talking with him.
[4] Then answered Peter, and said unto Jesus, Lord, it is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.
[5] While he yet spake, behold, a bright cloud overshadowed them: and behold a voice out of the cloud, which said, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased; hear ye him.
[6] And when the disciples heard it, they fell on their face, and were sore afraid.
[7] And Jesus came and touched them, and said, Arise, and be not afraid.
[8] And when they had lifted up their eyes, they saw no man, save Jesus only.
[9] And as they came down from the mountain, Jesus charged them, saying, Tell the vision to no man, until the Son of man be risen again from the dead.
[10] And his disciples asked him, saying, Why then say the scribes that Elias must first come?
[11] And Jesus answered and said unto them, Elias truly shall first come, and restore all things.
[12] But I say unto you, That Elias is come already, and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed. Likewise shall also the Son of man suffer of them.
[13] Then the disciples understood that he spake unto them of John the Baptist.
[14] And when they were come to the multitude, there came to him a certain man, kneeling down to him, and saying,
[15] Lord, have mercy on my son: for he is lunatick, and sore vexed: for ofttimes he falleth into the fire, and oft into the water.
[16] And I brought him to thy disciples, and they could not cure him.
[17] Then Jesus answered and said, O faithless and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you? how long shall I suffer you? bring him hither to me.
[18] And Jesus rebuked the devil; and he departed out of him: and the child was cured from that very hour.
[19] Then came the disciples to Jesus apart, and said, Why could not we cast him out?
[20] And Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief: for verily I say unto you, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.
[21] Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.
[22] And while they abode in Galilee, Jesus said unto them, The Son of man shall be betrayed into the hands of men:
[23] And they shall kill him, and the third day he shall be raised again. And they were exceeding sorry.
[24] And when they were come to Capernaum, they that received tribute money came to Peter, and said, Doth not your master pay tribute?
[25] He saith, Yes. And when he was come into the house, Jesus prevented him, saying, What thinkest thou, Simon? of whom do the kings of the earth take custom or tribute? of their own children, or of strangers?
[26] Peter saith unto him, Of strangers. Jesus saith unto him, Then are the children free.
[27] Notwithstanding, lest we should offend them, go thou to the sea, and cast an hook, and take up the fish that first cometh up; and when thou hast opened his mouth, thou shalt find a piece of money: that take, and give unto them for me and thee.
Matthew.18
[1] At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?
[2] And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,
[3] And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
[4] Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
[5] And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.
[6] But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.
[7] Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!
[8] Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire.
[9] And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire.
[10] Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.
[11] For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost.
[12] How think ye? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?
[13] And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray.
[14] Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.
[15] Moreover if thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone: if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother.
[16] But if he will not hear thee, then take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established.
[17] And if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church: but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican.
[18] Verily I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.
[19] Again I say unto you, That if two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.
[20] For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.
[21] Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?
[22] Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.
[23] Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a certain king, which would take account of his servants.
[24] And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him, which owed him ten thousand talents.
[25] But forasmuch as he had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that he had, and payment to be made.
[26] The servant therefore fell down, and worshipped him, saying, Lord, have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.
[27] Then the lord of that servant was moved with compassion, and loosed him, and forgave him the debt.
[28] But the same servant went out, and found one of his fellowservants, which owed him an hundred pence: and he laid hands on him, and took him by the throat, saying, Pay me that thou owest.
[29] And his fellowservant fell down at his feet, and besought him, saying, Have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.
[30] And he would not: but went and cast him into prison, till he should pay the debt.
[31] So when his fellowservants saw what was done, they were very sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done.
[32] Then his lord, after that he had called him, said unto him, O thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me:
[33] Shouldest not thou also have had compassion on thy fellowservant, even as I had pity on thee?
[34] And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him.
[35] So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.
Matthew.19
[1] And it came to pass, that when Jesus had finished these sayings, he departed from Galilee, and came into the coasts of Judaea beyond Jordan;
[2] And great multitudes followed him; and he healed them there.
[3] The Pharisees also came unto him, tempting him, and saying unto him, Is it lawful for a man to put away his wife for every cause?
[4] And he answered and said unto them, Have ye not read, that he which made them at the beginning made them male and female,
[5] And said, For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh?
[6] Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.
[7] They say unto him, Why did Moses then command to give a writing of divorcement, and to put her away?
[8] He saith unto them, Moses because of the hardness of your hearts suffered you to put away your wives: but from the beginning it was not so.
[9] And I say unto you, Whosoever shall put away his wife, except it be for fornication, and shall marry another, committeth adultery: and whoso marrieth her which is put away doth commit adultery.
[10] His disciples say unto him, If the case of the man be so with his wife, it is not good to marry.
[11] But he said unto them, All men cannot receive this saying, save they to whom it is given.
[12] For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother's womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.
[13] Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them.
[14] But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.
[15] And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence.
[16] And, behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?
[17] And he said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments.
[18] He saith unto him, Which? Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness,
[19] Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
[20] The young man saith unto him, All these things have I kept from my youth up: what lack I yet?
[21] Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.
[22] But when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions.
[23] Then said Jesus unto his disciples, Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven.
[24] And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.
[25] When his disciples heard it, they were exceedingly amazed, saying, Who then can be saved?
[26] But Jesus beheld them, and said unto them, With men this is impossible; but with God all things are possible.
[27] Then answered Peter and said unto him, Behold, we have forsaken all, and followed thee; what shall we have therefore?
[28] And Jesus said unto them, Verily I say unto you, That ye which have followed me, in the regeneration when the Son of man shall sit in the throne of his glory, ye also shall sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel.
[29] And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.
[30] But many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first.
Matthew.20
[1] For the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which went out early in the morning to hire labourers into his vineyard.
[2] And when he had agreed with the labourers for a penny a day, he sent them into his vineyard.
[3] And he went out about the third hour, and saw others standing idle in the marketplace,
[4] And said unto them; Go ye also into the vineyard, and whatsoever is right I will give you. And they went their way.
[5] Again he went out about the sixth and ninth hour, and did likewise.
[6] And about the eleventh hour he went out, and found others standing idle, and saith unto them, Why stand ye here all the day idle?
[7] They say unto him, Because no man hath hired us. He saith unto them, Go ye also into the vineyard; and whatsoever is right, that shall ye receive.
[8] So when even was come, the lord of the vineyard saith unto his steward, Call the labourers, and give them their hire, beginning from the last unto the first.
[9] And when they came that were hired about the eleventh hour, they received every man a penny.
[10] But when the first came, they supposed that they should have received more; and they likewise received every man a penny.
[11] And when they had received it, they murmured against the goodman of the house,
[12] Saying, These last have wrought but one hour, and thou hast made them equal unto us, which have borne the burden and heat of the day.
[13] But he answered one of them, and said, Friend, I do thee no wrong: didst not thou agree with me for a penny?
[14] Take that thine is, and go thy way: I will give unto this last, even as unto thee.
[15] Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own? Is thine eye evil, because I am good?
[16] So the last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.
[17] And Jesus going up to Jerusalem took the twelve disciples apart in the way, and said unto them,
[18] Behold, we go up to Jerusalem; and the Son of man shall be betrayed unto the chief priests and unto the scribes, and they shall condemn him to death,
[19] And shall deliver him to the Gentiles to mock, and to scourge, and to crucify him: and the third day he shall rise again.
[20] Then came to him the mother of Zebedee's children with her sons, worshipping him, and desiring a certain thing of him.
[21] And he said unto her, What wilt thou? She saith unto him, Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on thy right hand, and the other on the left, in thy kingdom.
[22] But Jesus answered and said, Ye know not what ye ask. Are ye able to drink of the cup that I shall drink of, and to be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with? They say unto him, We are able.
[23] And he saith unto them, Ye shall drink indeed of my cup, and be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with: but to sit on my right hand, and on my left, is not mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of my Father.
[24] And when the ten heard it, they were moved with indignation against the two brethren.
[25] But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Ye know that the princes of the Gentiles exercise dominion over them, and they that are great exercise authority upon them.
[26] But it shall not be so among you: but whosoever will be great among you, let him be your minister;
[27] And whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant:
[28] Even as the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many.
[29] And as they departed from Jericho, a great multitude followed him.
[30] And, behold, two blind men sitting by the way side, when they heard that Jesus passed by, cried out, saying, Have mercy on us, O Lord, thou Son of David.
[31] And the multitude rebuked them, because they should hold their peace: but they cried the more, saying, Have mercy on us, O Lord, thou Son of David.
[32] And Jesus stood still, and called them, and said, What will ye that I shall do unto you?
[33] They say unto him, Lord, that our eyes may be opened.
[34] So Jesus had compassion on them, and touched their eyes: and immediately their eyes received sight, and they followed him.
Matthew.21
[1] And when they drew nigh unto Jerusalem, and were come to Bethphage, unto the mount of Olives, then sent Jesus two disciples,
[2] Saying unto them, Go into the village over against you, and straightway ye shall find an ass tied, and a colt with her: loose them, and bring them unto me.
[3] And if any man say ought unto you, ye shall say, The Lord hath need of them; and straightway he will send them.
[4] All this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying,
[5] Tell ye the daughter of Sion, Behold, thy King cometh unto thee, meek, and sitting upon an ass, and a colt the foal of an ass.
[6] And the disciples went, and did as Jesus commanded them,
[7] And brought the ass, and the colt, and put on them their clothes, and they set him thereon.
[8] And a very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees, and strawed them in the way.
[9] And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.
[10] And when he was come into Jerusalem, all the city was moved, saying, Who is this?
[11] And the multitude said, This is Jesus the prophet of Nazareth of Galilee.
[12] And Jesus went into the temple of God, and cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves,
[13] And said unto them, It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves.
[14] And the blind and the lame came to him in the temple; and he healed them.
[15] And when the chief priests and scribes saw the wonderful things that he did, and the children crying in the temple, and saying, Hosanna to the Son of David; they were sore displeased,
[16] And said unto him, Hearest thou what these say? And Jesus saith unto them, Yea; have ye never read, Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise?
[17] And he left them, and went out of the city into Bethany; and he lodged there.
[18] Now in the morning as he returned into the city, he hungered.
[19] And when he saw a fig tree in the way, he came to it, and found nothing thereon, but leaves only, and said unto it, Let no fruit grow on thee henceforward for ever. And presently the fig tree withered away.
[20] And when the disciples saw it, they marvelled, saying, How soon is the fig tree withered away!
[21] Jesus answered and said unto them, Verily I say unto you, If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the fig tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done.
[22] And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.
[23] And when he was come into the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came unto him as he was teaching, and said, By what authority doest thou these things? and who gave thee this authority?
[24] And Jesus answered and said unto them, I also will ask you one thing, which if ye tell me, I in like wise will tell you by what authority I do these things.
[25] The baptism of John, whence was it? from heaven, or of men? And they reasoned with themselves, saying, If we shall say, From heaven; he will say unto us, Why did ye not then believe him?
[26] But if we shall say, Of men; we fear the people; for all hold John as a prophet.
[27] And they answered Jesus, and said, We cannot tell. And he said unto them, Neither tell I you by what authority I do these things.
[28] But what think ye? A certain man had two sons; and he came to the first, and said, Son, go work to day in my vineyard.
[29] He answered and said, I will not: but afterward he repented, and went.
[30] And he came to the second, and said likewise. And he answered and said, I go, sir: and went not.
[31] Whether of them twain did the will of his father? They say unto him, The first. Jesus saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, That the publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of God before you.
[32] For John came unto you in the way of righteousness, and ye believed him not: but the publicans and the harlots believed him: and ye, when ye had seen it, repented not afterward, that ye might believe him.
[33] Hear another parable: There was a certain householder, which planted a vineyard, and hedged it round about, and digged a winepress in it, and built a tower, and let it out to husbandmen, and went into a far country:
[34] And when the time of the fruit drew near, he sent his servants to the husbandmen, that they might receive the fruits of it.
[35] And the husbandmen took his servants, and beat one, and killed another, and stoned another.
[36] Again, he sent other servants more than the first: and they did unto them likewise.
[37] But last of all he sent unto them his son, saying, They will reverence my son.
[38] But when the husbandmen saw the son, they said among themselves, This is the heir; come, let us kill him, and let us seize on his inheritance.
[39] And they caught him, and cast him out of the vineyard, and slew him.
[40] When the lord therefore of the vineyard cometh, what will he do unto those husbandmen?
[41] They say unto him, He will miserably destroy those wicked men, and will let out his vineyard unto other husbandmen, which shall render him the fruits in their seasons.
[42] Jesus saith unto them, Did ye never read in the scriptures, The stone which the builders rejected, the same is become the head of the corner: this is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes?
[43] Therefore say I unto you, The kingdom of God shall be taken from you, and given to a nation bringing forth the fruits thereof.
[44] And whosoever shall fall on this stone shall be broken: but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder.
[45] And when the chief priests and Pharisees had heard his parables, they perceived that he spake of them.
[46] But when they sought to lay hands on him, they feared the multitude, because they took him for a prophet.
Matthew.22
[1] And Jesus answered and spake unto them again by parables, and said,
[2] The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king, which made a marriage for his son,
[3] And sent forth his servants to call them that were bidden to the wedding: and they would not come.
[4] Again, he sent forth other servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, Behold, I have prepared my dinner: my oxen and my fatlings are killed, and all things are ready: come unto the marriage.
[5] But they made light of it, and went their ways, one to his farm, another to his merchandise:
[6] And the remnant took his servants, and entreated them spitefully, and slew them.
[7] But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth: and he sent forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their city.
[8] Then saith he to his servants, The wedding is ready, but they which were bidden were not worthy.
[9] Go ye therefore into the highways, and as many as ye shall find, bid to the marriage.
[10] So those servants went out into the highways, and gathered together all as many as they found, both bad and good: and the wedding was furnished with guests.
[11] And when the king came in to see the guests, he saw there a man which had not on a wedding garment:
[12] And he saith unto him, Friend, how camest thou in hither not having a wedding garment? And he was speechless.
[13] Then said the king to the servants, Bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
[14] For many are called, but few are chosen.
[15] Then went the Pharisees, and took counsel how they might entangle him in his talk.
[16] And they sent out unto him their disciples with the Herodians, saying, Master, we know that thou art true, and teachest the way of God in truth, neither carest thou for any man: for thou regardest not the person of men.
[17] Tell us therefore, What thinkest thou? Is it lawful to give tribute unto Caesar, or not?
[18] But Jesus perceived their wickedness, and said, Why tempt ye me, ye hypocrites?
[19] Shew me the tribute money. And they brought unto him a penny.
[20] And he saith unto them, Whose is this image and superscription?
[21] They say unto him, Caesar's. Then saith he unto them, Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's; and unto God the things that are God's.
[22] When they had heard these words, they marvelled, and left him, and went their way.
[23] The same day came to him the Sadducees, which say that there is no resurrection, and asked him,
[24] Saying, Master, Moses said, If a man die, having no children, his brother shall marry his wife, and raise up seed unto his brother.
[25] Now there were with us seven brethren: and the first, when he had married a wife, deceased, and, having no issue, left his wife unto his brother:
[26] Likewise the second also, and the third, unto the seventh.
[27] And last of all the woman died also.
[28] Therefore in the resurrection whose wife shall she be of the seven? for they all had her.
[29] Jesus answered and said unto them, Ye do err, not knowing the scriptures, nor the power of God.
[30] For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.
[31] But as touching the resurrection of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken unto you by God, saying,
[32] I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.
[33] And when the multitude heard this, they were astonished at his doctrine.
[34] But when the Pharisees had heard that he had put the Sadducees to silence, they were gathered together.
[35] Then one of them, which was a lawyer, asked him a question, tempting him, and saying,
[36] Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
[37] Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
[38] This is the first and great commandment.
[39] And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
[40] On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.
[41] While the Pharisees were gathered together, Jesus asked them,
[42] Saying, What think ye of Christ? whose son is he? They say unto him, The Son of David.
[43] He saith unto them, How then doth David in spirit call him Lord, saying,
[44] The LORD said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right hand, till I make thine enemies thy footstool?
[45] If David then call him Lord, how is he his son?
[46] And no man was able to answer him a word, neither durst any man from that day forth ask him any more questions.
Matthew.23
[1] Then spake Jesus to the multitude, and to his disciples,
[2] Saying, The scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat:
[3] All therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do; but do not ye after their works: for they say, and do not.
[4] For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers.
[5] But all their works they do for to be seen of men: they make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments,
[6] And love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues,
[7] And greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, Rabbi, Rabbi.
[8] But be not ye called Rabbi: for one is your Master, even Christ; and all ye are brethren.
[9] And call no man your father upon the earth: for one is your Father, which is in heaven.
[10] Neither be ye called masters: for one is your Master, even Christ.
[11] But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.
[12] And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.
[13] But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.
[14] Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.
[15] Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye compass sea and land to make one proselyte, and when he is made, ye make him twofold more the child of hell than yourselves.
[16] Woe unto you, ye blind guides, which say, Whosoever shall swear by the temple, it is nothing; but whosoever shall swear by the gold of the temple, he is a debtor!
[17] Ye fools and blind: for whether is greater, the gold, or the temple that sanctifieth the gold?
[18] And, Whosoever shall swear by the altar, it is nothing; but whosoever sweareth by the gift that is upon it, he is guilty.
[19] Ye fools and blind: for whether is greater, the gift, or the altar that sanctifieth the gift?
[20] Whoso therefore shall swear by the altar, sweareth by it, and by all things thereon.
[21] And whoso shall swear by the temple, sweareth by it, and by him that dwelleth therein.
[22] And he that shall swear by heaven, sweareth by the throne of God, and by him that sitteth thereon.
[23] Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.
[24] Ye blind guides, which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel.
[25] Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess.
[26] Thou blind Pharisee, cleanse first that which is within the cup and platter, that the outside of them may be clean also.
[27] Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.
[28] Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.
[29] Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! because ye build the tombs of the prophets, and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous,
[30] And say, If we had been in the days of our fathers, we would not have been partakers with them in the blood of the prophets.
[31] Wherefore ye be witnesses unto yourselves, that ye are the children of them which killed the prophets.
[32] Fill ye up then the measure of your fathers.
[33] Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?
[34] Wherefore, behold, I send unto you prophets, and wise men, and scribes: and some of them ye shall kill and crucify; and some of them shall ye scourge in your synagogues, and persecute them from city to city:
[35] That upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, from the blood of righteous Abel unto the blood of Zacharias son of Barachias, whom ye slew between the temple and the altar.
[36] Verily I say unto you, All these things shall come upon this generation.
[37] O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
[38] Behold, your house is left unto you desolate.
[39] For I say unto you, Ye shall not see me henceforth, till ye shall say, Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.
Matthew.24
[1] And Jesus went out, and departed from the temple: and his disciples came to him for to shew him the buildings of the temple.
[2] And Jesus said unto them, See ye not all these things? verily I say unto you, There shall not be left here one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down.
[3] And as he sat upon the mount of Olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, Tell us, when shall these things be? and what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world?
[4] And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.
[5] For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many.
[6] And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
[7] For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places.
[8] All these are the beginning of sorrows.
[9] Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name's sake.
[10] And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another.
[11] And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many.
[12] And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold.
[13] But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.
[14] And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.
[15] When ye therefore shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place, (whoso readeth, let him understand:)
[16] Then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains:
[17] Let him which is on the housetop not come down to take any thing out of his house:
[18] Neither let him which is in the field return back to take his clothes.
[19] And woe unto them that are with child, and to them that give suck in those days!
[20] But pray ye that your flight be not in the winter, neither on the sabbath day:
[21] For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.
[22] And except those days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved: but for the elect's sake those days shall be shortened.
[23] Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not.
[24] For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.
[25] Behold, I have told you before.
[26] Wherefore if they shall say unto you, Behold, he is in the desert; go not forth: behold, he is in the secret chambers; believe it not.
[27] For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.
[28] For wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together.
[29] Immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken:
[30] And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory.
[31] And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.
[32] Now learn a parable of the fig tree; When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh:
[33] So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things, know that it is near, even at the doors.
[34] Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled.
[35] Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.
[36] But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.
[37] But as the days of Noe were, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.
[38] For as in the days that were before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noe entered into the ark,
[39] And knew not until the flood came, and took them all away; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.
[40] Then shall two be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left.
[41] Two women shall be grinding at the mill; the one shall be taken, and the other left.
[42] Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.
[43] But know this, that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up.
[44] Therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh.
[45] Who then is a faithful and wise servant, whom his lord hath made ruler over his household, to give them meat in due season?
[46] Blessed is that servant, whom his lord when he cometh shall find so doing.
[47] Verily I say unto you, That he shall make him ruler over all his goods.
[48] But and if that evil servant shall say in his heart, My lord delayeth his coming;
[49] And shall begin to smite his fellowservants, and to eat and drink with the drunken;
[50] The lord of that servant shall come in a day when he looketh not for him, and in an hour that he is not aware of,
[51] And shall cut him asunder, and appoint him his portion with the hypocrites: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Matthew.25
[1] Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, which took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom.
[2] And five of them were wise, and five were foolish.
[3] They that were foolish took their lamps, and took no oil with them:
[4] But the wise took oil in their vessels with their lamps.
[5] While the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept.
[6] And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him.
[7] Then all those virgins arose, and trimmed their lamps.
[8] And the foolish said unto the wise, Give us of your oil; for our lamps are gone out.
[9] But the wise answered, saying, Not so; lest there be not enough for us and you: but go ye rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.
[10] And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came; and they that were ready went in with him to the marriage: and the door was shut.
[11] Afterward came also the other virgins, saying, Lord, Lord, open to us.
[12] But he answered and said, Verily I say unto you, I know you not.
[13] Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh.
[14] For the kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods.
[15] And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.
[16] Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the same, and made them other five talents.
[17] And likewise he that had received two, he also gained other two.
[18] But he that had received one went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord's money.
[19] After a long time the lord of those servants cometh, and reckoneth with them.
[20] And so he that had received five talents came and brought other five talents, saying, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have gained beside them five talents more.
[21] His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.
[22] He also that had received two talents came and said, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other talents beside them.
[23] His lord said unto him, Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.
[24] Then he which had received the one talent came and said, Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed:
[25] And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine.
[26] His lord answered and said unto him, Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed:
[27] Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received mine own with usury.
[28] Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which hath ten talents.
[29] For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.
[30] And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
[31] When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:
[32] And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:
[33] And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.
[34] Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
[35] For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
[36] Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
[37] Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
[38] When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
[39] Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
[40] And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
[41] Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:
[42] For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:
[43] I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.
[44] Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
[45] Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.
[46] And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.
Matthew.26
[1] And it came to pass, when Jesus had finished all these sayings, he said unto his disciples,
[2] Ye know that after two days is the feast of the passover, and the Son of man is betrayed to be crucified.
[3] Then assembled together the chief priests, and the scribes, and the elders of the people, unto the palace of the high priest, who was called Caiaphas,
[4] And consulted that they might take Jesus by subtilty, and kill him.
[5] But they said, Not on the feast day, lest there be an uproar among the people.
[6] Now when Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper,
[7] There came unto him a woman having an alabaster box of very precious ointment, and poured it on his head, as he sat at meat.
[8] But when his disciples saw it, they had indignation, saying, To what purpose is this waste?
[9] For this ointment might have been sold for much, and given to the poor.
[10] When Jesus understood it, he said unto them, Why trouble ye the woman? for she hath wrought a good work upon me.
[11] For ye have the poor always with you; but me ye have not always.
[12] For in that she hath poured this ointment on my body, she did it for my burial.
[13] Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.
[14] Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went unto the chief priests,
[15] And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver.
[16] And from that time he sought opportunity to betray him.
[17] Now the first day of the feast of unleavened bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying unto him, Where wilt thou that we prepare for thee to eat the passover?
[18] And he said, Go into the city to such a man, and say unto him, The Master saith, My time is at hand; I will keep the passover at thy house with my disciples.
[19] And the disciples did as Jesus had appointed them; and they made ready the passover.
[20] Now when the even was come, he sat down with the twelve.
[21] And as they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.
[22] And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I?
[23] And he answered and said, He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me.
[24] The Son of man goeth as it is written of him: but woe unto that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed! it had been good for that man if he had not been born.
[25] Then Judas, which betrayed him, answered and said, Master, is it I? He said unto him, Thou hast said.
[26] And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat; this is my body.
[27] And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it;
[28] For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.
[29] But I say unto you, I will not drink henceforth of this fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father's kingdom.
[30] And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives.
[31] Then saith Jesus unto them, All ye shall be offended because of me this night: for it is written, I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad.
[32] But after I am risen again, I will go before you into Galilee.
[33] Peter answered and said unto him, Though all men shall be offended because of thee, yet will I never be offended.
[34] Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice.
[35] Peter said unto him, Though I should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee. Likewise also said all the disciples.
[36] Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder.
[37] And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy.
[38] Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.
[39] And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.
[40] And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep, and saith unto Peter, What, could ye not watch with me one hour?
[41] Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.
[42] He went away again the second time, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.
[43] And he came and found them asleep again: for their eyes were heavy.
[44] And he left them, and went away again, and prayed the third time, saying the same words.
[45] Then cometh he to his disciples, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and take your rest: behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.
[46] Rise, let us be going: behold, he is at hand that doth betray me.
[47] And while he yet spake, lo, Judas, one of the twelve, came, and with him a great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests and elders of the people.
[48] Now he that betrayed him gave them a sign, saying, Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he: hold him fast.
[49] And forthwith he came to Jesus, and said, Hail, master; and kissed him.
[50] And Jesus said unto him, Friend, wherefore art thou come? Then came they, and laid hands on Jesus, and took him.
[51] And, behold, one of them which were with Jesus stretched out his hand, and drew his sword, and struck a servant of the high priest's, and smote off his ear.
[52] Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.
[53] Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?
[54] But how then shall the scriptures be fulfilled, that thus it must be?
[55] In that same hour said Jesus to the multitudes, Are ye come out as against a thief with swords and staves for to take me? I sat daily with you teaching in the temple, and ye laid no hold on me.
[56] But all this was done, that the scriptures of the prophets might be fulfilled. Then all the disciples forsook him, and fled.
[57] And they that had laid hold on Jesus led him away to Caiaphas the high priest, where the scribes and the elders were assembled.
[58] But Peter followed him afar off unto the high priest's palace, and went in, and sat with the servants, to see the end.
[59] Now the chief priests, and elders, and all the council, sought false witness against Jesus, to put him to death;
[60] But found none: yea, though many false witnesses came, yet found they none. At the last came two false witnesses,
[61] And said, This fellow said, I am able to destroy the temple of God, and to build it in three days.
[62] And the high priest arose, and said unto him, Answerest thou nothing? what is it which these witness against thee?
[63] But Jesus held his peace. And the high priest answered and said unto him, I adjure thee by the living God, that thou tell us whether thou be the Christ, the Son of God.
[64] Jesus saith unto him, Thou hast said: nevertheless I say unto you, Hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.
[65] Then the high priest rent his clothes, saying, He hath spoken blasphemy; what further need have we of witnesses? behold, now ye have heard his blasphemy.
[66] What think ye? They answered and said, He is guilty of death.
[67] Then did they spit in his face, and buffeted him; and others smote him with the palms of their hands,
[68] Saying, Prophesy unto us, thou Christ, Who is he that smote thee?
[69] Now Peter sat without in the palace: and a damsel came unto him, saying, Thou also wast with Jesus of Galilee.
[70] But he denied before them all, saying, I know not what thou sayest.
[71] And when he was gone out into the porch, another maid saw him, and said unto them that were there, This fellow was also with Jesus of Nazareth.
[72] And again he denied with an oath, I do not know the man.
[73] And after a while came unto him they that stood by, and said to Peter, Surely thou also art one of them; for thy speech bewrayeth thee.
[74] Then began he to curse and to swear, saying, I know not the man. And immediately the cock crew.
[75] And Peter remembered the word of Jesus, which said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And he went out, and wept bitterly.
Matthew.27
[1] When the morning was come, all the chief priests and elders of the people took counsel against Jesus to put him to death:
[2] And when they had bound him, they led him away, and delivered him to Pontius Pilate the governor.
[3] Then Judas, which had betrayed him, when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders,
[4] Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood. And they said, What is that to us? see thou to that.
[5] And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself.
[6] And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is not lawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of blood.
[7] And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter's field, to bury strangers in.
[8] Wherefore that field was called, The field of blood, unto this day.
[9] Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying, And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of him that was valued, whom they of the children of Israel did value;
[10] And gave them for the potter's field, as the Lord appointed me.
[11] And Jesus stood before the governor: and the governor asked him, saying, Art thou the King of the Jews? And Jesus said unto him, Thou sayest.
[12] And when he was accused of the chief priests and elders, he answered nothing.
[13] Then said Pilate unto him, Hearest thou not how many things they witness against thee?
[14] And he answered him to never a word; insomuch that the governor marvelled greatly.
[15] Now at that feast the governor was wont to release unto the people a prisoner, whom they would.
[16] And they had then a notable prisoner, called Barabbas.
[17] Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto them, Whom will ye that I release unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ?
[18] For he knew that for envy they had delivered him.
[19] When he was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.
[20] But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude that they should ask Barabbas, and destroy Jesus.
[21] The governor answered and said unto them, Whether of the twain will ye that I release unto you? They said, Barabbas.
[22] Pilate saith unto them, What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ? They all say unto him, Let him be crucified.
[23] And the governor said, Why, what evil hath he done? But they cried out the more, saying, Let him be crucified.
[24] When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.
[25] Then answered all the people, and said, His blood be on us, and on our children.
[26] Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he delivered him to be crucified.
[27] Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
[28] And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
[29] And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
[30] And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
[31] And after that they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.
[32] And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross.
[33] And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha, that is to say, a place of a skull,
[34] They gave him vinegar to drink mingled with gall: and when he had tasted thereof, he would not drink.
[35] And they crucified him, and parted his garments, casting lots: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, They parted my garments among them, and upon my vesture did they cast lots.
[36] And sitting down they watched him there;
[37] And set up over his head his accusation written, THIS IS JESUS THE KING OF THE JEWS.
[38] Then were there two thieves crucified with him, one on the right hand, and another on the left.
[39] And they that passed by reviled him, wagging their heads,
[40] And saying, Thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save thyself. If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross.
[41] Likewise also the chief priests mocking him, with the scribes and elders, said,
[42] He saved others; himself he cannot save. If he be the King of Israel, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him.
[43] He trusted in God; let him deliver him now, if he will have him: for he said, I am the Son of God.
[44] The thieves also, which were crucified with him, cast the same in his teeth.
[45] Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour.
[46] And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
[47] Some of them that stood there, when they heard that, said, This man calleth for Elias.
[48] And straightway one of them ran, and took a spunge, and filled it with vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink.
[49] The rest said, Let be, let us see whether Elias will come to save him.
[50] Jesus, when he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost.
[51] And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent;
[52] And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose,
[53] And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.
[54] Now when the centurion, and they that were with him, watching Jesus, saw the earthquake, and those things that were done, they feared greatly, saying, Truly this was the Son of God.
[55] And many women were there beholding afar off, which followed Jesus from Galilee, ministering unto him:
[56] Among which was Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James and Joses, and the mother of Zebedee's children.
[57] When the even was come, there came a rich man of Arimathaea, named Joseph, who also himself was Jesus' disciple:
[58] He went to Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus. Then Pilate commanded the body to be delivered.
[59] And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth,
[60] And laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed.
[61] And there was Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre.
[62] Now the next day, that followed the day of the preparation, the chief priests and Pharisees came together unto Pilate,
[63] Saying, Sir, we remember that that deceiver said, while he was yet alive, After three days I will rise again.
[64] Command therefore that the sepulchre be made sure until the third day, lest his disciples come by night, and steal him away, and say unto the people, He is risen from the dead: so the last error shall be worse than the first.
[65] Pilate said unto them, Ye have a watch: go your way, make it as sure as ye can.
[66] So they went, and made the sepulchre sure, sealing the stone, and setting a watch.
Matthew.28
[1] In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.
[2] And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
[3] His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:
[4] And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.
[5] And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified.
[6] He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.
[7] And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him: lo, I have told you.
[8] And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy; and did run to bring his disciples word.
[9] And as they went to tell his disciples, behold, Jesus met them, saying, All hail. And they came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him.
[10] Then said Jesus unto them, Be not afraid: go tell my brethren that they go into Galilee, and there shall they see me.
[11] Now when they were going, behold, some of the watch came into the city, and shewed unto the chief priests all the things that were done.
[12] And when they were assembled with the elders, and had taken counsel, they gave large money unto the soldiers,
[13] Saying, Say ye, His disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept.
[14] And if this come to the governor's ears, we will persuade him, and secure you.
[15] So they took the money, and did as they were taught: and this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day.
[16] Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee, into a mountain where Jesus had appointed them.
[17] And when they saw him, they worshipped him: but some doubted.
[18] And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.
[19] Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
[20] Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen.#18,941,418textDeclaration of Independence
In Congress, July 4, 1776
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.
He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.
Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
Georgia
Button Gwinnett
Lyman Hall
George Walton
North Carolina
William Hooper
Joseph Hewes
John Penn
South Carolina
Edward Rutledge
Thomas Heyward, Jr.
Thomas Lynch, Jr.
Arthur Middleton
Massachusetts
John Hancock
Maryland
Samuel Chase
William Paca
Thomas Stone
Charles Carroll of Carrollton
Virginia
George Wythe
Richard Henry Lee
Thomas Jefferson
Benjamin Harrison
Thomas Nelson, Jr.
Francis Lightfoot Lee
Carter Braxton
Pennsylvania
Robert Morris
Benjamin Rush
Benjamin Franklin
John Morton
George Clymer
James Smith
George Taylor
James Wilson
George Ross
Delaware
Caesar Rodney
George Read
Thomas McKean
New York
William Floyd
Philip Livingston
Francis Lewis
Lewis Morris
New Jersey
Richard Stockton
John Witherspoon
Francis Hopkinson
John Hart
Abraham Clark
New Hampshire
Josiah Bartlett
William Whipple
Massachusetts
Samuel Adams
John Adams
Robert Treat Paine
Elbridge Gerry
Rhode Island
Stephen Hopkins
William Ellery
Connecticut
Roger Sherman
Samuel Huntington
William Williams
Oliver Wolcott
New Hampshire
Matthew Thornton#18,941,288textKing James Bible: Book of Ecclesiastes
Ecclesiastes 1:1 The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.
Ecclesiastes 1:2 Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 1:3 What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?
Ecclesiastes 1:4 [One] generation passeth away, and [another] generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.
Ecclesiastes 1:5 The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.
Ecclesiastes 1:6 The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.
Ecclesiastes 1:7 All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea [is] not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.
Ecclesiastes 1:8 All things [are] full of labour; man cannot utter [it]: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
Ecclesiastes 1:9 The thing that hath been, it [is that] which shall be; and that which is done [is] that which shall be done: and [there is] no new [thing] under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 1:10 Is there [any] thing whereof it may be said, See, this [is] new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.
Ecclesiastes 1:11 [There is] no remembrance of former [things]; neither shall there be [any] remembrance of [things] that are to come with [those] that shall come after.
Ecclesiastes 1:12 I the Preacher was king over Israel in Jerusalem.
Ecclesiastes 1:13 And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all [things] that are done under heaven: this sore travail hath God given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith.
Ecclesiastes 1:14 I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all [is] vanity and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 1:15 [That which is] crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.
Ecclesiastes 1:16 I communed with mine own heart, saying, Lo, I am come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all [they] that have been before me in Jerusalem: yea, my heart had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.
Ecclesiastes 1:17 And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 1:18 For in much wisdom [is] much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.
Ecclesiastes 2:1 I said in mine heart, Go to now, I will prove thee with mirth, therefore enjoy pleasure: and, behold, this also [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 2:2 I said of laughter, [It is] mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?
Ecclesiastes 2:3 I sought in mine heart to give myself unto wine, yet acquainting mine heart with wisdom; and to lay hold on folly, till I might see what [was] that good for the sons of men, which they should do under the heaven all the days of their life.
Ecclesiastes 2:4 I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards:
Ecclesiastes 2:5 I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all [kind of] fruits:
Ecclesiastes 2:6 I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees:
Ecclesiastes 2:7 I got [me] servants and maidens, and had servants born in my house; also I had great possessions of great and small cattle above all that were in Jerusalem before me:
Ecclesiastes 2:8 I gathered me also silver and gold, and the peculiar treasure of kings and of the provinces: I gat me men singers and women singers, and the delights of the sons of men, [as] musical instruments, and that of all sorts.
Ecclesiastes 2:9 So I was great, and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my wisdom remained with me.
Ecclesiastes 2:10 And whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld not my heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in all my labour: and this was my portion of all my labour.
Ecclesiastes 2:11 Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all [was] vanity and vexation of spirit, and [there was] no profit under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 2:12 And I turned myself to behold wisdom, and madness, and folly: for what [can] the man [do] that cometh after the king? [even] that which hath been already done.
Ecclesiastes 2:13 Then I saw that wisdom excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness.
Ecclesiastes 2:14 The wise man’s eyes [are] in his head; but the fool walketh in darkness: and I myself perceived also that one event happeneth to them all.
Ecclesiastes 2:15 Then said I in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it happeneth even to me; and why was I then more wise? Then I said in my heart, that this also [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 2:16 For [there is] no remembrance of the wise more than of the fool for ever; seeing that which now [is] in the days to come shall all be forgotten. And how dieth the wise [man]? as the fool.
Ecclesiastes 2:17 Therefore I hated life; because the work that is wrought under the sun [is] grievous unto me: for all [is] vanity and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 2:18 Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me.
Ecclesiastes 2:19 And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise [man] or a fool? yet shall he have rule over all my labour wherein I have laboured, and wherein I have shewed myself wise under the sun. This [is] also vanity.
Ecclesiastes 2:20 Therefore I went about to cause my heart to despair of all the labour which I took under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 2:21 For there is a man whose labour [is] in wisdom, and in knowledge, and in equity; yet to a man that hath not laboured therein shall he leave it [for] his portion. This also [is] vanity and a great evil.
Ecclesiastes 2:22 For what hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun?
Ecclesiastes 2:23 For all his days [are] sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night. This is also vanity.
Ecclesiastes 2:24 [There is] nothing better for a man, [than] that he should eat and drink, and [that] he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour. This also I saw, that it [was] from the hand of God.
Ecclesiastes 2:25 For who can eat, or who else can hasten [hereunto], more than I?
Ecclesiastes 2:26 For [God] giveth to a man that [is] good in his sight wisdom, and knowledge, and joy: but to the sinner he giveth travail, to gather and to heap up, that he may give to [him that is] good before God. This also [is] vanity and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 3:1 To every [thing there is] a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
Ecclesiastes 3:2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up [that which is] planted;
Ecclesiastes 3:3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
Ecclesiastes 3:4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
Ecclesiastes 3:5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
Ecclesiastes 3:6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
Ecclesiastes 3:7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
Ecclesiastes 3:8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:9 What profit hath he that worketh in that wherein he laboureth?
Ecclesiastes 3:10 I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.
Ecclesiastes 3:11 He hath made every [thing] beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.
Ecclesiastes 3:12 I know that [there is] no good in them, but for [a man] to rejoice, and to do good in his life.
Ecclesiastes 3:13 And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it [is] the gift of God.
Ecclesiastes 3:14 I know that, whatsoever God doeth, it shall be for ever: nothing can be put to it, nor any thing taken from it: and God doeth [it], that [men] should fear before him.
Ecclesiastes 3:15 That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been; and God requireth that which is past.
Ecclesiastes 3:16 And moreover I saw under the sun the place of judgment, [that] wickedness [was] there; and the place of righteousness, [that] iniquity [was] there.
Ecclesiastes 3:17 I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for [there is] a time there for every purpose and for every work.
Ecclesiastes 3:18 I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.
Ecclesiastes 3:19 For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 3:20 All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
Ecclesiastes 3:21 Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?
Ecclesiastes 3:22 Wherefore I perceive that [there is] nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that [is] his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?
Ecclesiastes 4:1 So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of [such as were] oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors [there was] power; but they had no comforter.
Ecclesiastes 4:2 Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive.
Ecclesiastes 4:3 Yea, better [is he] than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 4:4 Again, I considered all travail, and every right work, that for this a man is envied of his neighbour. This [is] also vanity and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 4:5 The fool foldeth his hands together, and eateth his own flesh.
Ecclesiastes 4:6 Better [is] an handful [with] quietness, than both the hands full [with] travail and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 4:7 Then I returned, and I saw vanity under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 4:8 There is one [alone], and [there is] not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet [is there] no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither [saith he], For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good? This [is] also vanity, yea, it [is] a sore travail.
Ecclesiastes 4:9 Two [are] better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.
Ecclesiastes 4:10 For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him [that is] alone when he falleth; for [he hath] not another to help him up.
Ecclesiastes 4:11 Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm [alone]?
Ecclesiastes 4:12 And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
Ecclesiastes 4:13 Better [is] a poor and a wise child than an old and foolish king, who will no more be admonished.
Ecclesiastes 4:14 For out of prison he cometh to reign; whereas also [he that is] born in his kingdom becometh poor.
Ecclesiastes 4:15 I considered all the living which walk under the sun, with the second child that shall stand up in his stead.
Ecclesiastes 4:16 [There is] no end of all the people, [even] of all that have been before them: they also that come after shall not rejoice in him. Surely this also [is] vanity and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 5:1 Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God, and be more ready to hear, than to give the sacrifice of fools: for they consider not that they do evil.
Ecclesiastes 5:2 Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter [any] thing before God: for God [is] in heaven, and thou upon earth: therefore let thy words be few.
Ecclesiastes 5:3 For a dream cometh through the multitude of business; and a fool’s voice [is known] by multitude of words.
Ecclesiastes 5:4 When thou vowest a vow unto God, defer not to pay it; for [he hath] no pleasure in fools: pay that which thou hast vowed.
Ecclesiastes 5:5 Better [is it] that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.
Ecclesiastes 5:6 Suffer not thy mouth to cause thy flesh to sin; neither say thou before the angel, that it [was] an error: wherefore should God be angry at thy voice, and destroy the work of thine hands?
Ecclesiastes 5:7 For in the multitude of dreams and many words [there are] also [divers] vanities: but fear thou God.
Ecclesiastes 5:8 If thou seest the oppression of the poor, and violent perverting of judgment and justice in a province, marvel not at the matter: for [he that is] higher than the highest regardeth; and [there be] higher than they.
Ecclesiastes 5:9 Moreover the profit of the earth is for all: the king [himself] is served by the field.
Ecclesiastes 5:10 He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase: this [is] also vanity.
Ecclesiastes 5:11 When goods increase, they are increased that eat them: and what good [is there] to the owners thereof, saving the beholding [of them] with their eyes?
Ecclesiastes 5:12 The sleep of a labouring man [is] sweet, whether he eat little or much: but the abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep.
Ecclesiastes 5:13 There is a sore evil [which] I have seen under the sun, [namely], riches kept for the owners thereof to their hurt.
Ecclesiastes 5:14 But those riches perish by evil travail: and he begetteth a son, and [there is] nothing in his hand.
Ecclesiastes 5:15 As he came forth of his mother’s womb, naked shall he return to go as he came, and shall take nothing of his labour, which he may carry away in his hand.
Ecclesiastes 5:16 And this also [is] a sore evil, [that] in all points as he came, so shall he go: and what profit hath he that hath laboured for the wind?
Ecclesiastes 5:17 All his days also he eateth in darkness, and [he hath] much sorrow and wrath with his sickness.
Ecclesiastes 5:18 Behold [that] which I have seen: [it is] good and comely [for one] to eat and to drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labour that he taketh under the sun all the days of his life, which God giveth him: for it [is] his portion.
Ecclesiastes 5:19 Every man also to whom God hath given riches and wealth, and hath given him power to eat thereof, and to take his portion, and to rejoice in his labour; this [is] the gift of God.
Ecclesiastes 5:20 For he shall not much remember the days of his life; because God answereth [him] in the joy of his heart.
Ecclesiastes 6:1 There is an evil which I have seen under the sun, and it [is] common among men:
Ecclesiastes 6:2 A man to whom God hath given riches, wealth, and honour, so that he wanteth nothing for his soul of all that he desireth, yet God giveth him not power to eat thereof, but a stranger eateth it: this [is] vanity, and it [is] an evil disease.
Ecclesiastes 6:3 If a man beget an hundred [children], and live many years, so that the days of his years be many, and his soul be not filled with good, and also [that] he have no burial; I say, [that] an untimely birth [is] better than he.
Ecclesiastes 6:4 For he cometh in with vanity, and departeth in darkness, and his name shall be covered with darkness.
Ecclesiastes 6:5 Moreover he hath not seen the sun, nor known [any thing]: this hath more rest than the other.
Ecclesiastes 6:6 Yea, though he live a thousand years twice [told], yet hath he seen no good: do not all go to one place?
Ecclesiastes 6:7 All the labour of man [is] for his mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled.
Ecclesiastes 6:8 For what hath the wise more than the fool? what hath the poor, that knoweth to walk before the living?
Ecclesiastes 6:9 Better [is] the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the desire: this [is] also vanity and vexation of spirit.
Ecclesiastes 6:10 That which hath been is named already, and it is known that it [is] man: neither may he contend with him that is mightier than he.
Ecclesiastes 6:11 Seeing there be many things that increase vanity, what [is] man the better?
Ecclesiastes 6:12 For who knoweth what [is] good for man in [this] life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? for who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun?
Ecclesiastes 7:1 A good name [is] better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one’s birth.
Ecclesiastes 7:2 [It is] better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that [is] the end of all men; and the living will lay [it] to his heart.
Ecclesiastes 7:3 Sorrow [is] better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.
Ecclesiastes 7:4 The heart of the wise [is] in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools [is] in the house of mirth.
Ecclesiastes 7:5 [It is] better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools.
Ecclesiastes 7:6 For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so [is] the laughter of the fool: this also [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 7:7 Surely oppression maketh a wise man mad; and a gift destroyeth the heart.
Ecclesiastes 7:8 Better [is] the end of a thing than the beginning thereof: [and] the patient in spirit [is] better than the proud in spirit.
Ecclesiastes 7:9 Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.
Ecclesiastes 7:10 Say not thou, What is [the cause] that the former days were better than these? for thou dost not inquire wisely concerning this.
Ecclesiastes 7:11 Wisdom [is] good with an inheritance: and [by it there is] profit to them that see the sun.
Ecclesiastes 7:12 For wisdom [is] a defence, [and] money [is] a defence: but the excellency of knowledge [is, that] wisdom giveth life to them that have it.
Ecclesiastes 7:13 Consider the work of God: for who can make [that] straight, which he hath made crooked?
Ecclesiastes 7:14 In the day of prosperity be joyful, but in the day of adversity consider: God also hath set the one over against the other, to the end that man should find nothing after him.
Ecclesiastes 7:15 All [things] have I seen in the days of my vanity: there is a just [man] that perisheth in his righteousness, and there is a wicked [man] that prolongeth [his life] in his wickedness.
Ecclesiastes 7:16 Be not righteous over much; neither make thyself over wise: why shouldest thou destroy thyself?
Ecclesiastes 7:17 Be not over much wicked, neither be thou foolish: why shouldest thou die before thy time?
Ecclesiastes 7:18 [It is] good that thou shouldest take hold of this; yea, also from this withdraw not thine hand: for he that feareth God shall come forth of them all.
Ecclesiastes 7:19 Wisdom strengtheneth the wise more than ten mighty [men] which are in the city.
Ecclesiastes 7:20 For [there is] not a just man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.
Ecclesiastes 7:21 Also take no heed unto all words that are spoken; lest thou hear thy servant curse thee:
Ecclesiastes 7:22 For oftentimes also thine own heart knoweth that thou thyself likewise hast cursed others.
Ecclesiastes 7:23 All this have I proved by wisdom: I said, I will be wise; but it [was] far from me.
Ecclesiastes 7:24 That which is far off, and exceeding deep, who can find it out?
Ecclesiastes 7:25 I applied mine heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom, and the reason [of things], and to know the wickedness of folly, even of foolishness [and] madness:
Ecclesiastes 7:26 And I find more bitter than death the woman, whose heart [is] snares and nets, [and] her hands [as] bands: whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but the sinner shall be taken by her.
Ecclesiastes 7:27 Behold, this have I found, saith the preacher, [counting] one by one, to find out the account:
Ecclesiastes 7:28 Which yet my soul seeketh, but I find not: one man among a thousand have I found; but a woman among all those have I not found.
Ecclesiastes 7:29 Lo, this only have I found, that God hath made man upright; but they have sought out many inventions.
Ecclesiastes 8:1 Who [is] as the wise [man]? and who knoweth the interpretation of a thing? a man’s wisdom maketh his face to shine, and the boldness of his face shall be changed.
Ecclesiastes 8:2 I [counsel thee] to keep the king’s commandment, and [that] in regard of the oath of God.
Ecclesiastes 8:3 Be not hasty to go out of his sight: stand not in an evil thing; for he doeth whatsoever pleaseth him.
Ecclesiastes 8:4 Where the word of a king [is, there is] power: and who may say unto him, What doest thou?
Ecclesiastes 8:5 Whoso keepeth the commandment shall feel no evil thing: and a wise man’s heart discerneth both time and judgment.
Ecclesiastes 8:6 Because to every purpose there is time and judgment, therefore the misery of man [is] great upon him.
Ecclesiastes 8:7 For he knoweth not that which shall be: for who can tell him when it shall be?
Ecclesiastes 8:8 [There is] no man that hath power over the spirit to retain the spirit; neither [hath he] power in the day of death: and [there is] no discharge in [that] war; neither shall wickedness deliver those that are given to it.
Ecclesiastes 8:9 All this have I seen, and applied my heart unto every work that is done under the sun: [there is] a time wherein one man ruleth over another to his own hurt.
Ecclesiastes 8:10 And so I saw the wicked buried, who had come and gone from the place of the holy, and they were forgotten in the city where they had so done: this [is] also vanity.
Ecclesiastes 8:11 Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil.
Ecclesiastes 8:12 Though a sinner do evil an hundred times, and his [days] be prolonged, yet surely I know that it shall be well with them that fear God, which fear before him:
Ecclesiastes 8:13 But it shall not be well with the wicked, neither shall he prolong [his] days, [which are] as a shadow; because he feareth not before God.
Ecclesiastes 8:14 There is a vanity which is done upon the earth; that there be just [men], unto whom it happeneth according to the work of the wicked; again, there be wicked [men], to whom it happeneth according to the work of the righteous: I said that this also [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 8:15 Then I commended mirth, because a man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry: for that shall abide with him of his labour the days of his life, which God giveth him under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 8:16 When I applied mine heart to know wisdom, and to see the business that is done upon the earth: (for also [there is that] neither day nor night seeth sleep with his eyes:)
Ecclesiastes 8:17 Then I beheld all the work of God, that a man cannot find out the work that is done under the sun: because though a man labour to seek [it] out, yet he shall not find [it]; yea further; though a wise [man] think to know [it], yet shall he not be able to find [it].
Ecclesiastes 9:1 For all this I considered in my heart even to declare all this, that the righteous, and the wise, and their works, [are] in the hand of God: no man knoweth either love or hatred [by] all [that is] before them.
Ecclesiastes 9:2 All [things come] alike to all: [there is] one event to the righteous, and to the wicked; to the good and to the clean, and to the unclean; to him that sacrificeth, and to him that sacrificeth not: as [is] the good, so [is] the sinner; [and] he that sweareth, as [he] that feareth an oath.
Ecclesiastes 9:3 This [is] an evil among all [things] that are done under the sun, that [there is] one event unto all: yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness [is] in their heart while they live, and after that [they go] to the dead.
Ecclesiastes 9:4 For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope: for a living dog is better than a dead lion.
Ecclesiastes 9:5 For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten.
Ecclesiastes 9:6 Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any [thing] that is done under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 9:7 Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.
Ecclesiastes 9:8 Let thy garments be always white; and let thy head lack no ointment.
Ecclesiastes 9:9 Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life of thy vanity, which he hath given thee under the sun, all the days of thy vanity: for that [is] thy portion in [this] life, and in thy labour which thou takest under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 9:10 Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do [it] with thy might; for [there is] no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
Ecclesiastes 9:11 I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race [is] not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.
Ecclesiastes 9:12 For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so [are] the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.
Ecclesiastes 9:13 This wisdom have I seen also under the sun, and it [seemed] great unto me:
Ecclesiastes 9:14 [There was] a little city, and few men within it; and there came a great king against it, and besieged it, and built great bulwarks against it:
Ecclesiastes 9:15 Now there was found in it a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city; yet no man remembered that same poor man.
Ecclesiastes 9:16 Then said I, Wisdom [is] better than strength: nevertheless the poor man’s wisdom [is] despised, and his words are not heard.
Ecclesiastes 9:17 The words of wise [men are] heard in quiet more than the cry of him that ruleth among fools.
Ecclesiastes 9:18 Wisdom [is] better than weapons of war: but one sinner destroyeth much good.
Ecclesiastes 10:1 Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour: [so doth] a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom [and] honour.
Ecclesiastes 10:2 A wise man’s heart [is] at his right hand; but a fool’s heart at his left.
Ecclesiastes 10:3 Yea also, when he that is a fool walketh by the way, his wisdom faileth [him], and he saith to every one [that] he [is] a fool.
Ecclesiastes 10:4 If the spirit of the ruler rise up against thee, leave not thy place; for yielding pacifieth great offences.
Ecclesiastes 10:5 There is an evil [which] I have seen under the sun, as an error [which] proceedeth from the ruler:
Ecclesiastes 10:6 Folly is set in great dignity, and the rich sit in low place.
Ecclesiastes 10:7 I have seen servants upon horses, and princes walking as servants upon the earth.
Ecclesiastes 10:8 He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it; and whoso breaketh an hedge, a serpent shall bite him.
Ecclesiastes 10:9 Whoso removeth stones shall be hurt therewith; [and] he that cleaveth wood shall be endangered thereby.
Ecclesiastes 10:10 If the iron be blunt, and he do not whet the edge, then must he put to more strength: but wisdom [is] profitable to direct.
Ecclesiastes 10:11 Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment; and a babbler is no better.
Ecclesiastes 10:12 The words of a wise man’s mouth [are] gracious; but the lips of a fool will swallow up himself.
Ecclesiastes 10:13 The beginning of the words of his mouth [is] foolishness: and the end of his talk [is] mischievous madness.
Ecclesiastes 10:14 A fool also is full of words: a man cannot tell what shall be; and what shall be after him, who can tell him?
Ecclesiastes 10:15 The labour of the foolish wearieth every one of them, because he knoweth not how to go to the city.
Ecclesiastes 10:16 Woe to thee, O land, when thy king [is] a child, and thy princes eat in the morning!
Ecclesiastes 10:17 Blessed [art] thou, O land, when thy king [is] the son of nobles, and thy princes eat in due season, for strength, and not for drunkenness!
Ecclesiastes 10:18 By much slothfulness the building decayeth; and through idleness of the hands the house droppeth through.
Ecclesiastes 10:19 A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry: but money answereth all [things].
Ecclesiastes 10:20 Curse not the king, no not in thy thought; and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber: for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.
Ecclesiastes 11:1 Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.
Ecclesiastes 11:2 Give a portion to seven, and also to eight; for thou knowest not what evil shall be upon the earth.
Ecclesiastes 11:3 If the clouds be full of rain, they empty [themselves] upon the earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be.
Ecclesiastes 11:4 He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap.
Ecclesiastes 11:5 As thou knowest not what [is] the way of the spirit, [nor] how the bones [do grow] in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou knowest not the works of God who maketh all.
Ecclesiastes 11:6 In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both [shall be] alike good.
Ecclesiastes 11:7 Truly the light [is] sweet, and a pleasant [thing it is] for the eyes to behold the sun:
Ecclesiastes 11:8 But if a man live many years, [and] rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days of darkness; for they shall be many. All that cometh [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 11:9 Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these [things] God will bring thee into judgment.
Ecclesiastes 11:10 Therefore remove sorrow from thy heart, and put away evil from thy flesh: for childhood and youth [are] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 12:1 Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;
Ecclesiastes 12:2 While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
Ecclesiastes 12:3 In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
Ecclesiastes 12:4 And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musick shall be brought low;
Ecclesiastes 12:5 Also [when] they shall be afraid of [that which is] high, and fears [shall be] in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:
Ecclesiastes 12:6 Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Ecclesiastes 12:7 Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Ecclesiastes 12:8 Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all [is] vanity.
Ecclesiastes 12:9 And moreover, because the preacher was wise, he still taught the people knowledge; yea, he gave good heed, and sought out, [and] set in order many proverbs.
Ecclesiastes 12:10 The preacher sought to find out acceptable words: and [that which was] written [was] upright, [even] words of truth.
Ecclesiastes 12:11 The words of the wise [are] as goads, and as nails fastened [by] the masters of assemblies, [which] are given from one shepherd.
Ecclesiastes 12:12 And further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books [there is] no end; and much study [is] a weariness of the flesh.
Ecclesiastes 12:13 Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this [is] the whole [duty] of man.
Ecclesiastes 12:14 For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether [it be] good, or whether [it be] evil.#18,941,268textThe Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Once again
to
Zelda
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!”
Thomas Parke d’Invilliers
I
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice
that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just
remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages
that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative
in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more
than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a
habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me
the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to
detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal
person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of
being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild,
unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have
feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by
some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on
the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least
the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and
marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of
infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I
forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly
repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out
unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission
that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the
wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded
on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted
the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I
wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the
human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was
exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I
have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of
successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some
heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related
to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten
thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that
flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the
“creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a
romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and
which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out
all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust
floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my
interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle
Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a
clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of
Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s
brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil
War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father
carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with
special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in
father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of
a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that
delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the
counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being
the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the
ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond
business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it
could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it
over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,
“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance
me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I
thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm
season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly
trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a
house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He
found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a
month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and
I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a
few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who
made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to
herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more
recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide,
a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the
freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the
trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar
conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to
be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen
volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they
stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint,
promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and
Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other
books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a
series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now
I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become
again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”
This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at
from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of
the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender
riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where
there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of
land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in
contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most
domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great
wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the
egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact
end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual
wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more
interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular
except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though
this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little
sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the
egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge
places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on
my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual
imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one
side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble
swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was
Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a
mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an
eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I
had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and
the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a
month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg
glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins
on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom
Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom
in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in
Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of
the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a
national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute
limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of
anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his
freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago
and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for
instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake
Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was
wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for
no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully
wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a
permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe
it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift
on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of
some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East
Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house
was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white
Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at
the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile,
jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when
it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though
from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French
windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm
windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with
his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy
straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a
supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established
dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning
aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding
clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill
those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could
see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his
thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of
fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in
it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who
had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to
say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We
were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I
always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like
him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about
restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the
front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half
acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped
the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again,
politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space,
fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The
windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside
that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through
the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale
flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the
ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow
on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous
couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an
anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were
rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a
short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments
listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a
picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the
rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the
curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the
floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full
length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her
chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which
was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes
she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring
an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly
forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd,
charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the
room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my
hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was
no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she
had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was
Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people
lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less
charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost
imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object
she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her
something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips.
Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned
tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low,
thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and
down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be
played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it,
bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement
in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget:
a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had
done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay,
exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East,
and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel
painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all
night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added
irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped
and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at
Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something
more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that
I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the
room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned
and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long
as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to
New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the
pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom
of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I
enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with
an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward
at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked
back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming,
discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a
picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody
there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced;
wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled
me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two
young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward
the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the
diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her
fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She
looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day
of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in
the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the
table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me
helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her
little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to,
but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a
great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in
kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a
bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool
as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all
desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a
polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew
that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too
would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the
West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its
close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer
nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass
of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or
something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in
an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve
gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise
of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is
if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly
submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of
unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in
them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her
impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to
us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will
have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously
toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom
interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are,
and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a
slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the
things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all
that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his
complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.
When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler
left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned
towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically.
“It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s
nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher
for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred
people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it
began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up
his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her
glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I
listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering
regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear,
whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went
inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned
forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an
absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation:
“An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only
extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart
was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless,
thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and
excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of
meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!”
in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the
room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to
hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down,
mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised.
“I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time.
Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a
dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at
the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and
continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic
outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a
nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing
away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light
enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head
decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects,
vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes
at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I
was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to
avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but
I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain
hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill
metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation
might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone
immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss
Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into
the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while,
trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed
Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In
its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and
her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that
turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be
some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even
if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick,
and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more,
and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her
daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you
what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was
less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of
the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right
away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I
turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a
girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be
in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a
convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I
know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.”
Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and
she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m
sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my
belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me
uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to
exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a
moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as
if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret
society to which she and Tom belonged.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at
either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the
Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running
together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and
dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as
she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in
our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she
stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the
ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy,
“over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous
expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the
sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard
some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I
had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a
marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you
together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push
you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a
word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let
her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s
going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots
of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be
very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our
beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?”
demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we
talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept
up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes
later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood
side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor
Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were
engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were
engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again
in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be
true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even
vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one
of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old
friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention
of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely
rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove
away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out
of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such
intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman
in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been
depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of
stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his
peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside
garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and
when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and
sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had
blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the
trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth
blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered
across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I
was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of
my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets
regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely
movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested
that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was
his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and
that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he
gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched
out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was
from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced
seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute
and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked
once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the
unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily
joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as
to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley
of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and
hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and
chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of
ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery
air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track,
gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the
ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable
cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift
endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T.
J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and
gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face,
but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass
over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set
them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then
sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved
away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun
and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.
The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and,
when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on
waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an
hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was
because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His
acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés
with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with
whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire
to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one
afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet
and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car.
“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”
I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination
to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption
was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.
I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked
back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s
persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of
yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact
Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing.
One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an
all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a
garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed
Tom inside.
The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the
dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had
occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that
sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the
proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands
on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and
faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his
light blue eyes.
“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the
shoulder. “How’s business?”
“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you
going to sell me that car?”
“Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.”
“Works pretty slow, don’t he?”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it,
maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.”
“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant—”
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage.
Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish
figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was
in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh
sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark
blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there
was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of
her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking
through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom,
looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without
turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
“Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little
office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A
white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled
everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.”
“All right.”
“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”
She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with
two chairs from his office door.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days
before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was
setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.
“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor
Eckleburg.
“Awful.”
“It does her good to get away.”
“Doesn’t her husband object?”
“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so
dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.”
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not
quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom
deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might
be on the train.
She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched
tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in
New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a
moving-picture magazine, and in the station drugstore some cold cream
and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive
she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one,
lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from
the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she
turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the
front glass.
“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get
one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.”
We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John
D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very
recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
“What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the
taxi-window.
“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?”
“I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got
that kind?”
The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and
drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.
“That’s no police dog,” said Tom.
“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment
in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the
brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog
that’ll never bother you with catching cold.”
“I think it’s cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is
it?”
“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten
dollars.”
The Airedale—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it
somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and
settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the
weatherproof coat with rapture.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately.
“That dog? That dog’s a boy.”
“It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy
ten more dogs with it.”
We drove over to Fifth Avenue, warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the
summer Sunday afternoon. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a great
flock of white sheep turn the corner.
“Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.”
“No you don’t,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’ll be hurt if you
don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?”
“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sister Catherine. She’s said
to be very beautiful by people who ought to know.”
“Well, I’d like to, but—”
We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds.
At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of
apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the
neighbourhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other
purchases, and went haughtily in.
“I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in
the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.”
The apartment was on the top floor—a small living-room, a small
dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded
to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for
it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of
ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an
over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock.
Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a
bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the
room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with
a copy of Simon Called Peter, and some of the small scandal magazines
of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant
elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk, to which he
added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog biscuits—one of
which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all
afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whisky from a locked
bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that
afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it,
although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful
sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the
telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some
at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both
disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a
chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the
whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.
Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called
each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive
at the apartment door.
The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty,
with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky
white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more
rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the
old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about
there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets
jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary
haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I
wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed
immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a
girl friend at a hotel.
Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just
shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he
was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He
informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later
that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of
Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His
wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with
pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven
times since they had been married.
Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now
attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon,
which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With
the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a
change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage
was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her
assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she
expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be
revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.
“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of
these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I
had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me
the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.”
“What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee.
“Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in their own
homes.”
“I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.”
Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain.
“It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes
when I don’t care what I look like.”
“But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs.
McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could
make something of it.”
We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair
from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr.
McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved
his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face.
“I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to
bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of
all the back hair.”
“I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think
it’s—”
Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again,
whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet.
“You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and
mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.”
“I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair
at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to
keep after them all the time.”
She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to
the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying
that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
“I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee.
Tom looked at him blankly.
“Two of them we have framed downstairs.”
“Two what?” demanded Tom.
“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the
other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”
The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.
“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired.
“I live at West Egg.”
“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named
Gatsby’s. Do you know him?”
“I live next door to him.”
“Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s
where all his money comes from.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
“I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.”
This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs.
McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine:
“Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but
Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.
“I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry.
All I ask is that they should give me a start.”
“Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as
Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of
introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?”
“Do what?” she asked, startled.
“You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can
do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he
invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like
that.”
Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear:
“Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.”
“Can’t they?”
“Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say
is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them
I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.”
“Doesn’t she like Wilson either?”
The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had
overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene.
“You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again.
“It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and
they don’t believe in divorce.”
Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the
elaborateness of the lie.
“When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West
to live for a while until it blows over.”
“It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.”
“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back
from Monte Carlo.”
“Really.”
“Just last year. I went over there with another girl.”
“Stay long?”
“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of
Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we
got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an
awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”
The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the
blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee
called me back into the room.
“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost
married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was
below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below
you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.”
“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down,
“at least you didn’t marry him.”
“I know I didn’t.”
“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the
difference between your case and mine.”
“Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.”
Myrtle considered.
“I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said
finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t
fit to lick my shoe.”
“You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine.
“Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy
about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that
man there.”
She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I
tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection.
“The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made
a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and
never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he
was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever
heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to
beat the band all afternoon.”
“She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me.
“They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the
first sweetie she ever had.”
The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all
present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at
all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated
sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to
get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight,
but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident
argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet
high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed
their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening
streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and
without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible
variety of life.
Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath
poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.
“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the
last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my
sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather
shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked
at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his
head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white
shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call
a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into
a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway
train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live
forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”
She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial
laughter.
“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m
through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to
make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave,
and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where
you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s
grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t
forget all the things I got to do.”
It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch
and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists
clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out
my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that
had worried me all the afternoon.
The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes
through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People
disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost
each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet
away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood
face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson
had any right to mention Daisy’s name.
“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I
want to! Daisy! Dai—”
Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his
open hand.
Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s
voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of
pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the
door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the
scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled
here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and
the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to
spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of
Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door.
Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.
“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the
elevator.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was
touching it.”
“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”
… I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the
sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.
“Beauty and the Beast … Loneliness … Old Grocery Horse … Brook’n
Bridge …”
Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the
Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for
the four o’clock train.
III
There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights.
In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the
whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the
afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or
taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats
slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of
foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties
to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past
midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to
meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra
gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers
and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.
Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a
fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left
his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in
the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in
half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a
butler’s thumb.
At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several
hundred feet of canvas and enough coloured lights to make a Christmas
tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with
glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of
harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark
gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and
stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that
most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.
By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair,
but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and
cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have
come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from
New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and
salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in
strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is
in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden
outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual
innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic
meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.
The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and
now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of
voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute,
spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups
change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the
same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave
here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp,
joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph,
glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under
the constantly changing light.
Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail
out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like
Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the
orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a
burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda
Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.
I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one
of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not
invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out
to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there
they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they
conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated
with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having
met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that
was its own ticket of admission.
I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg
blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly
formal note from his employer: the honour would be entirely Gatsby’s,
it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen
me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a
peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay
Gatsby, in a majestic hand.
Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after
seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies
of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed
on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of
young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little
hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous
Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or
insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the
easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few
words in the right key.
As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or
three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an
amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements,
that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place
in the garden where a single man could linger without looking
purposeless and alone.
I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when
Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble
steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous
interest down into the garden.
Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone
before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby.
“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally
loud across the garden.
“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up.
“I remembered you lived next door to—”
She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me
in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who
stopped at the foot of the steps.
“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”
That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week
before.
“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we
met you here about a month ago.”
“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started,
but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to
the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a
caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we
descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of
cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a
table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced
to us as Mr. Mumble.
“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl
beside her.
“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an
alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for
you, Lucille?”
It was for Lucille, too.
“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always
have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and
he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from
Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”
“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan.
“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the
bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two
hundred and sixty-five dollars.”
“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,”
said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with
anybody.”
“Who doesn’t?” I inquired.
“Gatsby. Somebody told me—”
The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”
A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and
listened eagerly.
“I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s
more that he was a German spy during the war.”
One of the men nodded in confirmation.
“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in
Germany,” he assured us positively.
“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in
the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to
her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes
when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”
She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned
and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic
speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those
who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this
world.
The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now
being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were
spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were
three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate
given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that
sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a
greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had
preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function
of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg
condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its
spectroscopic gaiety.
“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and
inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.”
We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I
had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The
undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.
The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not
there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t
on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and
walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak,
and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.
A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was
sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with
unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he
wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.
“About what?”
He waved his hand toward the bookshelves.
“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I
ascertained. They’re real.”
“The books?”
He nodded.
“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice
durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages
and—Here! Lemme show you.”
Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and
returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures.
“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed
matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a
triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop,
too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf,
muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable
to collapse.
“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought.
Most people were brought.”
Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.
“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud
Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been
drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit
in a library.”
“Has it?”
“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour.
Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—”
“You told us.”
We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.
There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing
young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples
holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the
corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or
relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the
traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had
sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and
between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden,
while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A
pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a
baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than
finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was
a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny
drip of the banjoes on the lawn.
I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man
of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the
slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying
myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene
had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and
profound.
At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled.
“Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First
Division during the war?”
“Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.”
“I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen
you somewhere before.”
We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France.
Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just
bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning.
“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.”
“What time?”
“Any time that suits you best.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked
around and smiled.
“Having a gay time now?” she inquired.
“Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an
unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over
there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and
this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”
For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.
“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.
“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”
He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one
of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that
you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to
face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on
you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you
just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you
would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had
precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to
convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an
elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate
formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he
introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his
words with care.
Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler
hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him
on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of
us in turn.
“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me.
“Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”
When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure
her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid
and corpulent person in his middle years.
“Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?”
“He’s just a man named Gatsby.”
“Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?”
“Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile.
“Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.”
A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next
remark it faded away.
“However, I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.”
Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he
killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would
have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from
the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That
was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial
inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and
buy a palace on Long Island Sound.
“Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject
with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties.
They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”
There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra
leader rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are
going to play for you Mr. Vladmir Tostoff’s latest work, which
attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the
papers you know there was a big sensation.” He smiled with jovial
condescension, and added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon everybody
laughed.
“The piece is known,” he concluded lustily, “as ‘Vladmir Tostoff’s
Jazz History of the World!’ ”
The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eluded me, because just as it
began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and
looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin
was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as
though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about
him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him
off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as
the fraternal hilarity increased. When the “Jazz History of the World”
was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a
puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into
men’s arms, even into groups, knowing that someone would arrest their
falls—but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched
Gatsby’s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby’s
head for one link.
“I beg your pardon.”
Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us.
“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would
like to speak to you alone.”
“With me?” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, madame.”
She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment, and
followed the butler toward the house. I noticed that she wore her
evening-dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes—there was a
jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk
upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.
I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and
intriguing sounds had issued from a long, many-windowed room which
overhung the terrace. Eluding Jordan’s undergraduate, who was now
engaged in an obstetrical conversation with two chorus girls, and who
implored me to join him, I went inside.
The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was
playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady
from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of
champagne, and during the course of her song she had decided, ineptly,
that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing, she was
weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with
gasping, broken sobs, and then took up the lyric again in a quavering
soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however, for
when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they
assumed an inky colour, and pursued the rest of their way in slow
black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes
on her face, whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and
went off into a deep vinous sleep.
“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” explained a
girl at my elbow.
I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights
with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan’s party, the quartet
from East Egg, were rent asunder by dissension. One of the men was
talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife, after
attempting to laugh at the situation in a dignified and indifferent
way, broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks—at intervals
she appeared suddenly at his side like an angry diamond, and hissed:
“You promised!” into his ear.
The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men. The hall
was at present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly
indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in
slightly raised voices.
“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time he wants to go home.”
“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.”
“We’re always the first ones to leave.”
“So are we.”
“Well, we’re almost the last tonight,” said one of the men sheepishly.
“The orchestra left half an hour ago.”
In spite of the wives’ agreement that such malevolence was beyond
credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives
were lifted, kicking, into the night.
As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and
Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last
word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into
formality as several people approached him to say goodbye.
Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she
lingered for a moment to shake hands.
“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long
were we in there?”
“Why, about an hour.”
“It was … simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I
wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully
in my face. “Please come and see me … Phone book … Under the name of
Mrs. Sigourney Howard … My aunt …” She was hurrying off as she
talked—her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her
party at the door.
Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I had stayed so late, I
joined the last of Gatsby’s guests, who were clustered around him. I
wanted to explain that I’d hunted for him early in the evening and to
apologize for not having known him in the garden.
“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined me eagerly. “Don’t give it another
thought, old sport.” The familiar expression held no more familiarity
than the hand which reassuringly brushed my shoulder. “And don’t
forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine
o’clock.”
Then the butler, behind his shoulder:
“Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.”
“All right, in a minute. Tell them I’ll be right there … Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.” He smiled—and suddenly there seemed to be a pleasant
significance in having been among the last to go, as if he had desired
it all the time. “Good night, old sport … Good night.”
But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite
over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a
bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side
up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupé which had
left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall
accounted for the detachment of the wheel, which was now getting
considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However,
as they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant din
from those in the rear had been audible for some time, and added to
the already violent confusion of the scene.
A man in a long duster had dismounted from the wreck and now stood in
the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tyre and from the
tyre to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way.
“See!” he explained. “It went in the ditch.”
The fact was infinitely astonishing to him, and I recognized first the
unusual quality of wonder, and then the man—it was the late patron of
Gatsby’s library.
“How’d it happen?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I know nothing whatever about mechanics,” he said decisively.
“But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole
matter. “I know very little about driving—next to nothing. It
happened, and that’s all I know.”
“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night.”
“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even
trying.”
An awed hush fell upon the bystanders.
“Do you want to commit suicide?”
“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even trying!”
“You don’t understand,” explained the criminal. “I wasn’t driving.
There’s another man in the car.”
The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained
“Ah-h-h!” as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd—it was
now a crowd—stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened
wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a
pale, dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively
at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe.
Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant
groaning of the horns, the apparition stood swaying for a moment
before he perceived the man in the duster.
“Wha’s matter?” he inquired calmly. “Did we run outa gas?”
“Look!”
Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel—he stared at it
for a moment, and then looked upward as though he suspected that it
had dropped from the sky.
“It came off,” someone explained.
He nodded.
“At first I din’ notice we’d stopped.”
A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders,
he remarked in a determined voice:
“Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?”
At least a dozen men, some of them a little better off than he was,
explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any
physical bond.
“Back out,” he suggested after a moment. “Put her in reverse.”
“But the wheel’s off!”
He hesitated.
“No harm in trying,” he said.
The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and
cut across the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A wafer of a
moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before,
and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden.
A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great
doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who
stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reading over what I have written so far, I see I have given the
impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were
all that absorbed me. On the contrary, they were merely casual events
in a crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed me
infinitely less than my personal affairs.
Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my
shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York
to the Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen
by their first names, and lunched with them in dark, crowded
restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I
even had a short affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and
worked in the accounting department, but her brother began throwing
mean looks in my direction, so when she went on her vacation in July I
let it blow quietly away.
I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the
gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and
studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There
were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the
library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was
mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel,
and over 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station.
I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night,
and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and
machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue
and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few
minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever
know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their
apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and
smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm
darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting
loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who
loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary
restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant
moments of night and life.
Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were lined
five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theatre district, I
felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they
waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes,
and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining
that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate
excitement, I wished them well.
For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I
found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her,
because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it
was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of
tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world
concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually,
even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it
was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a
borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about
it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me
that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a
row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved
her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached
the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his
statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been
mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.
Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw
that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence
from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest.
She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this
unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she
was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to
the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body.
It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you
never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on
that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving
a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our
fender flicked a button on one man’s coat.
“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be more
careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”
“I am careful.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, other people are,” she said lightly.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an
accident.”
“Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.”
“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s
why I like you.”
Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had
deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved
her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as
brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself
definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once
a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was
how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of
perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague
understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free.
Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and
this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever
known.
IV
On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore,
the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled
hilariously on his lawn.
“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between
his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found
out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the
devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there
crystal glass.”
Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of
those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable
now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect
July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will
give you a better impression than my generalities of those who
accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of
knowing nothing whatever about him.
From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a
man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who
was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie
Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a
corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came
near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and
Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned
cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.
Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once,
in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the
garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O.
R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the
Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he
went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that
Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies
came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice
A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and
Beluga’s girls.
From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and
Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who
controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don
S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the
movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G.
Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his
wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B.
(“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to
gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was
cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably
next day.
A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as
“the boarder”—I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people
there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George
Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the
Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and
the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the
Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who
killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square.
Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite
the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with
another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have
forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria
or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names
of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American
capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves
to be.
In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came
there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had
his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag,
his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of
the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be
her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and
whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten.
All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car
lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody
from its three-noted horn.
It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of
his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation,
made frequent use of his beach.
“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I
thought we’d ride up together.”
He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that
resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes,
I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more,
with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality
was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape
of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping
foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.
He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better
view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”
I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright
with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with
triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with
a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down
behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory,
we started to town.
I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and
found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first
impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had
gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an
elaborate roadhouse next door.
And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg
village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished
and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured
suit.
“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your
opinion of me, anyhow?”
A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that
question deserves.
“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted.
“I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you
hear.”
So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation
in his halls.
“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine
retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the
Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at
Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many
years. It is a family tradition.”
He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he
was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed
it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with
this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if
there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all.
“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually.
“San Francisco.”
“I see.”
“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”
His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a
clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling
my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.
“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of
Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting
big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to
forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”
With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very
phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that
of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued
a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.
“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very
hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a
commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I
took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there
was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t
advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty
men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last
they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of
dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave
me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the
Adriatic Sea!”
Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his
smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and
sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It
appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had
elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My
incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming
hastily through a dozen magazines.
He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon,
fell into my palm.
“That’s the one from Montenegro.”
To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di
Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”
“Turn it.”
“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.”
“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It
was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of
Doncaster.”
It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an
archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby,
looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.
Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace
on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with
their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.
“I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his
souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something
about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see,
I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there
trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated.
“You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”
“At lunch?”
“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss
Baker to tea.”
“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”
“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak
to you about this matter.”
I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more
annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to
discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something
utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon
his overpopulated lawn.
He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared
the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of
red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with
the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds.
Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a
glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting
vitality as we went by.
With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half
Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated
I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic
policeman rode alongside.
“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white
card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.
“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next
time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”
“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”
“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a
Christmas card every year.”
Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a
constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across
the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of
nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always
the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the
mystery and the beauty in the world.
A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two
carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for
friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short
upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of
Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we
crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white
chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I
laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in
haughty rivalry.
“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought;
“anything at all …”
Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby
for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes
picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.
“Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.”
A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two
fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a
moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness.
“—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand
earnestly, “and what do you think I did?”
“What?” I inquired politely.
But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and
covered Gatsby with his expressive nose.
“I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh,
don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and
there.”
Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the
restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was
starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.
“Highballs?” asked the head waiter.
“This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the
presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street
better!”
“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too
hot over there.”
“Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.”
“What place is that?” I asked.
“The old Metropole.”
“The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with
faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t
forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It
was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all
evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a
funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All
right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his
chair.
“ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t
you, so help me, move outside this room.’
“It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the
blinds we’d of seen daylight.”
“Did he go?” I asked innocently.
“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He
turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away
my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three
times in his full belly and drove away.”
“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.
“Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way.
“I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”
The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered
for me:
“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.”
“No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.
“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other
time.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.”
A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more
sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with
ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around
the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people
directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have
taken one short glance beneath our own table.
“Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I
made you a little angry this morning in the car.”
There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.
“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you
won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got
to come through Miss Baker?”
“Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great
sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all
right.”
Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room,
leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table.
“He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his
eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect
gentleman.”
“Yes.”
“He’s an Oggsford man.”
“Oh!”
“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”
“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired.
“Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure
of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a
man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to
myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce
to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my
cuff buttons.”
I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of
oddly familiar pieces of ivory.
“Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me.
“Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.”
“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very
careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s
wife.”
When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and
sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his
feet.
“I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you
two young men before I outstay my welcome.”
“Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem
raised his hand in a sort of benediction.
“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced
solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies
and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his
hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on
you any longer.”
As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I
wondered if I had said anything to offend him.
“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is
one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a
denizen of Broadway.”
“Who is he, anyhow, an actor?”
“No.”
“A dentist?”
“Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added,
coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”
“Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated.
The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s
Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I
would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of
some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could
start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the
single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.
“How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute.
“He just saw the opportunity.”
“Why isn’t he in jail?”
“They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”
I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I
caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.
“Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to
someone.”
When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our
direction.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you
haven’t called up.”
“This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.”
They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of
embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.
“How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to
come up this far to eat?”
“I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.”
I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One October day in nineteen-seventeen—
(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a
straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel)
—I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks
and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on
shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles that bit into the
soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the
wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in
front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut,
in a disapproving way.
The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to
Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and
by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She
dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long
the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp
Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that
night. “Anyways, for an hour!”
When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was
beside the kerb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had
never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she
didn’t see me until I was five feet away.
“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”
I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the
older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red
Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she
couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was
speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at
sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the
incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on
him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I
didn’t realize it was the same man.
That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux
myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very
often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone
at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her—how her mother had
found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say
goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually
prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for
several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any
more, but only with a few flat-footed, shortsighted young men in town,
who couldn’t get into the army at all.
By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début
after the armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a
man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago,
with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He
came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a
whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he
gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand
dollars.
I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the
bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June
night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle
of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.
“ ’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how
I do enjoy it.”
“What’s the matter, Daisy?”
I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before.
“Here, dearies.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her
on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs
and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s
change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ”
She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her
mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath.
She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her
and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the
soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.
But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and
put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half
an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around
her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she
married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a
three months’ trip to the South Seas.
I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d
never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a
minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and
wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the
door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the
hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with
unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you
laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I
left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night,
and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got
into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the
chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.
The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for
a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and
then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in
Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young
and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect
reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage
not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and,
moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that
everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy
never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice
of hers …
Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first
time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew
Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and
woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was
half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man
she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby
with the officer in her white car.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza
for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park.
The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in
the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered
like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:
“I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when
you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—”
“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.
“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”
“Why not?”
“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”
Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that
June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of
his purposeless splendour.
“He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your
house some afternoon and then let him come over.”
The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and
bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that
he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden.
“Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?”
“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be
offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.”
Something worried me.
“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?”
“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is
right next door.”
“Oh!”
“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some
night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking
people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It
was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard
the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately
suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad:
“ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I
want to see her right next door.’
“When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to
abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he
says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of
catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.”
It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm
around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her
to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more,
but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal
scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my
arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady
excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and
the tired.”
“And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to
me.
“Does she want to see Gatsby?”
“She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re
just supposed to invite her to tea.”
We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth
Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park.
Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face
floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up
the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth
smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.
V
When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that
my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the
peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery
and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a
corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar.
At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved
itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the
house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in
the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on
again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned
away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn.
“Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said.
“Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been
glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old
sport. In my car.”
“It’s too late.”
“Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven’t made
use of it all summer.”
“I’ve got to go to bed.”
“All right.”
He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness.
“I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call
up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you
to any trouble.”
“What day would suit you?”
“What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to
put you to any trouble, you see.”
“How about the day after tomorrow?”
He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the
grass cut,” he said.
We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my
ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I
suspected that he meant my grass.
“There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated.
“Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked.
“Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of
beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make
much money, do you?”
“Not very much.”
This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently.
“I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a
little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And
I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds,
aren’t you, old sport?”
“Trying to.”
“Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time
and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather
confidential sort of thing.”
I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation
might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer
was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no
choice except to cut him off there.
“I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t
take on any more work.”
“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he
thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at
lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer,
hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be
responsive, so he went unwillingly home.
The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a
deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not
Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into
rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the
office next morning, and invited her to come to tea.
“Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her.
“What?”
“Don’t bring Tom.”
“Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently.
The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a
raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that
Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I
had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg
Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy
some cups and lemons and flowers.
The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived
from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour
later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel
suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale,
and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.
“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately.
“The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.”
“What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He
looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t
believe he saw a thing.
“Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they
thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The
Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?”
I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at
the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the
delicatessen shop.
“Will they do?” I asked.
“Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old
sport.”
The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which
occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes
through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that
shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from
time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were
taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an
uncertain voice, that he was going home.
“Why’s that?”
“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if
there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait
all day.”
“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”
He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously
there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped
up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard.
Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the
drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a
three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic
smile.
“Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?”
The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I
had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear
alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a
dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with
glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.
“Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have
to come alone?”
“That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far
away and spend an hour.”
“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is
Ferdie.”
“Does the gasoline affect his nose?”
“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?”
We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted.
“Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed.
“What’s funny?”
She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the
front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his
hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a
puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the
hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the
living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my
own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I
heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by
Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note:
“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”
A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I
went into the room.
Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the
mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of
boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face
of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught
eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful,
on the edge of a stiff chair.
“We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at
me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily
the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his
head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and
set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm
of the sofa and his chin in his hand.
“I’m sorry about the clock,” he said.
My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up
a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head.
“It’s an old clock,” I told them idiotically.
I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on
the floor.
“We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as
matter-of-fact as it could ever be.
“Five years next November.”
The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least
another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate
suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac
Finn brought it in on a tray.
Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical
decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and,
while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other
of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in
itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my
feet.
“Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm.
“I’ll be back.”
“I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.”
He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and
whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way.
“What’s the matter?”
“This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to
side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.”
“You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s
embarrassed too.”
“She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously.
“Just as much as you are.”
“Don’t talk so loud.”
“You’re acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently. “Not only
that, but you’re rude. Daisy’s sitting in there all alone.”
He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable
reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other
room.
I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby had when he had made his
nervous circuit of the house half an hour before—and ran for a huge
black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the
rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by
Gatsby’s gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric
marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except
Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church
steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the “period”
craze, a decade before, and there was a story that he’d agreed to pay
five years’ taxes on all the neighbouring cottages if the owners would
have their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps their refusal took the
heart out of his plan to Found a Family—he went into an immediate
decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on
the door. Americans, while willing, even eager, to be serfs, have
always been obstinate about being peasantry.
After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer’s automobile
rounded Gatsby’s drive with the raw material for his servants’
dinner—I felt sure he wouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening
the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and,
leaning from the large central bay, spat meditatively into the
garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had
seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little
now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that
silence had fallen within the house too.
I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of
pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They
were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if
some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of
embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when
I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief
before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply
confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of
exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little
room.
“Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I
thought for a moment he was going to shake hands.
“It’s stopped raining.”
“Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were
twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man,
like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to
Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.”
“I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told
only of her unexpected joy.
“I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to
show her around.”
“You’re sure you want me to come?”
“Absolutely, old sport.”
Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with
humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.
“My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole
front of it catches the light.”
I agreed that it was splendid.
“Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It
took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”
“I thought you inherited your money.”
“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in
the big panic—the panic of the war.”
I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what
business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized
that it wasn’t an appropriate reply.
“Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the
drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in
either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean
you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?”
Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of
brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.
“That huge place there?” she cried pointing.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.”
“I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People
who do interesting things. Celebrated people.”
Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the
road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy
admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky,
admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy
odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of
kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find
no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but
bird voices in the trees.
And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and
Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind
every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we
had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College
Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into
ghostly laughter.
We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender
silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms,
and bathrooms with sunken baths—intruding into one chamber where a
dishevelled man in pyjamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It
was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily
about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own
apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam’s study, where we sat
down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in
the wall.
He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued
everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew
from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his
possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding
presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a
flight of stairs.
His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was
garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush
with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and
shaded his eyes and began to laugh.
“It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I
can’t—When I try to—”
He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a
third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed
with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long,
dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to
speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction,
he was running down like an over-wound clock.
Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent
cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and
his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high.
“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a
selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”
He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one,
before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel,
which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in
many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft
rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in
coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of
indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into
the shirts and began to cry stormily.
“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the
thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such
beautiful shirts before.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and
the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window
it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated
surface of the Sound.
“If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,”
said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at
the end of your dock.”
Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what
he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal
significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the
great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very
near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to
the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of
enchanted objects had diminished by one.
I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects
in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting
costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.
“Who’s this?”
“That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.”
The name sounded faintly familiar.
“He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.”
There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the
bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently
when he was about eighteen.
“I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you
had a pompadour—or a yacht.”
“Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about
you.”
They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the
rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver.
“Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a
small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to
us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …”
He rang off.
“Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window.
The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west,
and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.
“Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to
just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you
around.”
I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence
made them feel more satisfactorily alone.
“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the
piano.”
He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes
accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with
shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently
clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck
trousers of a nebulous hue.
“Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely.
“I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment.
“That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …”
“Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t
you, Ewing, old sport?”
“I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—”
“We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The
grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light.
In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano.
He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her
on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the
gleaming floor bounced in from the hall.
When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the
bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.
“I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all
out of prac—”
“Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!”
“In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—”
Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along
the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric
trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New
York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was
generating on the air.
“One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the
poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—”
As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of
bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt
had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost
five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when
Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but
because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond
her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative
passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright
feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can
challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.
As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took
hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned
toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most,
with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be
over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song.
They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand;
Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they
looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went
out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them
there together.
VI
About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one
morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say.
“Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely.
“Why—any statement to give out.”
It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard
Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either
wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and
with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.”
It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right.
Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his
hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all
summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends
such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to
him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house
at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly
up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a
source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to
say.
James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had
changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that
witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht
drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was
James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a
torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay
Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and
informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an
hour.
I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His
parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination
had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was
that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic
conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means
anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s business,
the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented
just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be
likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.
For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of
Lake Superior as a clam-digger and a salmon-fisher or in any other
capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body
lived naturally through the half-fierce, half-lazy work of the bracing
days. He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became
contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of
the others because they were hysterical about things which in his
overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted.
But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque
and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of
ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock
ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled
clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his
fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an
oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for
his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of
reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on
a fairy’s wing.
An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before,
to the small Lutheran College of St. Olaf’s in southern Minnesota. He
stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the
drums of his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor’s
work with which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to
Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the
day that Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows alongshore.
Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields,
of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy-five. The
transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire
found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and,
suspecting this, an infinite number of women tried to separate him
from his money. The none too savoury ramifications by which Ella Kaye,
the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and
sent him to sea in a yacht, were common property of the turgid
journalism in 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable
shores for five years when he turned up as James Gatz’s destiny in
Little Girl Bay.
To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck,
that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I
suppose he smiled at Cody—he had probably discovered that people liked
him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of
them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and
extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and
bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a
yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the
Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too.
He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with
Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even
jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk
might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by
reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five
years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent.
It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye
came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody
inhospitably died.
I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a grey, florid
man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee, who during one
phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage
violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to
Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay
parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he
formed the habit of letting liquor alone.
And it was from Cody that he inherited money—a legacy of twenty-five
thousand dollars. He didn’t get it. He never understood the legal
device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions
went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate
education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the
substantiality of a man.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with
the idea of exploding those first wild rumours about his antecedents,
which weren’t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time
of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and
nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while
Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of
misconceptions away.
It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several
weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in
New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself
with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday
afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom
Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really
surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before.
They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and
a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously.
“I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m
delighted that you dropped in.”
As though they cared!
“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the
room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in
just a minute.”
He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he
would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in
a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted
nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all,
thanks … I’m sorry—
“Did you have a nice ride?”
“Very good roads around here.”
“I suppose the automobiles—”
“Yeah.”
Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had
accepted the introduction as a stranger.
“I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering.
“So we did. I remember very well.”
“About two weeks ago.”
“That’s right. You were with Nick here.”
“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.
“That so?”
Tom turned to me.
“You live near here, Nick?”
“Next door.”
“That so?”
Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back
haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until
unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial.
“We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested.
“What do you say?”
“Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.”
“Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought
to be starting home.”
“Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself
now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you
stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped
in from New York.”
“You come to supper with me,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of
you.”
This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.
“Come along,” he said—but to her only.
“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.”
Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see
that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said.
“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.
Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.
“We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud.
“I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but
I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse
me for just a minute.”
The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady
began an impassioned conversation aside.
“My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she
doesn’t want him?”
“She says she does want him.”
“She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He
frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be
old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to
suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.”
Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted
their horses.
“Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And
then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?”
Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they
trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage
just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the
front door.
Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on
the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s
party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of
oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties
that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of
people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured,
many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a
pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had
merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete
in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to
nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was
looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening
to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your
own powers of adjustment.
They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling
hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.
“These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me
any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad
to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card.
I’m giving out green—”
“Look around,” suggested Gatsby.
“I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—”
“You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.”
Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.
“We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking
I don’t know a soul here.”
“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely
human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom
and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies
the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies.
“She’s lovely,” said Daisy.
“The man bending over her is her director.”
He took them ceremoniously from group to group:
“Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he
added: “the polo player.”
“Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.”
But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the
polo player” for the rest of the evening.
“I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that
man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.”
Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.
“Well, I liked him anyhow.”
“I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly,
“I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.”
Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful,
conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they
sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour,
while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case
there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”
Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper
together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he
said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.”
“Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any
addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a
moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that
except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t
having a good time.
We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had
been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two
weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air
now.
“How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?”
The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my
shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.
“Wha’?”
A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf
with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence:
“Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she
always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it
alone.”
“I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly.
“We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody
that needs your help, Doc.’ ”
“She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without
gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in
the pool.”
“Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss
Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.”
“Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet.
“Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand
shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”
It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with
Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were
still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except
for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he
had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this
proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate
degree and kiss at her cheek.
“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.”
But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture
but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented
“place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing
village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old
euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants
along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in
the very simplicity she failed to understand.
I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car.
It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet
of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow
moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow,
an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an
invisible glass.
“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big
bootlegger?”
“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired.
“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are
just big bootleggers, you know.”
“Not Gatsby,” I said shortly.
He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under
his feet.
“Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie
together.”
A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar.
“At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said
with an effort.
“You didn’t look so interested.”
“Well, I was.”
Tom laughed and turned to me.
“Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under
a cold shower?”
Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper,
bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and
would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up
sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change
tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.
“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said
suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way
in and he’s too polite to object.”
“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I
think I’ll make a point of finding out.”
“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a
lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.”
The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.
“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.
Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where
“Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year,
was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of
Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from
her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling
her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?
Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare
and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with
one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would
blot out those five years of unwavering devotion.
I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free,
and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had
run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights
were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the
steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face,
and his eyes were bright and tired.
“She didn’t like it,” he said immediately.
“Of course she did.”
“She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.”
He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression.
“I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her
understand.”
“You mean about the dance?”
“The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of
his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.”
He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and
say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with
that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be
taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back
to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five
years ago.
“And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to
understand. We’d sit for hours—”
He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit
rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers.
“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the
past.”
“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you
can!”
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the
shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
“I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said,
nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.”
He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to
recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into
loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then,
but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it
all slowly, he could find out what that thing was …
… One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the
street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where
there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They
stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night
with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes
of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the
darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the
corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really
formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could
climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the
pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He
knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable
visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like
the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the
tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At
his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the
incarnation was complete.
Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was
reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words,
that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase
tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s,
as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled
air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was
uncommunicable forever.
VII
It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights
in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as
it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I
become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his
drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering
if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a
villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.
“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?”
“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way.
“I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr.
Carraway came over.”
“Who?” he demanded rudely.
“Carraway.”
“Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.”
Abruptly he slammed the door.
My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his
house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never
went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered
moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that
the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the
village was that the new people weren’t servants at all.
Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.
“Going away?” I inquired.
“No, old sport.”
“I hear you fired all your servants.”
“I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite
often—in the afternoons.”
So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the
disapproval in her eyes.
“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all
brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.”
“I see.”
He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her
house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy
herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was
coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would
choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing
scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.
The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of
the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only
the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering
hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of
combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into
her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her
fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her
pocketbook slapped to the floor.
“Oh, my!” she gasped.
I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it
at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that
I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman,
suspected me just the same.
“Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! …
Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?”
My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand.
That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed,
whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart!
… Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying
the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at
the door.
“The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m
sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this
noon!”
What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.”
He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to
take our stiff straw hats.
“Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the
direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the
common store of life.
The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and
Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down
their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.
“We can’t move,” they said together.
Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment
in mine.
“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired.
Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall
telephone.
Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with
fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting
laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.
“The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the
telephone.”
We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very
well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations
to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I
won’t stand that at all!”
“Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically.
“No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to
know about it.”
Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his
thick body, and hurried into the room.
“Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed
dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …”
“Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy.
As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and
pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.
“You know I love you,” she murmured.
“You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan.
Daisy looked around doubtfully.
“You kiss Nick too.”
“What a low, vulgar girl!”
“I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace.
Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just
as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.
“Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your
own mother that loves you.”
The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and
rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.
“The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy
hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.”
Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand.
Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he
had ever really believed in its existence before.
“I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to
Daisy.
“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent
into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You
absolute little dream.”
“Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress
too.”
“How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that
she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like
me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”
Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held
out her hand.
“Come, Pammy.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart!”
With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to
her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back,
preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.
Gatsby took up his drink.
“They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension.
We drank in long, greedy swallows.
“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom
genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into
the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting
colder every year.
“Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look
at the place.”
I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in
the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea.
Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed
across the bay.
“I’m right across from you.”
“So you are.”
Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy
refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat
moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped
ocean and the abounding blessed isles.
“There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there
with him for about an hour.”
We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and
drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale.
“What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the
day after that, and the next thirty years?”
“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it
gets crisp in the fall.”
“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and
everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”
Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding
its senselessness into forms.
“I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to
Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a
garage.”
“Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes
floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.”
Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in
space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.
“You always look so cool,” she repeated.
She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was
astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and
then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew
a long time ago.
“You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently.
“You know the advertisement of the man—”
“All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to
town. Come on—we’re all going to town.”
He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one
moved.
“Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow?
If we’re going to town, let’s start.”
His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips
the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out
on to the blazing gravel drive.
“Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going
to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?”
“Everybody smoked all through lunch.”
“Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.”
He didn’t answer.
“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”
They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there
shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon
hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed
his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.
“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.
“About a quarter of a mile down the road.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely.
“Women get these notions in their heads—”
“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.
“I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside.
Gatsby turned to me rigidly:
“I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.”
“She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I
hesitated.
“Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly.
That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that
was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of
it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s
daughter, the golden girl …
Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed
by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and
carrying light capes over their arms.
“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green
leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.”
“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.
“Yes.”
“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.”
The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.
“I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected.
“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And
if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a
drugstore nowadays.”
A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom
frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar
and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in
words, passed over Gatsby’s face.
“Come on, Daisy” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s
car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”
He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.
“You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.”
She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan
and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the
unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive
heat, leaving them out of sight behind.
“Did you see that?” demanded Tom.
“See what?”
He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known
all along.
“You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am,
but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to
do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—”
He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back
from the edge of theoretical abyss.
“I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I
could have gone deeper if I’d known—”
“Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.
“What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?”
“About Gatsby.”
“About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small
investigation of his past.”
“And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.
“An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink
suit.”
“Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.”
“Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like
that.”
“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?”
demanded Jordan crossly.
“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows
where!”
We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we
drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded
eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution
about gasoline.
“We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom.
“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to
get stalled in this baking heat.”
Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty
stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from
the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.
“Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we
stopped for—to admire the view?”
“I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m all run down.”
“Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on
the phone.”
With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and,
breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his
face was green.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money
pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your
old car.”
“How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.”
“It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle.
“Like to buy it?”
“Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money
on the other.”
“What do you want money for, all of a sudden?”
“I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go
West.”
“Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled.
“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He rested for a moment
against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she
wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”
The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a
waving hand.
“What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly.
“I just got wised up to something funny the last two days,” remarked
Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering
you about the car.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Dollar twenty.”
The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had a
bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t
alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life
apart from him in another world, and the shock had made him physically
sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel
discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me that there
was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as
the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that
he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor
girl with child.
“I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow
afternoon.”
That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare
of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of
something behind. Over the ash-heaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J.
Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that
other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than
twenty feet away.
In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved
aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So
engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and
one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a
slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it
was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle
Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized
that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on
Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we
drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his
mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping
precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the
accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving
Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an
hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in
sight of the easygoing blue coupé.
“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested
Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away.
There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of
funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.”
The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but
before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy
signalled us to draw up alongside.
“Where are we going?” she cried.
“How about the movies?”
“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you
after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some
corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”
“We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave
out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of
Central Park, in front of the Plaza.”
Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if
the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I
think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his
life forever.
But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging
the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.
The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into
that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in
the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around
my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back.
The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five
bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as
“a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it
was a “crazy idea”—we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and
thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny …
The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four
o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery
from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us,
fixing her hair.
“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone
laughed.
“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.
“There aren’t any more.”
“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—”
“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently.
“You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”
He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the
table.
“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one
that wanted to come to town.”
There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its
nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse
me”—but this time no one laughed.
“I’ll pick it up,” I offered.
“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in
an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.
“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply.
“What is?”
“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”
“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if
you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute.
Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.”
As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound
and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s
Wedding March from the ballroom below.
“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally.
“Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered.
“Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”
“Biloxi,” he answered shortly.
“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a
fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”
“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived
just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy
told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After
a moment she added. “There wasn’t any connection.”
“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked.
“That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he
left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.”
The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer
floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of
“Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.
“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and
dance.”
“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”
“Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a
friend of Daisy’s.”
“He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in
the private car.”
“Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa
Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room
for him.”
Jordan smiled.
“He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of
your class at Yale.”
Tom and I looked at each other blankly.
“Biloxi?”
“First place, we didn’t have any president—”
Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.
“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.”
“Yes—I went there.”
A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:
“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”
Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice
but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing
of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.
“I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.
“I heard you, but I’d like to know when.”
“It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I
can’t really call myself an Oxford man.”
Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all
looking at Gatsby.
“It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the
armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in
England or France.”
I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those
renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before.
Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.
“Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep.
Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!”
“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more
question.”
“Go on,” Gatsby said politely.
“What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?”
They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content.
“He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the
other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.”
“Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest
thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your
wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people
begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next
they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between
black and white.”
Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone
on the last barrier of civilization.
“We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan.
“I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose
you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any
friends—in the modern world.”
Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he
opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so
complete.
“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy
guessed at his intention.
“Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go
home. Why don’t we all go home?”
“That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”
“I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.”
“Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you.
She loves me.”
“You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.
Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.
“She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you
because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a
terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!”
At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted
with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had
anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously
of their emotions.
“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal
note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.”
“I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five
years—and you didn’t know.”
Tom turned to Daisy sharply.
“You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?”
“Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved
each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to
laugh sometimes”—but there was no laughter in his eyes—“to think that
you didn’t know.”
“Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a
clergyman and leaned back in his chair.
“You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five
years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I
see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries
to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy
loved me when she married me and she loves me now.”
“No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head.
“She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish
ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded
sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off
on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in
my heart I love her all the time.”
“You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice,
dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do
you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you
to the story of that little spree.”
Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.
“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter
any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s
all wiped out forever.”
She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?”
“You never loved him.”
She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal,
as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she
had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done
now. It was too late.
“I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.
“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“No.”
From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were
drifting up on hot waves of air.
“Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your
shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?”
“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it.
She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried
to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette
and the burning match on the carpet.
“Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t
that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob
helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.”
Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.
“You loved me too?” he repeated.
“Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were
alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know,
things that neither of us can ever forget.”
The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.
“I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited
now—”
“Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful
voice. “It wouldn’t be true.”
“Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom.
She turned to her husband.
“As if it mattered to you,” she said.
“Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now
on.”
“You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re
not going to take care of her any more.”
“I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to
control himself now. “Why’s that?”
“Daisy’s leaving you.”
“Nonsense.”
“I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.
“She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby.
“Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he
put on her finger.”
“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.”
“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that
hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve
made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it
further tomorrow.”
“You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily.
“I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke
rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street
drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the
counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a
bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”
“What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter
Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.”
“And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for
a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the
subject of you.”
“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old
sport.”
“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said
nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but
Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”
That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.
“That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly,
“but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me
about.”
I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her
husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but
absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to
Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said
in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had
“killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in
just that fantastic way.
It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying
everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been
made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into
herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the
afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible,
struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across
the room.
The voice begged again to go.
“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.”
Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage
she had had, were definitely gone.
“You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”
She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous
scorn.
“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous
little flirtation is over.”
They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental,
isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.
After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of
whisky in the towel.
“Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?”
I didn’t answer.
“Nick?” He asked again.
“What?”
“Want any?”
“No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.”
I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a
new decade.
It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started
for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but
his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on
the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy
has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments
fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of
loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning
briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside
me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten
dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face
fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of
thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the
ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept
through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the
garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale
as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go
to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if
he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent
racket broke out overhead.
“I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly.
“She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re
going to move away.”
Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and
Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement.
Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he
sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars
that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably
laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not
his own.
So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson
wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious
glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain
times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some
workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis
took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he
didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside
again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation
because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in
the garage.
“Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty
little coward!”
A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and
shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over.
The “death car” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out
of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then
disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of
its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The
other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards
beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life
violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark
blood with the dust.
Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open
her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left
breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen
for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at
the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the
tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still
some distance away.
“Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at
last.”
He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as
we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage
door made him automatically put on the brakes.
“We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.”
I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly
from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked
toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered
over and over in a gasping moan.
“There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly.
He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the
garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal
basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a
violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way
through.
The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it
was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals
deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.
Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another
blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on
a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending
over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking
down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I
couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed
clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the
raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to
the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low
voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his
shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly
from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk
back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high,
horrible call:
“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!”
Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around
the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to
the policeman.
“M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—”
“No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—”
“Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely.
“r—” said the policeman, “o—”
“g—”
“g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder.
“What you want, fella?”
“What happened?—that’s what I want to know.”
“Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.”
“Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring.
“She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”
“There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”
“Going where?” asked the policeman keenly.
“One goin’ each way. Well, she”—his hand rose toward the blankets but
stopped halfway and fell to his side—“she ran out there an’ the one
comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles
an hour.”
“What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.
“Hasn’t got any name.”
A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.
“It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.”
“See the accident?” asked the policeman.
“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going
fifty, sixty.”
“Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his
name.”
Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in
the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his
grasping cries:
“You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind
of car it was!”
Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten
under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in
front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing
gruffness.
Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then
would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.
“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute
ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking
about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you
hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.”
Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the
policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent
eyes.
“What’s all that?” he demanded.
“I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on
Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow
car.”
Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
“And what colour’s your car?”
“It’s a blue car, a coupé.”
“We’ve come straight from New York,” I said.
Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and
the policeman turned away.
“Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—”
Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set
him down in a chair, and came back.
“If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped
authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced
at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the
door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the
table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.”
Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we
pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor,
case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.
Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down
hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I
heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down
his face.
“The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark
rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the
second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and
frowned slightly.
“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can
do tonight.”
A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision.
As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of
the situation in a few brisk phrases.
“I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting
you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some
supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.”
“No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait
outside.”
Jordan put her hand on my arm.
“Won’t you come in, Nick?”
“No, thanks.”
I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan
lingered for a moment more.
“It’s only half-past nine,” she said.
I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day,
and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of
this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the
porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head
in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s
voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from
the house, intending to wait by the gate.
I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped
from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird
by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity
of his pink suit under the moon.
“What are you doing?” I inquired.
“Just standing here, old sport.”
Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was
going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to
see sinister faces, the faces of “Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in
the dark shrubbery.
“Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute.
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
“Was she killed?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock
should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.”
He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.
“I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in
my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be
sure.”
I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to
tell him he was wrong.
“Who was the woman?” he inquired.
“Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did
it happen?”
“Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I
guessed at the truth.
“Was Daisy driving?”
“Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see,
when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would
steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were
passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but
it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were
somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward
the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second
my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her
instantly.”
“It ripped her open—”
“Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I
tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency
brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.
“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to
wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness
this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries
any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.”
“He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.”
“I don’t trust him, old sport.”
“How long are you going to wait?”
“All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.”
A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy
had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might
think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright
windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground
floor.
“You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a
commotion.”
I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel
softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains
were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where
we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small
rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind
was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill.
Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table,
with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of
ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his
earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a
while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.
They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the
ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air
of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said
that they were conspiring together.
As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the
dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in
the drive.
“Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get
some sleep.”
He shook his head.
“I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.”
He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his
scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of
the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the
moonlight—watching over nothing.
VIII
I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the
Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage,
frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive,
and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I
had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning
would be too late.
Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was
leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.
“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock
she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned
out the light.”
His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when
we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside
curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of
dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of
splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable
amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they
hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar
table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French
windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.
“You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace
your car.”
“Go away now, old sport?”
“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”
He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he
knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and
I couldn’t bear to shake him free.
It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with
Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass
against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played
out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without
reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.
She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed
capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with
indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly
desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from
Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a
beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless
intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her
as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it,
a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other
bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its
corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already
in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s
shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely
withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved
Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all
about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still
vibrant emotions.
But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal
accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was
at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the
invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he
made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and
unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took
her because he had no real right to touch her hand.
He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under
false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom
millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he
let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as
herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of
fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing
behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government
to be blown anywhere about the world.
But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had
imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but
now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a
grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize
just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her
rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt
married to her, that was all.
When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless,
who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought
luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as
she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She
had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming
than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and
mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many
clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the
hot struggles of the poor.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her,
old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she
didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot
because I knew different things from her … Well, there I was, way off
my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden
I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have
a better time telling her what I was going to do?”
On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his
arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the
room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his
arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon
had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory
for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer
in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with
another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder
or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were
asleep.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he
went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his
majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the
armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or
misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there
was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see
why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world
outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her
and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids
and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of
the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new
tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the
“Beale Street Blues” while a hundred pairs of golden and silver
slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were
always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever,
while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the
sad horns around the floor.
Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the
season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with
half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and
chiffon of an evening-dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor
beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a
decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision
must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable
practicality—that was close at hand.
That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom
Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his
position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain
struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was
still at Oxford.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of
the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning,
gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew
and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a
slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool,
lovely day.
“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window
and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was
very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that
frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap
sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”
He sat down gloomily.
“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were
first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?”
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.
“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”
What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his
conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?
He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their
wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to
Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week,
walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through
the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which
they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always
seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea
of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded
with a melancholy beauty.
He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found
her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless
now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a
folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar
buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow
trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have
seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.
The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it
sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing
city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand
desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of
the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too
fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part
of it, the freshest and the best, forever.
It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the
porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there
was an autumn flavour in the air. The gardener, the last one of
Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.
“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start
falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”
“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically.
“You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”
I looked at my watch and stood up.
“Twelve minutes to my train.”
I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of
work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I
missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.
“I’ll call you up,” I said finally.
“Do, old sport.”
“I’ll call you about noon.”
We walked slowly down the steps.
“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he
hoped I’d corroborate this.
“I suppose so.”
“Well, goodbye.”
We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I
remembered something and turned around.
“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the
whole damn bunch put together.”
I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever
gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he
nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and
understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact
all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of
colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I
first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and
drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his
corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his
incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.
I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for
that—I and the others.
“Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an
interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair.
Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat
breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me
up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between
hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other
way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool,
as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the
office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.
“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going
down to Southampton this afternoon.”
Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act
annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.
“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”
“How could it have mattered then?”
Silence for a moment. Then:
“However—I want to see you.”
“I want to see you, too.”
“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this
afternoon?”
“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”
“Very well.”
“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”
We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking
any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I
know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table
that day if I never talked to her again in this world.
I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I
tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was
being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my
timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I
leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed
deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a
curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark
spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what
had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he
could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was
forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at
the garage after we left there the night before.
They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have
broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she
was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had
already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she
immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the
affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in
the wake of her sister’s body.
Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front
of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on
the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and
everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it.
Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis
and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later
two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger
to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own
place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with
Wilson until dawn.
About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering
changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He
announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car
belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his
wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose
swollen.
But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh,
my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt
to distract him.
“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit
still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been
married?”
“Twelve years.”
“Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a
question. Did you ever have any children?”
The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and
whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it
sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before.
He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was
stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably
around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from
time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.
“Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you
haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church
and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”
“Don’t belong to any.”
“You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must
have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen,
George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”
“That was a long time ago.”
The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment
he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came
back into his faded eyes.
“Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.
“Which drawer?”
“That drawer—that one.”
Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it
but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided
silver. It was apparently new.
“This?” he inquired, holding it up.
Wilson stared and nodded.
“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I
knew it was something funny.”
“You mean your wife bought it?”
“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”
Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen
reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably
Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle,
because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter
left several explanations in the air.
“Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.
“Who did?”
“I have a way of finding out.”
“You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to
you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit
quiet till morning.”
“He murdered her.”
“It was an accident, George.”
Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened
slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!”
“I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I
don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know
it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he
wouldn’t stop.”
Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there
was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had
been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any
particular car.
“How could she of been like that?”
“She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question.
“Ah-h-h—”
He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his
hand.
“Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?”
This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend:
there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later
when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window,
and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue
enough outside to snap off the light.
Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey
clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the
faint dawn wind.
“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she
might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the
window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and
leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what
you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but
you can’t fool God!’ ”
Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at
the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and
enormous, from the dissolving night.
“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.
“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him
turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson
stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding
into the twilight.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a
car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before
who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which
he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and
Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and
hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.
His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to
Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that
he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and
walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far
there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who
had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared
oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared
from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis,
that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time
going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On
the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and
perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to
know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the
way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the
butler that if anyone phoned word was to be brought to him at the
pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had
amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him to
pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be
taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the
front right fender needed repair.
Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he
stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he
needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among
the yellowing trees.
No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep
and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone
to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t
believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was
true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a
high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have
looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered
as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight
was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without
being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted
fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward
him through the amorphous trees.
The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the
shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything
much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house
and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that
alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a
word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried
down to the pool.
There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the
fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other.
With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden
mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that
scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental
course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves
revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red
circle in the water.
It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener
saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was
complete.
IX
After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and
the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and
newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched
across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but
little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and
there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the
pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the
expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and
the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper
reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial,
eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought
to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale
would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might
have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount
of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes
under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never
seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband,
that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced
herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very
suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a
man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its
simplest form. And it rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself
on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the
catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every
practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and
confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or
speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because
no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense
personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her
instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away
early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
“Left no address?”
“No.”
“Say when they’d be back?”
“No.”
“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”
“I don’t know. Can’t say.”
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where
he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t
worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”
Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me
his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the
time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the
phone.
“Will you ring again?”
“I’ve rung three times.”
“It’s very important.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they
were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with
shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got
to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”
Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going
upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d
never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was
nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence,
staring down from the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem,
which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next
train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure
he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a
wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem
arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began
to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby
and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of
my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a
mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down
now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get
mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little
later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when
I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and
out.
Yours truly
Meyer Wolfshiem
and then hasty addenda beneath:
Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all.
When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was
calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came
through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.
“This is Slagle speaking …”
“Yes?” The name was unfamiliar.
“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”
“There haven’t been any wires.”
“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when
he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New
York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know
about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”
“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr.
Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an
exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz
arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was
leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.
It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed,
bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His
eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and
umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse
grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on
the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him
sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and
the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.
“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the
Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”
“I didn’t know how to reach you.”
His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.
“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”
“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.
“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”
“Carraway.”
“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”
I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him
there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into
the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly
away.
After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth
ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and
unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the
quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the
first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great
rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be
mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he
took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been
deferred until he came.
“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”
“Gatz is my name.”
“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”
He shook his head.
“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in
the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”
“We were close friends.”
“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man,
but he had a lot of brain power here.”
He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.
“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J.
Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”
“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably.
He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the
bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep.
That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to
know who I was before he would give his name.
“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.
“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”
I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at
Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a
sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They
were hard to find.
“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house.
I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”
“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see
anybody, but if I do.”
His tone made me suspicious.
“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”
“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?”
“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with
some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with
them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of
course I’ll do my best to get away.”
I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he
went on nervously:
“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if
it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see,
they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My
address is care of B. F.—”
I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.
After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I
telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was
my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at
Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known
better than to call him.
The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer
Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I
pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The
Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone
inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an
argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess
appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile
eyes.
“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”
The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to
whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.
“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”
“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”
At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”
from the other side of the door.
“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him
when he gets back.”
“But I know he’s there.”
She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up
and down her hips.
“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she
scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago,
he’s in Chicago.”
I mentioned Gatsby.
“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your
name?”
She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the
doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking
in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered
me a cigar.
“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major
just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war.
He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he
couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he
came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a
job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some
lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food
in half an hour.”
“Did you start him in business?” I inquired.
“Start him! I made him.”
“Oh.”
“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right
away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told
me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join
the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did
some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like
that in everything”—he held up two bulbous fingers—“always together.”
I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series
transaction in 1919.
“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend,
so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”
“I’d like to come.”
“Well, come then.”
The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head
his eyes filled with tears.
“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.
“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”
“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any
way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend
of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may
think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.”
I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come,
so I stood up.
“Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly.
For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he
only nodded and shook my hand.
“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and
not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let
everything alone.”
When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West
Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found
Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his
son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he
had something to show me.
“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling
fingers. “Look there.”
It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty
with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look
there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so
often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself.
“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up
well.”
“Very well. Had you seen him lately?”
“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in
now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see
now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of
him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.”
He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another
minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and
pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong
Cassidy.
“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows
you.”
He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On
the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September
12, 1906. And underneath:
Rise from bed 6:00 a.m.
Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ”
Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ”
Work 8:30-4:30 p.m.
Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ”
Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ”
Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ”
General Resolves
* No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable]
* No more smokeing or chewing.
* Bath every other day
* Read one improving book or magazine per week
* Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week
* Be better to parents
“I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just
shows you, don’t it?”
“It just shows you.”
“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this
or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He
was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat
him for it.”
He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then
looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the
list for my own use.
A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and
I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did
Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and
stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he
spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced
several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait
for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery
and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse,
horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the
limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman
from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we
started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then
the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I
looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found
marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months
before.
I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the
funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and
he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled
from Gatsby’s grave.
I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already
too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that
Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur
“Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed
man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.
We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke
to me by the gate.
“I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.
“Neither could anybody else.”
“Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the
hundreds.”
He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.
“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school
and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than
Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a
December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into
their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember
the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the
chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught
sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you
going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long
green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky
yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking
cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.
When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow,
began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and
the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild
brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we
walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware
of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we
melted indistinguishably into it again.
That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede
towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street
lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly
wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a
little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent
from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are
still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this
has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and
Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some
deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.
Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware
of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the
Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the
children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of
distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic
dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at
once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging
sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress
suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a
drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over
the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a
house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one
cares.
After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted
beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle
leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the
line I decided to come back home.
There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant
thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to
leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent
sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and
around what had happened to us together, and what had happened
afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big
chair.
She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like
a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the
colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the
fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without
comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though
there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I
pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t
making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up
to say goodbye.
“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw
me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it
was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”
We shook hands.
“Oh, and do you remember”—she added—“a conversation we had once about
driving a car?”
“Why—not exactly.”
“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver?
Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me
to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest,
straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”
“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and
call it honour.”
She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously
sorry, I turned away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead
of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a
little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving
sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as
I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into
the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back,
holding out his hand.
“What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?”
“Yes. You know what I think of you.”
“You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know
what’s the matter with you.”
“Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?”
He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about
those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after
me and grabbed my arm.
“I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were
getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in
he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if
I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his
pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly.
“What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw
dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough
one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even
stopped his car.”
There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it
wasn’t true.
“And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when
I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits
sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By
God it was awful—”
I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done
was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and
confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up
things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their
vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let
other people clean up the mess they had made …
I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as
though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery
store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff
buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had
grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never
took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and
pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to
East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story
about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when
I got off the train.
I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming,
dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still
hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden,
and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a
material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I
didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away
at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over.
On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer,
I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once
more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a
piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it,
drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the
beach and sprawled out on the sand.
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any
lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the
Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to
melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that
flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new
world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s
house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all
human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his
breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic
contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the
last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for
wonder.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of
Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of
Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream
must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He
did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that
vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic
rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by
year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no
matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further … And
one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into
the past.#18,941,260textKing James Bible: Book of Proverbs
Proverbs 1:1 The proverbs of Solomon the son of David, king of Israel;
Proverbs 1:2 To know wisdom and instruction; to perceive the words of understanding;
Proverbs 1:3 To receive the instruction of wisdom, justice, and judgment, and equity;
Proverbs 1:4 To give subtilty to the simple, to the young man knowledge and discretion.
Proverbs 1:5 A wise [man] will hear, and will increase learning; and a man of understanding shall attain unto wise counsels:
Proverbs 1:6 To understand a proverb, and the interpretation; the words of the wise, and their dark sayings.
Proverbs 1:7 The fear of the LORD [is] the beginning of knowledge: [but] fools despise wisdom and instruction.
Proverbs 1:8 My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother:
Proverbs 1:9 For they [shall be] an ornament of grace unto thy head, and chains about thy neck.
Proverbs 1:10 My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.
Proverbs 1:11 If they say, Come with us, let us lay wait for blood, let us lurk privily for the innocent without cause:
Proverbs 1:12 Let us swallow them up alive as the grave; and whole, as those that go down into the pit:
Proverbs 1:13 We shall find all precious substance, we shall fill our houses with spoil:
Proverbs 1:14 Cast in thy lot among us; let us all have one purse:
Proverbs 1:15 My son, walk not thou in the way with them; refrain thy foot from their path:
Proverbs 1:16 For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.
Proverbs 1:17 Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird.
Proverbs 1:18 And they lay wait for their [own] blood; they lurk privily for their [own] lives.
Proverbs 1:19 So [are] the ways of every one that is greedy of gain; [which] taketh away the life of the owners thereof.
Proverbs 1:20 Wisdom crieth without; she uttereth her voice in the streets:
Proverbs 1:21 She crieth in the chief place of concourse, in the openings of the gates: in the city she uttereth her words, [saying],
Proverbs 1:22 How long, ye simple ones, will ye love simplicity? and the scorners delight in their scorning, and fools hate knowledge?
Proverbs 1:23 Turn you at my reproof: behold, I will pour out my spirit unto you, I will make known my words unto you.
Proverbs 1:24 Because I have called, and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded;
Proverbs 1:25 But ye have set at nought all my counsel, and would none of my reproof:
Proverbs 1:26 I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh;
Proverbs 1:27 When your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon you.
Proverbs 1:28 Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer; they shall seek me early, but they shall not find me:
Proverbs 1:29 For that they hated knowledge, and did not choose the fear of the LORD:
Proverbs 1:30 They would none of my counsel: they despised all my reproof.
Proverbs 1:31 Therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way, and be filled with their own devices.
Proverbs 1:32 For the turning away of the simple shall slay them, and the prosperity of fools shall destroy them.
Proverbs 1:33 But whoso hearkeneth unto me shall dwell safely, and shall be quiet from fear of evil.
Proverbs 2:1 My son, if thou wilt receive my words, and hide my commandments with thee;
Proverbs 2:2 So that thou incline thine ear unto wisdom, [and] apply thine heart to understanding;
Proverbs 2:3 Yea, if thou criest after knowledge, [and] liftest up thy voice for understanding;
Proverbs 2:4 If thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as [for] hid treasures;
Proverbs 2:5 Then shalt thou understand the fear of the LORD, and find the knowledge of God.
Proverbs 2:6 For the LORD giveth wisdom: out of his mouth [cometh] knowledge and understanding.
Proverbs 2:7 He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous: [he is] a buckler to them that walk uprightly.
Proverbs 2:8 He keepeth the paths of judgment, and preserveth the way of his saints.
Proverbs 2:9 Then shalt thou understand righteousness, and judgment, and equity; [yea], every good path.
Proverbs 2:10 When wisdom entereth into thine heart, and knowledge is pleasant unto thy soul;
Proverbs 2:11 Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee:
Proverbs 2:12 To deliver thee from the way of the evil [man], from the man that speaketh froward things;
Proverbs 2:13 Who leave the paths of uprightness, to walk in the ways of darkness;
Proverbs 2:14 Who rejoice to do evil, [and] delight in the frowardness of the wicked;
Proverbs 2:15 Whose ways [are] crooked, and [they] froward in their paths:
Proverbs 2:16 To deliver thee from the strange woman, [even] from the stranger [which] flattereth with her words;
Proverbs 2:17 Which forsaketh the guide of her youth, and forgetteth the covenant of her God.
Proverbs 2:18 For her house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the dead.
Proverbs 2:19 None that go unto her return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life.
Proverbs 2:20 That thou mayest walk in the way of good [men], and keep the paths of the righteous.
Proverbs 2:21 For the upright shall dwell in the land, and the perfect shall remain in it.
Proverbs 2:22 But the wicked shall be cut off from the earth, and the transgressors shall be rooted out of it.
Proverbs 3:1 My son, forget not my law; but let thine heart keep my commandments:
Proverbs 3:2 For length of days, and long life, and peace, shall they add to thee.
Proverbs 3:3 Let not mercy and truth forsake thee: bind them about thy neck; write them upon the table of thine heart:
Proverbs 3:4 So shalt thou find favour and good understanding in the sight of God and man.
Proverbs 3:5 Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
Proverbs 3:6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
Proverbs 3:7 Be not wise in thine own eyes: fear the LORD, and depart from evil.
Proverbs 3:8 It shall be health to thy navel, and marrow to thy bones.
Proverbs 3:9 Honour the LORD with thy substance, and with the firstfruits of all thine increase:
Proverbs 3:10 So shall thy barns be filled with plenty, and thy presses shall burst out with new wine.
Proverbs 3:11 My son, despise not the chastening of the LORD; neither be weary of his correction:
Proverbs 3:12 For whom the LORD loveth he correcteth; even as a father the son [in whom] he delighteth.
Proverbs 3:13 Happy [is] the man [that] findeth wisdom, and the man [that] getteth understanding.
Proverbs 3:14 For the merchandise of it [is] better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold.
Proverbs 3:15 She [is] more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her.
Proverbs 3:16 Length of days [is] in her right hand; [and] in her left hand riches and honour.
Proverbs 3:17 Her ways [are] ways of pleasantness, and all her paths [are] peace.
Proverbs 3:18 She [is] a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her: and happy [is every one] that retaineth her.
Proverbs 3:19 The LORD by wisdom hath founded the earth; by understanding hath he established the heavens.
Proverbs 3:20 By his knowledge the depths are broken up, and the clouds drop down the dew.
Proverbs 3:21 My son, let not them depart from thine eyes: keep sound wisdom and discretion:
Proverbs 3:22 So shall they be life unto thy soul, and grace to thy neck.
Proverbs 3:23 Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble.
Proverbs 3:24 When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet.
Proverbs 3:25 Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked, when it cometh.
Proverbs 3:26 For the LORD shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.
Proverbs 3:27 Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do [it].
Proverbs 3:28 Say not unto thy neighbour, Go, and come again, and to morrow I will give; when thou hast it by thee.
Proverbs 3:29 Devise not evil against thy neighbour, seeing he dwelleth securely by thee.
Proverbs 3:30 Strive not with a man without cause, if he have done thee no harm.
Proverbs 3:31 Envy thou not the oppressor, and choose none of his ways.
Proverbs 3:32 For the froward [is] abomination to the LORD: but his secret [is] with the righteous.
Proverbs 3:33 The curse of the LORD [is] in the house of the wicked: but he blesseth the habitation of the just.
Proverbs 3:34 Surely he scorneth the scorners: but he giveth grace unto the lowly.
Proverbs 3:35 The wise shall inherit glory: but shame shall be the promotion of fools.
Proverbs 4:1 Hear, ye children, the instruction of a father, and attend to know understanding.
Proverbs 4:2 For I give you good doctrine, forsake ye not my law.
Proverbs 4:3 For I was my father’s son, tender and only [beloved] in the sight of my mother.
Proverbs 4:4 He taught me also, and said unto me, Let thine heart retain my words: keep my commandments, and live.
Proverbs 4:5 Get wisdom, get understanding: forget [it] not; neither decline from the words of my mouth.
Proverbs 4:6 Forsake her not, and she shall preserve thee: love her, and she shall keep thee.
Proverbs 4:7 Wisdom [is] the principal thing; [therefore] get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding.
Proverbs 4:8 Exalt her, and she shall promote thee: she shall bring thee to honour, when thou dost embrace her.
Proverbs 4:9 She shall give to thine head an ornament of grace: a crown of glory shall she deliver to thee.
Proverbs 4:10 Hear, O my son, and receive my sayings; and the years of thy life shall be many.
Proverbs 4:11 I have taught thee in the way of wisdom; I have led thee in right paths.
Proverbs 4:12 When thou goest, thy steps shall not be straitened; and when thou runnest, thou shalt not stumble.
Proverbs 4:13 Take fast hold of instruction; let [her] not go: keep her; for she [is] thy life.
Proverbs 4:14 Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil [men].
Proverbs 4:15 Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away.
Proverbs 4:16 For they sleep not, except they have done mischief; and their sleep is taken away, unless they cause [some] to fall.
Proverbs 4:17 For they eat the bread of wickedness, and drink the wine of violence.
Proverbs 4:18 But the path of the just [is] as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.
Proverbs 4:19 The way of the wicked [is] as darkness: they know not at what they stumble.
Proverbs 4:20 My son, attend to my words; incline thine ear unto my sayings.
Proverbs 4:21 Let them not depart from thine eyes; keep them in the midst of thine heart.
Proverbs 4:22 For they [are] life unto those that find them, and health to all their flesh.
Proverbs 4:23 Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it [are] the issues of life.
Proverbs 4:24 Put away from thee a froward mouth, and perverse lips put far from thee.
Proverbs 4:25 Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look straight before thee.
Proverbs 4:26 Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be established.
Proverbs 4:27 Turn not to the right hand nor to the left: remove thy foot from evil.
Proverbs 5:1 My son, attend unto my wisdom, [and] bow thine ear to my understanding:
Proverbs 5:2 That thou mayest regard discretion, and [that] thy lips may keep knowledge.
Proverbs 5:3 For the lips of a strange woman drop [as] an honeycomb, and her mouth [is] smoother than oil:
Proverbs 5:4 But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a twoedged sword.
Proverbs 5:5 Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Proverbs 5:6 Lest thou shouldest ponder the path of life, her ways are moveable, [that] thou canst not know [them].
Proverbs 5:7 Hear me now therefore, O ye children, and depart not from the words of my mouth.
Proverbs 5:8 Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house:
Proverbs 5:9 Lest thou give thine honour unto others, and thy years unto the cruel:
Proverbs 5:10 Lest strangers be filled with thy wealth; and thy labours [be] in the house of a stranger;
Proverbs 5:11 And thou mourn at the last, when thy flesh and thy body are consumed,
Proverbs 5:12 And say, How have I hated instruction, and my heart despised reproof;
Proverbs 5:13 And have not obeyed the voice of my teachers, nor inclined mine ear to them that instructed me!
Proverbs 5:14 I was almost in all evil in the midst of the congregation and assembly.
Proverbs 5:15 Drink waters out of thine own cistern, and running waters out of thine own well.
Proverbs 5:16 Let thy fountains be dispersed abroad, [and] rivers of waters in the streets.
Proverbs 5:17 Let them be only thine own, and not strangers’ with thee.
Proverbs 5:18 Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth.
Proverbs 5:19 [Let her be as] the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love.
Proverbs 5:20 And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of a stranger?
Proverbs 5:21 For the ways of man [are] before the eyes of the LORD, and he pondereth all his goings.
Proverbs 5:22 His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.
Proverbs 5:23 He shall die without instruction; and in the greatness of his folly he shall go astray.
Proverbs 6:1 My son, if thou be surety for thy friend, [if] thou hast stricken thy hand with a stranger,
Proverbs 6:2 Thou art snared with the words of thy mouth, thou art taken with the words of thy mouth.
Proverbs 6:3 Do this now, my son, and deliver thyself, when thou art come into the hand of thy friend; go, humble thyself, and make sure thy friend.
Proverbs 6:4 Give not sleep to thine eyes, nor slumber to thine eyelids.
Proverbs 6:5 Deliver thyself as a roe from the hand [of the hunter], and as a bird from the hand of the fowler.
Proverbs 6:6 Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:
Proverbs 6:7 Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler,
Proverbs 6:8 Provideth her meat in the summer, [and] gathereth her food in the harvest.
Proverbs 6:9 How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? when wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?
Proverbs 6:10 [Yet] a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep:
Proverbs 6:11 So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man.
Proverbs 6:12 A naughty person, a wicked man, walketh with a froward mouth.
Proverbs 6:13 He winketh with his eyes, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers;
Proverbs 6:14 Frowardness [is] in his heart, he deviseth mischief continually; he soweth discord.
Proverbs 6:15 Therefore shall his calamity come suddenly; suddenly shall he be broken without remedy.
Proverbs 6:16 These six [things] doth the LORD hate: yea, seven [are] an abomination unto him:
Proverbs 6:17 A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood,
Proverbs 6:18 An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief,
Proverbs 6:19 A false witness [that] speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.
Proverbs 6:20 My son, keep thy father’s commandment, and forsake not the law of thy mother:
Proverbs 6:21 Bind them continually upon thine heart, [and] tie them about thy neck.
Proverbs 6:22 When thou goest, it shall lead thee; when thou sleepest, it shall keep thee; and [when] thou awakest, it shall talk with thee.
Proverbs 6:23 For the commandment [is] a lamp; and the law [is] light; and reproofs of instruction [are] the way of life:
Proverbs 6:24 To keep thee from the evil woman, from the flattery of the tongue of a strange woman.
Proverbs 6:25 Lust not after her beauty in thine heart; neither let her take thee with her eyelids.
Proverbs 6:26 For by means of a whorish woman [a man is brought] to a piece of bread: and the adulteress will hunt for the precious life.
Proverbs 6:27 Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?
Proverbs 6:28 Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?
Proverbs 6:29 So he that goeth in to his neighbour’s wife; whosoever toucheth her shall not be innocent.
Proverbs 6:30 [Men] do not despise a thief, if he steal to satisfy his soul when he is hungry;
Proverbs 6:31 But [if] he be found, he shall restore sevenfold; he shall give all the substance of his house.
Proverbs 6:32 [But] whoso committeth adultery with a woman lacketh understanding: he [that] doeth it destroyeth his own soul.
Proverbs 6:33 A wound and dishonour shall he get; and his reproach shall not be wiped away.
Proverbs 6:34 For jealousy [is] the rage of a man: therefore he will not spare in the day of vengeance.
Proverbs 6:35 He will not regard any ransom; neither will he rest content, though thou givest many gifts.
Proverbs 7:1 My son, keep my words, and lay up my commandments with thee.
Proverbs 7:2 Keep my commandments, and live; and my law as the apple of thine eye.
Proverbs 7:3 Bind them upon thy fingers, write them upon the table of thine heart.
Proverbs 7:4 Say unto wisdom, Thou [art] my sister; and call understanding [thy] kinswoman:
Proverbs 7:5 That they may keep thee from the strange woman, from the stranger [which] flattereth with her words.
Proverbs 7:6 For at the window of my house I looked through my casement,
Proverbs 7:7 And beheld among the simple ones, I discerned among the youths, a young man void of understanding,
Proverbs 7:8 Passing through the street near her corner; and he went the way to her house,
Proverbs 7:9 In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night:
Proverbs 7:10 And, behold, there met him a woman [with] the attire of an harlot, and subtil of heart.
Proverbs 7:11 (She [is] loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house:
Proverbs 7:12 Now [is she] without, now in the streets, and lieth in wait at every corner.)
Proverbs 7:13 So she caught him, and kissed him, [and] with an impudent face said unto him,
Proverbs 7:14 [I have] peace offerings with me; this day have I payed my vows.
Proverbs 7:15 Therefore came I forth to meet thee, diligently to seek thy face, and I have found thee.
Proverbs 7:16 I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved [works], with fine linen of Egypt.
Proverbs 7:17 I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.
Proverbs 7:18 Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.
Proverbs 7:19 For the goodman [is] not at home, he is gone a long journey:
Proverbs 7:20 He hath taken a bag of money with him, [and] will come home at the day appointed.
Proverbs 7:21 With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him.
Proverbs 7:22 He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks;
Proverbs 7:23 Till a dart strike through his liver; as a bird hasteth to the snare, and knoweth not that it [is] for his life.
Proverbs 7:24 Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children, and attend to the words of my mouth.
Proverbs 7:25 Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths.
Proverbs 7:26 For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong [men] have been slain by her.
Proverbs 7:27 Her house [is] the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.
Proverbs 8:1 Doth not wisdom cry? and understanding put forth her voice?
Proverbs 8:2 She standeth in the top of high places, by the way in the places of the paths.
Proverbs 8:3 She crieth at the gates, at the entry of the city, at the coming in at the doors.
Proverbs 8:4 Unto you, O men, I call; and my voice [is] to the sons of man.
Proverbs 8:5 O ye simple, understand wisdom: and, ye fools, be ye of an understanding heart.
Proverbs 8:6 Hear; for I will speak of excellent things; and the opening of my lips [shall be] right things.
Proverbs 8:7 For my mouth shall speak truth; and wickedness [is] an abomination to my lips.
Proverbs 8:8 All the words of my mouth [are] in righteousness; [there is] nothing froward or perverse in them.
Proverbs 8:9 They [are] all plain to him that understandeth, and right to them that find knowledge.
Proverbs 8:10 Receive my instruction, and not silver; and knowledge rather than choice gold.
Proverbs 8:11 For wisdom [is] better than rubies; and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it.
Proverbs 8:12 I wisdom dwell with prudence, and find out knowledge of witty inventions.
Proverbs 8:13 The fear of the LORD [is] to hate evil: pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate.
Proverbs 8:14 Counsel [is] mine, and sound wisdom: I [am] understanding; I have strength.
Proverbs 8:15 By me kings reign, and princes decree justice.
Proverbs 8:16 By me princes rule, and nobles, [even] all the judges of the earth.
Proverbs 8:17 I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me.
Proverbs 8:18 Riches and honour [are] with me; [yea], durable riches and righteousness.
Proverbs 8:19 My fruit [is] better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver.
Proverbs 8:20 I lead in the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of judgment:
Proverbs 8:21 That I may cause those that love me to inherit substance; and I will fill their treasures.
Proverbs 8:22 The LORD possessed me in the beginning of his way, before his works of old.
Proverbs 8:23 I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was.
Proverbs 8:24 When [there were] no depths, I was brought forth; when [there were] no fountains abounding with water.
Proverbs 8:25 Before the mountains were settled, before the hills was I brought forth:
Proverbs 8:26 While as yet he had not made the earth, nor the fields, nor the highest part of the dust of the world.
Proverbs 8:27 When he prepared the heavens, I [was] there: when he set a compass upon the face of the depth:
Proverbs 8:28 When he established the clouds above: when he strengthened the fountains of the deep:
Proverbs 8:29 When he gave to the sea his decree, that the waters should not pass his commandment: when he appointed the foundations of the earth:
Proverbs 8:30 Then I was by him, [as] one brought up [with him]: and I was daily [his] delight, rejoicing always before him;
Proverbs 8:31 Rejoicing in the habitable part of his earth; and my delights [were] with the sons of men.
Proverbs 8:32 Now therefore hearken unto me, O ye children: for blessed [are they that] keep my ways.
Proverbs 8:33 Hear instruction, and be wise, and refuse it not.
Proverbs 8:34 Blessed [is] the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors.
Proverbs 8:35 For whoso findeth me findeth life, and shall obtain favour of the LORD.
Proverbs 8:36 But he that sinneth against me wrongeth his own soul: all they that hate me love death.
Proverbs 9:1 Wisdom hath builded her house, she hath hewn out her seven pillars:
Proverbs 9:2 She hath killed her beasts; she hath mingled her wine; she hath also furnished her table.
Proverbs 9:3 She hath sent forth her maidens: she crieth upon the highest places of the city,
Proverbs 9:4 Whoso [is] simple, let him turn in hither: [as for] him that wanteth understanding, she saith to him,
Proverbs 9:5 Come, eat of my bread, and drink of the wine [which] I have mingled.
Proverbs 9:6 Forsake the foolish, and live; and go in the way of understanding.
Proverbs 9:7 He that reproveth a scorner getteth to himself shame: and he that rebuketh a wicked [man getteth] himself a blot.
Proverbs 9:8 Reprove not a scorner, lest he hate thee: rebuke a wise man, and he will love thee.
Proverbs 9:9 Give [instruction] to a wise [man], and he will be yet wiser: teach a just [man], and he will increase in learning.
Proverbs 9:10 The fear of the LORD [is] the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy [is] understanding.
Proverbs 9:11 For by me thy days shall be multiplied, and the years of thy life shall be increased.
Proverbs 9:12 If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself: but [if] thou scornest, thou alone shalt bear [it].
Proverbs 9:13 A foolish woman [is] clamorous: [she is] simple, and knoweth nothing.
Proverbs 9:14 For she sitteth at the door of her house, on a seat in the high places of the city,
Proverbs 9:15 To call passengers who go right on their ways:
Proverbs 9:16 Whoso [is] simple, let him turn in hither: and [as for] him that wanteth understanding, she saith to him,
Proverbs 9:17 Stolen waters are sweet, and bread [eaten] in secret is pleasant.
Proverbs 9:18 But he knoweth not that the dead [are] there; [and that] her guests [are] in the depths of hell.
Proverbs 10:1 The proverbs of Solomon. A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish son [is] the heaviness of his mother.
Proverbs 10:2 Treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but righteousness delivereth from death.
Proverbs 10:3 The LORD will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish: but he casteth away the substance of the wicked.
Proverbs 10:4 He becometh poor that dealeth [with] a slack hand: but the hand of the diligent maketh rich.
Proverbs 10:5 He that gathereth in summer [is] a wise son: [but] he that sleepeth in harvest [is] a son that causeth shame.
Proverbs 10:6 Blessings [are] upon the head of the just: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.
Proverbs 10:7 The memory of the just [is] blessed: but the name of the wicked shall rot.
Proverbs 10:8 The wise in heart will receive commandments: but a prating fool shall fall.
Proverbs 10:9 He that walketh uprightly walketh surely: but he that perverteth his ways shall be known.
Proverbs 10:10 He that winketh with the eye causeth sorrow: but a prating fool shall fall.
Proverbs 10:11 The mouth of a righteous [man is] a well of life: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.
Proverbs 10:12 Hatred stirreth up strifes: but love covereth all sins.
Proverbs 10:13 In the lips of him that hath understanding wisdom is found: but a rod [is] for the back of him that is void of understanding.
Proverbs 10:14 Wise [men] lay up knowledge: but the mouth of the foolish [is] near destruction.
Proverbs 10:15 The rich man’s wealth [is] his strong city: the destruction of the poor [is] their poverty.
Proverbs 10:16 The labour of the righteous [tendeth] to life: the fruit of the wicked to sin.
Proverbs 10:17 He [is in] the way of life that keepeth instruction: but he that refuseth reproof erreth.
Proverbs 10:18 He that hideth hatred [with] lying lips, and he that uttereth a slander, [is] a fool.
Proverbs 10:19 In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips [is] wise.
Proverbs 10:20 The tongue of the just [is as] choice silver: the heart of the wicked [is] little worth.
Proverbs 10:21 The lips of the righteous feed many: but fools die for want of wisdom.
Proverbs 10:22 The blessing of the LORD, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.
Proverbs 10:23 [It is] as sport to a fool to do mischief: but a man of understanding hath wisdom.
Proverbs 10:24 The fear of the wicked, it shall come upon him: but the desire of the righteous shall be granted.
Proverbs 10:25 As the whirlwind passeth, so [is] the wicked no [more]: but the righteous [is] an everlasting foundation.
Proverbs 10:26 As vinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so [is] the sluggard to them that send him.
Proverbs 10:27 The fear of the LORD prolongeth days: but the years of the wicked shall be shortened.
Proverbs 10:28 The hope of the righteous [shall be] gladness: but the expectation of the wicked shall perish.
Proverbs 10:29 The way of the LORD [is] strength to the upright: but destruction [shall be] to the workers of iniquity.
Proverbs 10:30 The righteous shall never be removed: but the wicked shall not inhabit the earth.
Proverbs 10:31 The mouth of the just bringeth forth wisdom: but the froward tongue shall be cut out.
Proverbs 10:32 The lips of the righteous know what is acceptable: but the mouth of the wicked [speaketh] frowardness.
Proverbs 11:1 A false balance [is] abomination to the LORD: but a just weight [is] his delight.
Proverbs 11:2 [When] pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly [is] wisdom.
Proverbs 11:3 The integrity of the upright shall guide them: but the perverseness of transgressors shall destroy them.
Proverbs 11:4 Riches profit not in the day of wrath: but righteousness delivereth from death.
Proverbs 11:5 The righteousness of the perfect shall direct his way: but the wicked shall fall by his own wickedness.
Proverbs 11:6 The righteousness of the upright shall deliver them: but transgressors shall be taken in [their own] naughtiness.
Proverbs 11:7 When a wicked man dieth, [his] expectation shall perish: and the hope of unjust [men] perisheth.
Proverbs 11:8 The righteous is delivered out of trouble, and the wicked cometh in his stead.
Proverbs 11:9 An hypocrite with [his] mouth destroyeth his neighbour: but through knowledge shall the just be delivered.
Proverbs 11:10 When it goeth well with the righteous, the city rejoiceth: and when the wicked perish, [there is] shouting.
Proverbs 11:11 By the blessing of the upright the city is exalted: but it is overthrown by the mouth of the wicked.
Proverbs 11:12 He that is void of wisdom despiseth his neighbour: but a man of understanding holdeth his peace.
Proverbs 11:13 A talebearer revealeth secrets: but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.
Proverbs 11:14 Where no counsel [is], the people fall: but in the multitude of counsellers [there is] safety.
Proverbs 11:15 He that is surety for a stranger shall smart [for it]: and he that hateth suretiship is sure.
Proverbs 11:16 A gracious woman retaineth honour: and strong [men] retain riches.
Proverbs 11:17 The merciful man doeth good to his own soul: but [he that is] cruel troubleth his own flesh.
Proverbs 11:18 The wicked worketh a deceitful work: but to him that soweth righteousness [shall be] a sure reward.
Proverbs 11:19 As righteousness [tendeth] to life: so he that pursueth evil [pursueth it] to his own death.
Proverbs 11:20 They that are of a froward heart [are] abomination to the LORD: but [such as are] upright in [their] way [are] his delight.
Proverbs 11:21 [Though] hand [join] in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished: but the seed of the righteous shall be delivered.
Proverbs 11:22 [As] a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, [so is] a fair woman which is without discretion.
Proverbs 11:23 The desire of the righteous [is] only good: [but] the expectation of the wicked [is] wrath.
Proverbs 11:24 There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and [there is] that withholdeth more than is meet, but [it tendeth] to poverty.
Proverbs 11:25 The liberal soul shall be made fat: and he that watereth shall be watered also himself.
Proverbs 11:26 He that withholdeth corn, the people shall curse him: but blessing [shall be] upon the head of him that selleth [it].
Proverbs 11:27 He that diligently seeketh good procureth favour: but he that seeketh mischief, it shall come unto him.
Proverbs 11:28 He that trusteth in his riches shall fall: but the righteous shall flourish as a branch.
Proverbs 11:29 He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool [shall be] servant to the wise of heart.
Proverbs 11:30 The fruit of the righteous [is] a tree of life; and he that winneth souls [is] wise.
Proverbs 11:31 Behold, the righteous shall be recompensed in the earth: much more the wicked and the sinner.
Proverbs 12:1 Whoso loveth instruction loveth knowledge: but he that hateth reproof [is] brutish.
Proverbs 12:2 A good [man] obtaineth favour of the LORD: but a man of wicked devices will he condemn.
Proverbs 12:3 A man shall not be established by wickedness: but the root of the righteous shall not be moved.
Proverbs 12:4 A virtuous woman [is] a crown to her husband: but she that maketh ashamed [is] as rottenness in his bones.
Proverbs 12:5 The thoughts of the righteous [are] right: [but] the counsels of the wicked [are] deceit.
Proverbs 12:6 The words of the wicked [are] to lie in wait for blood: but the mouth of the upright shall deliver them.
Proverbs 12:7 The wicked are overthrown, and [are] not: but the house of the righteous shall stand.
Proverbs 12:8 A man shall be commended according to his wisdom: but he that is of a perverse heart shall be despised.
Proverbs 12:9 [He that is] despised, and hath a servant, [is] better than he that honoureth himself, and lacketh bread.
Proverbs 12:10 A righteous [man] regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked [are] cruel.
Proverbs 12:11 He that tilleth his land shall be satisfied with bread: but he that followeth vain [persons is] void of understanding.
Proverbs 12:12 The wicked desireth the net of evil [men]: but the root of the righteous yieldeth [fruit].
Proverbs 12:13 The wicked is snared by the transgression of [his] lips: but the just shall come out of trouble.
Proverbs 12:14 A man shall be satisfied with good by the fruit of [his] mouth: and the recompence of a man’s hands shall be rendered unto him.
Proverbs 12:15 The way of a fool [is] right in his own eyes: but he that hearkeneth unto counsel [is] wise.
Proverbs 12:16 A fool’s wrath is presently known: but a prudent [man] covereth shame.
Proverbs 12:17 [He that] speaketh truth sheweth forth righteousness: but a false witness deceit.
Proverbs 12:18 There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword: but the tongue of the wise [is] health.
Proverbs 12:19 The lip of truth shall be established for ever: but a lying tongue [is] but for a moment.
Proverbs 12:20 Deceit [is] in the heart of them that imagine evil: but to the counsellers of peace [is] joy.
Proverbs 12:21 There shall no evil happen to the just: but the wicked shall be filled with mischief.
Proverbs 12:22 Lying lips [are] abomination to the LORD: but they that deal truly [are] his delight.
Proverbs 12:23 A prudent man concealeth knowledge: but the heart of fools proclaimeth foolishness.
Proverbs 12:24 The hand of the diligent shall bear rule: but the slothful shall be under tribute.
Proverbs 12:25 Heaviness in the heart of man maketh it stoop: but a good word maketh it glad.
Proverbs 12:26 The righteous [is] more excellent than his neighbour: but the way of the wicked seduceth them.
Proverbs 12:27 The slothful [man] roasteth not that which he took in hunting: but the substance of a diligent man [is] precious.
Proverbs 12:28 In the way of righteousness [is] life; and [in] the pathway [thereof there is] no death.
Proverbs 13:1 A wise son [heareth] his father’s instruction: but a scorner heareth not rebuke.
Proverbs 13:2 A man shall eat good by the fruit of [his] mouth: but the soul of the transgressors [shall eat] violence.
Proverbs 13:3 He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life: [but] he that openeth wide his lips shall have destruction.
Proverbs 13:4 The soul of the sluggard desireth, and [hath] nothing: but the soul of the diligent shall be made fat.
Proverbs 13:5 A righteous [man] hateth lying: but a wicked [man] is loathsome, and cometh to shame.
Proverbs 13:6 Righteousness keepeth [him that is] upright in the way: but wickedness overthroweth the sinner.
Proverbs 13:7 There is that maketh himself rich, yet [hath] nothing: [there is] that maketh himself poor, yet [hath] great riches.
Proverbs 13:8 The ransom of a man’s life [are] his riches: but the poor heareth not rebuke.
Proverbs 13:9 The light of the righteous rejoiceth: but the lamp of the wicked shall be put out.
Proverbs 13:10 Only by pride cometh contention: but with the well advised [is] wisdom.
Proverbs 13:11 Wealth [gotten] by vanity shall be diminished: but he that gathereth by labour shall increase.
Proverbs 13:12 Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but [when] the desire cometh, [it is] a tree of life.
Proverbs 13:13 Whoso despiseth the word shall be destroyed: but he that feareth the commandment shall be rewarded.
Proverbs 13:14 The law of the wise [is] a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death.
Proverbs 13:15 Good understanding giveth favour: but the way of transgressors [is] hard.
Proverbs 13:16 Every prudent [man] dealeth with knowledge: but a fool layeth open [his] folly.
Proverbs 13:17 A wicked messenger falleth into mischief: but a faithful ambassador [is] health.
Proverbs 13:18 Poverty and shame [shall be to] him that refuseth instruction: but he that regardeth reproof shall be honoured.
Proverbs 13:19 The desire accomplished is sweet to the soul: but [it is] abomination to fools to depart from evil.
Proverbs 13:20 He that walketh with wise [men] shall be wise: but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.
Proverbs 13:21 Evil pursueth sinners: but to the righteous good shall be repayed.
Proverbs 13:22 A good [man] leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children: and the wealth of the sinner [is] laid up for the just.
Proverbs 13:23 Much food [is in] the tillage of the poor: but there is [that is] destroyed for want of judgment.
Proverbs 13:24 He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.
Proverbs 13:25 The righteous eateth to the satisfying of his soul: but the belly of the wicked shall want.
Proverbs 14:1 Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.
Proverbs 14:2 He that walketh in his uprightness feareth the LORD: but [he that is] perverse in his ways despiseth him.
Proverbs 14:3 In the mouth of the foolish [is] a rod of pride: but the lips of the wise shall preserve them.
Proverbs 14:4 Where no oxen [are], the crib [is] clean: but much increase [is] by the strength of the ox.
Proverbs 14:5 A faithful witness will not lie: but a false witness will utter lies.
Proverbs 14:6 A scorner seeketh wisdom, and [findeth it] not: but knowledge [is] easy unto him that understandeth.
Proverbs 14:7 Go from the presence of a foolish man, when thou perceivest not [in him] the lips of knowledge.
Proverbs 14:8 The wisdom of the prudent [is] to understand his way: but the folly of fools [is] deceit.
Proverbs 14:9 Fools make a mock at sin: but among the righteous [there is] favour.
Proverbs 14:10 The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.
Proverbs 14:11 The house of the wicked shall be overthrown: but the tabernacle of the upright shall flourish.
Proverbs 14:12 There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof [are] the ways of death.
Proverbs 14:13 Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful; and the end of that mirth [is] heaviness.
Proverbs 14:14 The backslider in heart shall be filled with his own ways: and a good man [shall be satisfied] from himself.
Proverbs 14:15 The simple believeth every word: but the prudent [man] looketh well to his going.
Proverbs 14:16 A wise [man] feareth, and departeth from evil: but the fool rageth, and is confident.
Proverbs 14:17 [He that is] soon angry dealeth foolishly: and a man of wicked devices is hated.
Proverbs 14:18 The simple inherit folly: but the prudent are crowned with knowledge.
Proverbs 14:19 The evil bow before the good; and the wicked at the gates of the righteous.
Proverbs 14:20 The poor is hated even of his own neighbour: but the rich [hath] many friends.
Proverbs 14:21 He that despiseth his neighbour sinneth: but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy [is] he.
Proverbs 14:22 Do they not err that devise evil? but mercy and truth [shall be] to them that devise good.
Proverbs 14:23 In all labour there is profit: but the talk of the lips [tendeth] only to penury.
Proverbs 14:24 The crown of the wise [is] their riches: [but] the foolishness of fools [is] folly.
Proverbs 14:25 A true witness delivereth souls: but a deceitful [witness] speaketh lies.
Proverbs 14:26 In the fear of the LORD [is] strong confidence: and his children shall have a place of refuge.
Proverbs 14:27 The fear of the LORD [is] a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death.
Proverbs 14:28 In the multitude of people [is] the king’s honour: but in the want of people [is] the destruction of the prince.
Proverbs 14:29 [He that is] slow to wrath [is] of great understanding: but [he that is] hasty of spirit exalteth folly.
Proverbs 14:30 A sound heart [is] the life of the flesh: but envy the rottenness of the bones.
Proverbs 14:31 He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him hath mercy on the poor.
Proverbs 14:32 The wicked is driven away in his wickedness: but the righteous hath hope in his death.
Proverbs 14:33 Wisdom resteth in the heart of him that hath understanding: but [that which is] in the midst of fools is made known.
Proverbs 14:34 Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin [is] a reproach to any people.
Proverbs 14:35 The king’s favour [is] toward a wise servant: but his wrath is [against] him that causeth shame.
Proverbs 15:1 A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.
Proverbs 15:2 The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright: but the mouth of fools poureth out foolishness.
Proverbs 15:3 The eyes of the LORD [are] in every place, beholding the evil and the good.
Proverbs 15:4 A wholesome tongue [is] a tree of life: but perverseness therein [is] a breach in the spirit.
Proverbs 15:5 A fool despiseth his father’s instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent.
Proverbs 15:6 In the house of the righteous [is] much treasure: but in the revenues of the wicked is trouble.
Proverbs 15:7 The lips of the wise disperse knowledge: but the heart of the foolish [doeth] not so.
Proverbs 15:8 The sacrifice of the wicked [is] an abomination to the LORD: but the prayer of the upright [is] his delight.
Proverbs 15:9 The way of the wicked [is] an abomination unto the LORD: but he loveth him that followeth after righteousness.
Proverbs 15:10 Correction [is] grievous unto him that forsaketh the way: [and] he that hateth reproof shall die.
Proverbs 15:11 Hell and destruction [are] before the LORD: how much more then the hearts of the children of men?
Proverbs 15:12 A scorner loveth not one that reproveth him: neither will he go unto the wise.
Proverbs 15:13 A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: but by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken.
Proverbs 15:14 The heart of him that hath understanding seeketh knowledge: but the mouth of fools feedeth on foolishness.
Proverbs 15:15 All the days of the afflicted [are] evil: but he that is of a merry heart [hath] a continual feast.
Proverbs 15:16 Better [is] little with the fear of the LORD than great treasure and trouble therewith.
Proverbs 15:17 Better [is] a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.
Proverbs 15:18 A wrathful man stirreth up strife: but [he that is] slow to anger appeaseth strife.
Proverbs 15:19 The way of the slothful [man is] as an hedge of thorns: but the way of the righteous [is] made plain.
Proverbs 15:20 A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish man despiseth his mother.
Proverbs 15:21 Folly [is] joy to [him that is] destitute of wisdom: but a man of understanding walketh uprightly.
Proverbs 15:22 Without counsel purposes are disappointed: but in the multitude of counsellers they are established.
Proverbs 15:23 A man hath joy by the answer of his mouth: and a word [spoken] in due season, how good [is it]!
Proverbs 15:24 The way of life [is] above to the wise, that he may depart from hell beneath.
Proverbs 15:25 The LORD will destroy the house of the proud: but he will establish the border of the widow.
Proverbs 15:26 The thoughts of the wicked [are] an abomination to the LORD: but [the words] of the pure [are] pleasant words.
Proverbs 15:27 He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house; but he that hateth gifts shall live.
Proverbs 15:28 The heart of the righteous studieth to answer: but the mouth of the wicked poureth out evil things.
Proverbs 15:29 The LORD [is] far from the wicked: but he heareth the prayer of the righteous.
Proverbs 15:30 The light of the eyes rejoiceth the heart: [and] a good report maketh the bones fat.
Proverbs 15:31 The ear that heareth the reproof of life abideth among the wise.
Proverbs 15:32 He that refuseth instruction despiseth his own soul: but he that heareth reproof getteth understanding.
Proverbs 15:33 The fear of the LORD [is] the instruction of wisdom; and before honour [is] humility.
Proverbs 16:1 The preparations of the heart in man, and the answer of the tongue, [is] from the LORD.
Proverbs 16:2 All the ways of a man [are] clean in his own eyes; but the LORD weigheth the spirits.
Proverbs 16:3 Commit thy works unto the LORD, and thy thoughts shall be established.
Proverbs 16:4 The LORD hath made all [things] for himself: yea, even the wicked for the day of evil.
Proverbs 16:5 Every one [that is] proud in heart [is] an abomination to the LORD: [though] hand [join] in hand, he shall not be unpunished.
Proverbs 16:6 By mercy and truth iniquity is purged: and by the fear of the LORD [men] depart from evil.
Proverbs 16:7 When a man’s ways please the LORD, he maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him.
Proverbs 16:8 Better [is] a little with righteousness than great revenues without right.
Proverbs 16:9 A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the LORD directeth his steps.
Proverbs 16:10 A divine sentence [is] in the lips of the king: his mouth transgresseth not in judgment.
Proverbs 16:11 A just weight and balance [are] the LORD’S: all the weights of the bag [are] his work.
Proverbs 16:12 [It is] an abomination to kings to commit wickedness: for the throne is established by righteousness.
Proverbs 16:13 Righteous lips [are] the delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right.
Proverbs 16:14 The wrath of a king [is as] messengers of death: but a wise man will pacify it.
Proverbs 16:15 In the light of the king’s countenance [is] life; and his favour [is] as a cloud of the latter rain.
Proverbs 16:16 How much better [is it] to get wisdom than gold! and to get understanding rather to be chosen than silver!
Proverbs 16:17 The highway of the upright [is] to depart from evil: he that keepeth his way preserveth his soul.
Proverbs 16:18 Pride [goeth] before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
Proverbs 16:19 Better [it is to be] of an humble spirit with the lowly, than to divide the spoil with the proud.
Proverbs 16:20 He that handleth a matter wisely shall find good: and whoso trusteth in the LORD, happy [is] he.
Proverbs 16:21 The wise in heart shall be called prudent: and the sweetness of the lips increaseth learning.
Proverbs 16:22 Understanding [is] a wellspring of life unto him that hath it: but the instruction of fools [is] folly.
Proverbs 16:23 The heart of the wise teacheth his mouth, and addeth learning to his lips.
Proverbs 16:24 Pleasant words [are as] an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.
Proverbs 16:25 There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof [are] the ways of death.
Proverbs 16:26 He that laboureth laboureth for himself; for his mouth craveth it of him.
Proverbs 16:27 An ungodly man diggeth up evil: and in his lips [there is] as a burning fire.
Proverbs 16:28 A froward man soweth strife: and a whisperer separateth chief friends.
Proverbs 16:29 A violent man enticeth his neighbour, and leadeth him into the way [that is] not good.
Proverbs 16:30 He shutteth his eyes to devise froward things: moving his lips he bringeth evil to pass.
Proverbs 16:31 The hoary head [is] a crown of glory, [if] it be found in the way of righteousness.
Proverbs 16:32 [He that is] slow to anger [is] better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.
Proverbs 16:33 The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing thereof [is] of the LORD.
Proverbs 17:1 Better [is] a dry morsel, and quietness therewith, than an house full of sacrifices [with] strife.
Proverbs 17:2 A wise servant shall have rule over a son that causeth shame, and shall have part of the inheritance among the brethren.
Proverbs 17:3 The fining pot [is] for silver, and the furnace for gold: but the LORD trieth the hearts.
Proverbs 17:4 A wicked doer giveth heed to false lips; [and] a liar giveth ear to a naughty tongue.
Proverbs 17:5 Whoso mocketh the poor reproacheth his Maker: [and] he that is glad at calamities shall not be unpunished.
Proverbs 17:6 Children’s children [are] the crown of old men; and the glory of children [are] their fathers.
Proverbs 17:7 Excellent speech becometh not a fool: much less do lying lips a prince.
Proverbs 17:8 A gift [is as] a precious stone in the eyes of him that hath it: whithersoever it turneth, it prospereth.
Proverbs 17:9 He that covereth a transgression seeketh love; but he that repeateth a matter separateth [very] friends.
Proverbs 17:10 A reproof entereth more into a wise man than an hundred stripes into a fool.
Proverbs 17:11 An evil [man] seeketh only rebellion: therefore a cruel messenger shall be sent against him.
Proverbs 17:12 Let a bear robbed of her whelps meet a man, rather than a fool in his folly.
Proverbs 17:13 Whoso rewardeth evil for good, evil shall not depart from his house.
Proverbs 17:14 The beginning of strife [is as] when one letteth out water: therefore leave off contention, before it be meddled with.
Proverbs 17:15 He that justifieth the wicked, and he that condemneth the just, even they both [are] abomination to the LORD.
Proverbs 17:16 Wherefore [is there] a price in the hand of a fool to get wisdom, seeing [he hath] no heart [to it]?
Proverbs 17:17 A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
Proverbs 17:18 A man void of understanding striketh hands, [and] becometh surety in the presence of his friend.
Proverbs 17:19 He loveth transgression that loveth strife: [and] he that exalteth his gate seeketh destruction.
Proverbs 17:20 He that hath a froward heart findeth no good: and he that hath a perverse tongue falleth into mischief.
Proverbs 17:21 He that begetteth a fool [doeth it] to his sorrow: and the father of a fool hath no joy.
Proverbs 17:22 A merry heart doeth good [like] a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.
Proverbs 17:23 A wicked [man] taketh a gift out of the bosom to pervert the ways of judgment.
Proverbs 17:24 Wisdom [is] before him that hath understanding; but the eyes of a fool [are] in the ends of the earth.
Proverbs 17:25 A foolish son [is] a grief to his father, and bitterness to her that bare him.
Proverbs 17:26 Also to punish the just [is] not good, [nor] to strike princes for equity.
Proverbs 17:27 He that hath knowledge spareth his words: [and] a man of understanding is of an excellent spirit.
Proverbs 17:28 Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: [and] he that shutteth his lips [is esteemed] a man of understanding.
Proverbs 18:1 Through desire a man, having separated himself, seeketh [and] intermeddleth with all wisdom.
Proverbs 18:2 A fool hath no delight in understanding, but that his heart may discover itself.
Proverbs 18:3 When the wicked cometh, [then] cometh also contempt, and with ignominy reproach.
Proverbs 18:4 The words of a man’s mouth [are as] deep waters, [and] the wellspring of wisdom [as] a flowing brook.
Proverbs 18:5 [It is] not good to accept the person of the wicked, to overthrow the righteous in judgment.
Proverbs 18:6 A fool’s lips enter into contention, and his mouth calleth for strokes.
Proverbs 18:7 A fool’s mouth [is] his destruction, and his lips [are] the snare of his soul.
Proverbs 18:8 The words of a talebearer [are] as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly.
Proverbs 18:9 He also that is slothful in his work is brother to him that is a great waster.
Proverbs 18:10 The name of the LORD [is] a strong tower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe.
Proverbs 18:11 The rich man’s wealth [is] his strong city, and as an high wall in his own conceit.
Proverbs 18:12 Before destruction the heart of man is haughty, and before honour [is] humility.
Proverbs 18:13 He that answereth a matter before he heareth [it], it [is] folly and shame unto him.
Proverbs 18:14 The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit who can bear?
Proverbs 18:15 The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge; and the ear of the wise seeketh knowledge.
Proverbs 18:16 A man’s gift maketh room for him, and bringeth him before great men.
Proverbs 18:17 [He that is] first in his own cause [seemeth] just; but his neighbour cometh and searcheth him.
Proverbs 18:18 The lot causeth contentions to cease, and parteth between the mighty.
Proverbs 18:19 A brother offended [is harder to be won] than a strong city: and [their] contentions [are] like the bars of a castle.
Proverbs 18:20 A man’s belly shall be satisfied with the fruit of his mouth; [and] with the increase of his lips shall he be filled.
Proverbs 18:21 Death and life [are] in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.
Proverbs 18:22 [Whoso] findeth a wife findeth a good [thing], and obtaineth favour of the LORD.
Proverbs 18:23 The poor useth intreaties; but the rich answereth roughly.
Proverbs 18:24 A man [that hath] friends must shew himself friendly: and there is a friend [that] sticketh closer than a brother.
Proverbs 19:1 Better [is] the poor that walketh in his integrity, than [he that is] perverse in his lips, and is a fool.
Proverbs 19:2 Also, [that] the soul [be] without knowledge, [it is] not good; and he that hasteth with [his] feet sinneth.
Proverbs 19:3 The foolishness of man perverteth his way: and his heart fretteth against the LORD.
Proverbs 19:4 Wealth maketh many friends; but the poor is separated from his neighbour.
Proverbs 19:5 A false witness shall not be unpunished, and [he that] speaketh lies shall not escape.
Proverbs 19:6 Many will intreat the favour of the prince: and every man [is] a friend to him that giveth gifts.
Proverbs 19:7 All the brethren of the poor do hate him: how much more do his friends go far from him? he pursueth [them with] words, [yet] they [are] wanting [to him].
Proverbs 19:8 He that getteth wisdom loveth his own soul: he that keepeth understanding shall find good.
Proverbs 19:9 A false witness shall not be unpunished, and [he that] speaketh lies shall perish.
Proverbs 19:10 Delight is not seemly for a fool; much less for a servant to have rule over princes.
Proverbs 19:11 The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and [it is] his glory to pass over a transgression.
Proverbs 19:12 The king’s wrath [is] as the roaring of a lion; but his favour [is] as dew upon the grass.
Proverbs 19:13 A foolish son [is] the calamity of his father: and the contentions of a wife [are] a continual dropping.
Proverbs 19:14 House and riches [are] the inheritance of fathers: and a prudent wife [is] from the LORD.
Proverbs 19:15 Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep; and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.
Proverbs 19:16 He that keepeth the commandment keepeth his own soul; [but] he that despiseth his ways shall die.
Proverbs 19:17 He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the LORD; and that which he hath given will he pay him again.
Proverbs 19:18 Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.
Proverbs 19:19 A man of great wrath shall suffer punishment: for if thou deliver [him], yet thou must do it again.
Proverbs 19:20 Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayest be wise in thy latter end.
Proverbs 19:21 [There are] many devices in a man’s heart; nevertheless the counsel of the LORD, that shall stand.
Proverbs 19:22 The desire of a man [is] his kindness: and a poor man [is] better than a liar.
Proverbs 19:23 The fear of the LORD [tendeth] to life: and [he that hath it] shall abide satisfied; he shall not be visited with evil.
Proverbs 19:24 A slothful [man] hideth his hand in [his] bosom, and will not so much as bring it to his mouth again.
Proverbs 19:25 Smite a scorner, and the simple will beware: and reprove one that hath understanding, [and] he will understand knowledge.
Proverbs 19:26 He that wasteth [his] father, [and] chaseth away [his] mother, [is] a son that causeth shame, and bringeth reproach.
Proverbs 19:27 Cease, my son, to hear the instruction [that causeth] to err from the words of knowledge.
Proverbs 19:28 An ungodly witness scorneth judgment: and the mouth of the wicked devoureth iniquity.
Proverbs 19:29 Judgments are prepared for scorners, and stripes for the back of fools.
Proverbs 20:1 Wine [is] a mocker, strong drink [is] raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.
Proverbs 20:2 The fear of a king [is] as the roaring of a lion: [whoso] provoketh him to anger sinneth [against] his own soul.
Proverbs 20:3 [It is] an honour for a man to cease from strife: but every fool will be meddling.
Proverbs 20:4 The sluggard will not plow by reason of the cold; [therefore] shall he beg in harvest, and [have] nothing.
Proverbs 20:5 Counsel in the heart of man [is like] deep water; but a man of understanding will draw it out.
Proverbs 20:6 Most men will proclaim every one his own goodness: but a faithful man who can find?
Proverbs 20:7 The just [man] walketh in his integrity: his children [are] blessed after him.
Proverbs 20:8 A king that sitteth in the throne of judgment scattereth away all evil with his eyes.
Proverbs 20:9 Who can say, I have made my heart clean, I am pure from my sin?
Proverbs 20:10 Divers weights, [and] divers measures, both of them [are] alike abomination to the LORD.
Proverbs 20:11 Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work [be] pure, and whether [it be] right.
Proverbs 20:12 The hearing ear, and the seeing eye, the LORD hath made even both of them.
Proverbs 20:13 Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty; open thine eyes, [and] thou shalt be satisfied with bread.
Proverbs 20:14 [It is] naught, [it is] naught, saith the buyer: but when he is gone his way, then he boasteth.
Proverbs 20:15 There is gold, and a multitude of rubies: but the lips of knowledge [are] a precious jewel.
Proverbs 20:16 Take his garment that is surety [for] a stranger: and take a pledge of him for a strange woman.
Proverbs 20:17 Bread of deceit [is] sweet to a man; but afterwards his mouth shall be filled with gravel.
Proverbs 20:18 [Every] purpose is established by counsel: and with good advice make war.
Proverbs 20:19 He that goeth about [as] a talebearer revealeth secrets: therefore meddle not with him that flattereth with his lips.
Proverbs 20:20 Whoso curseth his father or his mother, his lamp shall be put out in obscure darkness.
Proverbs 20:21 An inheritance [may be] gotten hastily at the beginning; but the end thereof shall not be blessed.
Proverbs 20:22 Say not thou, I will recompense evil; [but] wait on the LORD, and he shall save thee.
Proverbs 20:23 Divers weights [are] an abomination unto the LORD; and a false balance [is] not good.
Proverbs 20:24 Man’s goings [are] of the LORD; how can a man then understand his own way?
Proverbs 20:25 [It is] a snare to the man [who] devoureth [that which is] holy, and after vows to make inquiry.
Proverbs 20:26 A wise king scattereth the wicked, and bringeth the wheel over them.
Proverbs 20:27 The spirit of man [is] the candle of the LORD, searching all the inward parts of the belly.
Proverbs 20:28 Mercy and truth preserve the king: and his throne is upholden by mercy.
Proverbs 20:29 The glory of young men [is] their strength: and the beauty of old men [is] the gray head.
Proverbs 20:30 The blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil: so [do] stripes the inward parts of the belly.
Proverbs 21:1 The king’s heart [is] in the hand of the LORD, [as] the rivers of water: he turneth it whithersoever he will.
Proverbs 21:2 Every way of a man [is] right in his own eyes: but the LORD pondereth the hearts.
Proverbs 21:3 To do justice and judgment [is] more acceptable to the LORD than sacrifice.
Proverbs 21:4 An high look, and a proud heart, [and] the plowing of the wicked, [is] sin.
Proverbs 21:5 The thoughts of the diligent [tend] only to plenteousness; but of every one [that is] hasty only to want.
Proverbs 21:6 The getting of treasures by a lying tongue [is] a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death.
Proverbs 21:7 The robbery of the wicked shall destroy them; because they refuse to do judgment.
Proverbs 21:8 The way of man [is] froward and strange: but [as for] the pure, his work [is] right.
Proverbs 21:9 [It is] better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.
Proverbs 21:10 The soul of the wicked desireth evil: his neighbour findeth no favour in his eyes.
Proverbs 21:11 When the scorner is punished, the simple is made wise: and when the wise is instructed, he receiveth knowledge.
Proverbs 21:12 The righteous [man] wisely considereth the house of the wicked: [but God] overthroweth the wicked for [their] wickedness.
Proverbs 21:13 Whoso stoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard.
Proverbs 21:14 A gift in secret pacifieth anger: and a reward in the bosom strong wrath.
Proverbs 21:15 [It is] joy to the just to do judgment: but destruction [shall be] to the workers of iniquity.
Proverbs 21:16 The man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain in the congregation of the dead.
Proverbs 21:17 He that loveth pleasure [shall be] a poor man: he that loveth wine and oil shall not be rich.
Proverbs 21:18 The wicked [shall be] a ransom for the righteous, and the transgressor for the upright.
Proverbs 21:19 [It is] better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and an angry woman.
Proverbs 21:20 [There is] treasure to be desired and oil in the dwelling of the wise; but a foolish man spendeth it up.
Proverbs 21:21 He that followeth after righteousness and mercy findeth life, righteousness, and honour.
Proverbs 21:22 A wise [man] scaleth the city of the mighty, and casteth down the strength of the confidence thereof.
Proverbs 21:23 Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.
Proverbs 21:24 Proud [and] haughty scorner [is] his name, who dealeth in proud wrath.
Proverbs 21:25 The desire of the slothful killeth him; for his hands refuse to labour.
Proverbs 21:26 He coveteth greedily all the day long: but the righteous giveth and spareth not.
Proverbs 21:27 The sacrifice of the wicked [is] abomination: how much more, [when] he bringeth it with a wicked mind?
Proverbs 21:28 A false witness shall perish: but the man that heareth speaketh constantly.
Proverbs 21:29 A wicked man hardeneth his face: but [as for] the upright, he directeth his way.
Proverbs 21:30 [There is] no wisdom nor understanding nor counsel against the LORD.
Proverbs 21:31 The horse [is] prepared against the day of battle: but safety [is] of the LORD.
Proverbs 22:1 A [good] name [is] rather to be chosen than great riches, [and] loving favour rather than silver and gold.
Proverbs 22:2 The rich and poor meet together: the LORD [is] the maker of them all.
Proverbs 22:3 A prudent [man] foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself: but the simple pass on, and are punished.
Proverbs 22:4 By humility [and] the fear of the LORD [are] riches, and honour, and life.
Proverbs 22:5 Thorns [and] snares [are] in the way of the froward: he that doth keep his soul shall be far from them.
Proverbs 22:6 Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.
Proverbs 22:7 The rich ruleth over the poor, and the borrower [is] servant to the lender.
Proverbs 22:8 He that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity: and the rod of his anger shall fail.
Proverbs 22:9 He that hath a bountiful eye shall be blessed; for he giveth of his bread to the poor.
Proverbs 22:10 Cast out the scorner, and contention shall go out; yea, strife and reproach shall cease.
Proverbs 22:11 He that loveth pureness of heart, [for] the grace of his lips the king [shall be] his friend.
Proverbs 22:12 The eyes of the LORD preserve knowledge, and he overthroweth the words of the transgressor.
Proverbs 22:13 The slothful [man] saith, [There is] a lion without, I shall be slain in the streets.
Proverbs 22:14 The mouth of strange women [is] a deep pit: he that is abhorred of the LORD shall fall therein.
Proverbs 22:15 Foolishness [is] bound in the heart of a child; [but] the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.
Proverbs 22:16 He that oppresseth the poor to increase his [riches, and] he that giveth to the rich, [shall] surely [come] to want.
Proverbs 22:17 Bow down thine ear, and hear the words of the wise, and apply thine heart unto my knowledge.
Proverbs 22:18 For [it is] a pleasant thing if thou keep them within thee; they shall withal be fitted in thy lips.
Proverbs 22:19 That thy trust may be in the LORD, I have made known to thee this day, even to thee.
Proverbs 22:20 Have not I written to thee excellent things in counsels and knowledge,
Proverbs 22:21 That I might make thee know the certainty of the words of truth; that thou mightest answer the words of truth to them that send unto thee?
Proverbs 22:22 Rob not the poor, because he [is] poor: neither oppress the afflicted in the gate:
Proverbs 22:23 For the LORD will plead their cause, and spoil the soul of those that spoiled them.
Proverbs 22:24 Make no friendship with an angry man; and with a furious man thou shalt not go:
Proverbs 22:25 Lest thou learn his ways, and get a snare to thy soul.
Proverbs 22:26 Be not thou [one] of them that strike hands, [or] of them that are sureties for debts.
Proverbs 22:27 If thou hast nothing to pay, why should he take away thy bed from under thee?
Proverbs 22:28 Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set.
Proverbs 22:29 Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean [men].
Proverbs 23:1 When thou sittest to eat with a ruler, consider diligently what [is] before thee:
Proverbs 23:2 And put a knife to thy throat, if thou [be] a man given to appetite.
Proverbs 23:3 Be not desirous of his dainties: for they [are] deceitful meat.
Proverbs 23:4 Labour not to be rich: cease from thine own wisdom.
Proverbs 23:5 Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for [riches] certainly make themselves wings; they fly away as an eagle toward heaven.
Proverbs 23:6 Eat thou not the bread of [him that hath] an evil eye, neither desire thou his dainty meats:
Proverbs 23:7 For as he thinketh in his heart, so [is] he: Eat and drink, saith he to thee; but his heart [is] not with thee.
Proverbs 23:8 The morsel [which] thou hast eaten shalt thou vomit up, and lose thy sweet words.
Proverbs 23:9 Speak not in the ears of a fool: for he will despise the wisdom of thy words.
Proverbs 23:10 Remove not the old landmark; and enter not into the fields of the fatherless:
Proverbs 23:11 For their redeemer [is] mighty; he shall plead their cause with thee.
Proverbs 23:12 Apply thine heart unto instruction, and thine ears to the words of knowledge.
Proverbs 23:13 Withhold not correction from the child: for [if] thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.
Proverbs 23:14 Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.
Proverbs 23:15 My son, if thine heart be wise, my heart shall rejoice, even mine.
Proverbs 23:16 Yea, my reins shall rejoice, when thy lips speak right things.
Proverbs 23:17 Let not thine heart envy sinners: but [be thou] in the fear of the LORD all the day long.
Proverbs 23:18 For surely there is an end; and thine expectation shall not be cut off.
Proverbs 23:19 Hear thou, my son, and be wise, and guide thine heart in the way.
Proverbs 23:20 Be not among winebibbers; among riotous eaters of flesh:
Proverbs 23:21 For the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty: and drowsiness shall clothe [a man] with rags.
Proverbs 23:22 Hearken unto thy father that begat thee, and despise not thy mother when she is old.
Proverbs 23:23 Buy the truth, and sell [it] not; [also] wisdom, and instruction, and understanding.
Proverbs 23:24 The father of the righteous shall greatly rejoice: and he that begetteth a wise [child] shall have joy of him.
Proverbs 23:25 Thy father and thy mother shall be glad, and she that bare thee shall rejoice.
Proverbs 23:26 My son, give me thine heart, and let thine eyes observe my ways.
Proverbs 23:27 For a whore [is] a deep ditch; and a strange woman [is] a narrow pit.
Proverbs 23:28 She also lieth in wait as [for] a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men.
Proverbs 23:29 Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?
Proverbs 23:30 They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.
Proverbs 23:31 Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, [when] it moveth itself aright.
Proverbs 23:32 At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.
Proverbs 23:33 Thine eyes shall behold strange women, and thine heart shall utter perverse things.
Proverbs 23:34 Yea, thou shalt be as he that lieth down in the midst of the sea, or as he that lieth upon the top of a mast.
Proverbs 23:35 They have stricken me, [shalt thou say, and] I was not sick; they have beaten me, [and] I felt [it] not: when shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.
Proverbs 24:1 Be not thou envious against evil men, neither desire to be with them.
Proverbs 24:2 For their heart studieth destruction, and their lips talk of mischief.
Proverbs 24:3 Through wisdom is an house builded; and by understanding it is established:
Proverbs 24:4 And by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riches.
Proverbs 24:5 A wise man [is] strong; yea, a man of knowledge increaseth strength.
Proverbs 24:6 For by wise counsel thou shalt make thy war: and in multitude of counsellers [there is] safety.
Proverbs 24:7 Wisdom [is] too high for a fool: he openeth not his mouth in the gate.
Proverbs 24:8 He that deviseth to do evil shall be called a mischievous person.
Proverbs 24:9 The thought of foolishness [is] sin: and the scorner [is] an abomination to men.
Proverbs 24:10 [If] thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength [is] small.
Proverbs 24:11 If thou forbear to deliver [them that are] drawn unto death, and [those that are] ready to be slain;
Proverbs 24:12 If thou sayest, Behold, we knew it not; doth not he that pondereth the heart consider [it]? and he that keepeth thy soul, doth [not] he know [it]? and shall [not] he render to [every] man according to his works?
Proverbs 24:13 My son, eat thou honey, because [it is] good; and the honeycomb, [which is] sweet to thy taste:
Proverbs 24:14 So [shall] the knowledge of wisdom [be] unto thy soul: when thou hast found [it], then there shall be a reward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off.
Proverbs 24:15 Lay not wait, O wicked [man], against the dwelling of the righteous; spoil not his resting place:
Proverbs 24:16 For a just [man] falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief.
Proverbs 24:17 Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth:
Proverbs 24:18 Lest the LORD see [it], and it displease him, and he turn away his wrath from him.
Proverbs 24:19 Fret not thyself because of evil [men], neither be thou envious at the wicked;
Proverbs 24:20 For there shall be no reward to the evil [man]; the candle of the wicked shall be put out.
Proverbs 24:21 My son, fear thou the LORD and the king: [and] meddle not with them that are given to change:
Proverbs 24:22 For their calamity shall rise suddenly; and who knoweth the ruin of them both?
Proverbs 24:23 These [things] also [belong] to the wise. [It is] not good to have respect of persons in judgment.
Proverbs 24:24 He that saith unto the wicked, Thou [art] righteous; him shall the people curse, nations shall abhor him:
Proverbs 24:25 But to them that rebuke [him] shall be delight, and a good blessing shall come upon them.
Proverbs 24:26 [Every man] shall kiss [his] lips that giveth a right answer.
Proverbs 24:27 Prepare thy work without, and make it fit for thyself in the field; and afterwards build thine house.
Proverbs 24:28 Be not a witness against thy neighbour without cause; and deceive [not] with thy lips.
Proverbs 24:29 Say not, I will do so to him as he hath done to me: I will render to the man according to his work.
Proverbs 24:30 I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding;
Proverbs 24:31 And, lo, it was all grown over with thorns, [and] nettles had covered the face thereof, and the stone wall thereof was broken down.
Proverbs 24:32 Then I saw, [and] considered [it] well: I looked upon [it, and] received instruction.
Proverbs 24:33 [Yet] a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep:
Proverbs 24:34 So shall thy poverty come [as] one that travelleth; and thy want as an armed man.
Proverbs 25:1 These [are] also proverbs of Solomon, which the men of Hezekiah king of Judah copied out.
Proverbs 25:2 [It is] the glory of God to conceal a thing: but the honour of kings [is] to search out a matter.
Proverbs 25:3 The heaven for height, and the earth for depth, and the heart of kings [is] unsearchable.
Proverbs 25:4 Take away the dross from the silver, and there shall come forth a vessel for the finer.
Proverbs 25:5 Take away the wicked [from] before the king, and his throne shall be established in righteousness.
Proverbs 25:6 Put not forth thyself in the presence of the king, and stand not in the place of great [men]:
Proverbs 25:7 For better [it is] that it be said unto thee, Come up hither; than that thou shouldest be put lower in the presence of the prince whom thine eyes have seen.
Proverbs 25:8 Go not forth hastily to strive, lest [thou know not] what to do in the end thereof, when thy neighbour hath put thee to shame.
Proverbs 25:9 Debate thy cause with thy neighbour [himself]; and discover not a secret to another:
Proverbs 25:10 Lest he that heareth [it] put thee to shame, and thine infamy turn not away.
Proverbs 25:11 A word fitly spoken [is like] apples of gold in pictures of silver.
Proverbs 25:12 [As] an earring of gold, and an ornament of fine gold, [so is] a wise reprover upon an obedient ear.
Proverbs 25:13 As the cold of snow in the time of harvest, [so is] a faithful messenger to them that send him: for he refresheth the soul of his masters.
Proverbs 25:14 Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift [is like] clouds and wind without rain.
Proverbs 25:15 By long forbearing is a prince persuaded, and a soft tongue breaketh the bone.
Proverbs 25:16 Hast thou found honey? eat so much as is sufficient for thee, lest thou be filled therewith, and vomit it.
Proverbs 25:17 Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbour’s house; lest he be weary of thee, and [so] hate thee.
Proverbs 25:18 A man that beareth false witness against his neighbour [is] a maul, and a sword, and a sharp arrow.
Proverbs 25:19 Confidence in an unfaithful man in time of trouble [is like] a broken tooth, and a foot out of joint.
Proverbs 25:20 [As] he that taketh away a garment in cold weather, [and as] vinegar upon nitre, so [is] he that singeth songs to an heavy heart.
Proverbs 25:21 If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink:
Proverbs 25:22 For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the LORD shall reward thee.
Proverbs 25:23 The north wind driveth away rain: so [doth] an angry countenance a backbiting tongue.
Proverbs 25:24 [It is] better to dwell in the corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman and in a wide house.
Proverbs 25:25 [As] cold waters to a thirsty soul, so [is] good news from a far country.
Proverbs 25:26 A righteous man falling down before the wicked [is as] a troubled fountain, and a corrupt spring.
Proverbs 25:27 [It is] not good to eat much honey: so [for men] to search their own glory [is not] glory.
Proverbs 25:28 He that [hath] no rule over his own spirit [is like] a city [that is] broken down, [and] without walls.
Proverbs 26:1 As snow in summer, and as rain in harvest, so honour is not seemly for a fool.
Proverbs 26:2 As the bird by wandering, as the swallow by flying, so the curse causeless shall not come.
Proverbs 26:3 A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool’s back.
Proverbs 26:4 Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be like unto him.
Proverbs 26:5 Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be wise in his own conceit.
Proverbs 26:6 He that sendeth a message by the hand of a fool cutteth off the feet, [and] drinketh damage.
Proverbs 26:7 The legs of the lame are not equal: so [is] a parable in the mouth of fools.
Proverbs 26:8 As he that bindeth a stone in a sling, so [is] he that giveth honour to a fool.
Proverbs 26:9 [As] a thorn goeth up into the hand of a drunkard, so [is] a parable in the mouth of fools.
Proverbs 26:10 The great [God] that formed all [things] both rewardeth the fool, and rewardeth transgressors.
Proverbs 26:11 As a dog returneth to his vomit, [so] a fool returneth to his folly.
Proverbs 26:12 Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? [there is] more hope of a fool than of him.
Proverbs 26:13 The slothful [man] saith, [There is] a lion in the way; a lion [is] in the streets.
Proverbs 26:14 [As] the door turneth upon his hinges, so [doth] the slothful upon his bed.
Proverbs 26:15 The slothful hideth his hand in [his] bosom; it grieveth him to bring it again to his mouth.
Proverbs 26:16 The sluggard [is] wiser in his own conceit than seven men that can render a reason.
Proverbs 26:17 He that passeth by, [and] meddleth with strife [belonging] not to him, [is like] one that taketh a dog by the ears.
Proverbs 26:18 As a mad [man] who casteth firebrands, arrows, and death,
Proverbs 26:19 So [is] the man [that] deceiveth his neighbour, and saith, Am not I in sport?
Proverbs 26:20 Where no wood is, [there] the fire goeth out: so where [there is] no talebearer, the strife ceaseth.
Proverbs 26:21 [As] coals [are] to burning coals, and wood to fire; so [is] a contentious man to kindle strife.
Proverbs 26:22 The words of a talebearer [are] as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly.
Proverbs 26:23 Burning lips and a wicked heart [are like] a potsherd covered with silver dross.
Proverbs 26:24 He that hateth dissembleth with his lips, and layeth up deceit within him;
Proverbs 26:25 When he speaketh fair, believe him not: for [there are] seven abominations in his heart.
Proverbs 26:26 [Whose] hatred is covered by deceit, his wickedness shall be shewed before the [whole] congregation.
Proverbs 26:27 Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.
Proverbs 26:28 A lying tongue hateth [those that are] afflicted by it; and a flattering mouth worketh ruin.
Proverbs 27:1 Boast not thyself of to morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.
Proverbs 27:2 Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips.
Proverbs 27:3 A stone [is] heavy, and the sand weighty; but a fool’s wrath [is] heavier than them both.
Proverbs 27:4 Wrath [is] cruel, and anger [is] outrageous; but who [is] able to stand before envy?
Proverbs 27:5 Open rebuke [is] better than secret love.
Proverbs 27:6 Faithful [are] the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy [are] deceitful.
Proverbs 27:7 The full soul loatheth an honeycomb; but to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet.
Proverbs 27:8 As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so [is] a man that wandereth from his place.
Proverbs 27:9 Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart: so [doth] the sweetness of a man’s friend by hearty counsel.
Proverbs 27:10 Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not; neither go into thy brother’s house in the day of thy calamity: [for] better [is] a neighbour [that is] near than a brother far off.
Proverbs 27:11 My son, be wise, and make my heart glad, that I may answer him that reproacheth me.
Proverbs 27:12 A prudent [man] foreseeth the evil, [and] hideth himself; [but] the simple pass on, [and] are punished.
Proverbs 27:13 Take his garment that is surety for a stranger, and take a pledge of him for a strange woman.
Proverbs 27:14 He that blesseth his friend with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, it shall be counted a curse to him.
Proverbs 27:15 A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike.
Proverbs 27:16 Whosoever hideth her hideth the wind, and the ointment of his right hand, [which] bewrayeth [itself].
Proverbs 27:17 Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.
Proverbs 27:18 Whoso keepeth the fig tree shall eat the fruit thereof: so he that waiteth on his master shall be honoured.
Proverbs 27:19 As in water face [answereth] to face, so the heart of man to man.
Proverbs 27:20 Hell and destruction are never full; so the eyes of man are never satisfied.
Proverbs 27:21 [As] the fining pot for silver, and the furnace for gold; so [is] a man to his praise.
Proverbs 27:22 Though thou shouldest bray a fool in a mortar among wheat with a pestle, [yet] will not his foolishness depart from him.
Proverbs 27:23 Be thou diligent to know the state of thy flocks, [and] look well to thy herds.
Proverbs 27:24 For riches [are] not for ever: and doth the crown [endure] to every generation?
Proverbs 27:25 The hay appeareth, and the tender grass sheweth itself, and herbs of the mountains are gathered.
Proverbs 27:26 The lambs [are] for thy clothing, and the goats [are] the price of the field.
Proverbs 27:27 And [thou shalt have] goats’ milk enough for thy food, for the food of thy household, and [for] the maintenance for thy maidens.
Proverbs 28:1 The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.
Proverbs 28:2 For the transgression of a land many [are] the princes thereof: but by a man of understanding [and] knowledge the state [thereof] shall be prolonged.
Proverbs 28:3 A poor man that oppresseth the poor [is like] a sweeping rain which leaveth no food.
Proverbs 28:4 They that forsake the law praise the wicked: but such as keep the law contend with them.
Proverbs 28:5 Evil men understand not judgment: but they that seek the LORD understand all [things].
Proverbs 28:6 Better [is] the poor that walketh in his uprightness, than [he that is] perverse [in his] ways, though he [be] rich.
Proverbs 28:7 Whoso keepeth the law [is] a wise son: but he that is a companion of riotous [men] shameth his father.
Proverbs 28:8 He that by usury and unjust gain increaseth his substance, he shall gather it for him that will pity the poor.
Proverbs 28:9 He that turneth away his ear from hearing the law, even his prayer [shall be] abomination.
Proverbs 28:10 Whoso causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit: but the upright shall have good [things] in possession.
Proverbs 28:11 The rich man [is] wise in his own conceit; but the poor that hath understanding searcheth him out.
Proverbs 28:12 When righteous [men] do rejoice, [there is] great glory: but when the wicked rise, a man is hidden.
Proverbs 28:13 He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh [them] shall have mercy.
Proverbs 28:14 Happy [is] the man that feareth alway: but he that hardeneth his heart shall fall into mischief.
Proverbs 28:15 [As] a roaring lion, and a ranging bear; [so is] a wicked ruler over the poor people.
Proverbs 28:16 The prince that wanteth understanding [is] also a great oppressor: [but] he that hateth covetousness shall prolong [his] days.
Proverbs 28:17 A man that doeth violence to the blood of [any] person shall flee to the pit; let no man stay him.
Proverbs 28:18 Whoso walketh uprightly shall be saved: but [he that is] perverse [in his] ways shall fall at once.
Proverbs 28:19 He that tilleth his land shall have plenty of bread: but he that followeth after vain [persons] shall have poverty enough.
Proverbs 28:20 A faithful man shall abound with blessings: but he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.
Proverbs 28:21 To have respect of persons [is] not good: for for a piece of bread [that] man will transgress.
Proverbs 28:22 He that hasteth to be rich [hath] an evil eye, and considereth not that poverty shall come upon him.
Proverbs 28:23 He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find more favour than he that flattereth with the tongue.
Proverbs 28:24 Whoso robbeth his father or his mother, and saith, [It is] no transgression; the same [is] the companion of a destroyer.
Proverbs 28:25 He that is of a proud heart stirreth up strife: but he that putteth his trust in the LORD shall be made fat.
Proverbs 28:26 He that trusteth in his own heart is a fool: but whoso walketh wisely, he shall be delivered.
Proverbs 28:27 He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack: but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a curse.
Proverbs 28:28 When the wicked rise, men hide themselves: but when they perish, the righteous increase.
Proverbs 29:1 He, that being often reproved hardeneth [his] neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy.
Proverbs 29:2 When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice: but when the wicked beareth rule, the people mourn.
Proverbs 29:3 Whoso loveth wisdom rejoiceth his father: but he that keepeth company with harlots spendeth [his] substance.
Proverbs 29:4 The king by judgment establisheth the land: but he that receiveth gifts overthroweth it.
Proverbs 29:5 A man that flattereth his neighbour spreadeth a net for his feet.
Proverbs 29:6 In the transgression of an evil man [there is] a snare: but the righteous doth sing and rejoice.
Proverbs 29:7 The righteous considereth the cause of the poor: [but] the wicked regardeth not to know [it].
Proverbs 29:8 Scornful men bring a city into a snare: but wise [men] turn away wrath.
Proverbs 29:9 [If] a wise man contendeth with a foolish man, whether he rage or laugh, [there is] no rest.
Proverbs 29:10 The bloodthirsty hate the upright: but the just seek his soul.
Proverbs 29:11 A fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise [man] keepeth it in till afterwards.
Proverbs 29:12 If a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants [are] wicked.
Proverbs 29:13 The poor and the deceitful man meet together: the LORD lighteneth both their eyes.
Proverbs 29:14 The king that faithfully judgeth the poor, his throne shall be established for ever.
Proverbs 29:15 The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left [to himself] bringeth his mother to shame.
Proverbs 29:16 When the wicked are multiplied, transgression increaseth: but the righteous shall see their fall.
Proverbs 29:17 Correct thy son, and he shall give thee rest; yea, he shall give delight unto thy soul.
Proverbs 29:18 Where [there is] no vision, the people perish: but he that keepeth the law, happy [is] he.
Proverbs 29:19 A servant will not be corrected by words: for though he understand he will not answer.
Proverbs 29:20 Seest thou a man [that is] hasty in his words? [there is] more hope of a fool than of him.
Proverbs 29:21 He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become [his] son at the length.
Proverbs 29:22 An angry man stirreth up strife, and a furious man aboundeth in transgression.
Proverbs 29:23 A man’s pride shall bring him low: but honour shall uphold the humble in spirit.
Proverbs 29:24 Whoso is partner with a thief hateth his own soul: he heareth cursing, and bewrayeth [it] not.
Proverbs 29:25 The fear of man bringeth a snare: but whoso putteth his trust in the LORD shall be safe.
Proverbs 29:26 Many seek the ruler’s favour; but [every] man’s judgment [cometh] from the LORD.
Proverbs 29:27 An unjust man [is] an abomination to the just: and [he that is] upright in the way [is] abomination to the wicked.
Proverbs 30:1 The words of Agur the son of Jakeh, [even] the prophecy: the man spake unto Ithiel, even unto Ithiel and Ucal,
Proverbs 30:2 Surely I [am] more brutish than [any] man, and have not the understanding of a man.
Proverbs 30:3 I neither learned wisdom, nor have the knowledge of the holy.
Proverbs 30:4 Who hath ascended up into heaven, or descended? who hath gathered the wind in his fists? who hath bound the waters in a garment? who hath established all the ends of the earth? what [is] his name, and what [is] his son’s name, if thou canst tell?
Proverbs 30:5 Every word of God [is] pure: he [is] a shield unto them that put their trust in him.
Proverbs 30:6 Add thou not unto his words, lest he reprove thee, and thou be found a liar.
Proverbs 30:7 Two [things] have I required of thee; deny me [them] not before I die:
Proverbs 30:8 Remove far from me vanity and lies: give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me:
Proverbs 30:9 Lest I be full, and deny [thee], and say, Who [is] the LORD? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name of my God [in vain].
Proverbs 30:10 Accuse not a servant unto his master, lest he curse thee, and thou be found guilty.
Proverbs 30:11 [There is] a generation [that] curseth their father, and doth not bless their mother.
Proverbs 30:12 [There is] a generation [that are] pure in their own eyes, and [yet] is not washed from their filthiness.
Proverbs 30:13 [There is] a generation, O how lofty are their eyes! and their eyelids are lifted up.
Proverbs 30:14 [There is] a generation, whose teeth [are as] swords, and their jaw teeth [as] knives, to devour the poor from off the earth, and the needy from [among] men.
Proverbs 30:15 The horseleach hath two daughters, [crying], Give, give. There are three [things that] are never satisfied, [yea], four [things] say not, [It is] enough:
Proverbs 30:16 The grave; and the barren womb; the earth [that] is not filled with water; and the fire [that] saith not, [It is] enough.
Proverbs 30:17 The eye [that] mocketh at [his] father, and despiseth to obey [his] mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.
Proverbs 30:18 There be three [things which] are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not:
Proverbs 30:19 The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.
Proverbs 30:20 Such [is] the way of an adulterous woman; she eateth, and wipeth her mouth, and saith, I have done no wickedness.
Proverbs 30:21 For three [things] the earth is disquieted, and for four [which] it cannot bear:
Proverbs 30:22 For a servant when he reigneth; and a fool when he is filled with meat;
Proverbs 30:23 For an odious [woman] when she is married; and an handmaid that is heir to her mistress.
Proverbs 30:24 There be four [things which are] little upon the earth, but they [are] exceeding wise:
Proverbs 30:25 The ants [are] a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the summer;
Proverbs 30:26 The conies [are but] a feeble folk, yet make they their houses in the rocks;
Proverbs 30:27 The locusts have no king, yet go they forth all of them by bands;
Proverbs 30:28 The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings’ palaces.
Proverbs 30:29 There be three [things] which go well, yea, four are comely in going:
Proverbs 30:30 A lion [which is] strongest among beasts, and turneth not away for any;
Proverbs 30:31 A greyhound; an he goat also; and a king, against whom [there is] no rising up.
Proverbs 30:32 If thou hast done foolishly in lifting up thyself, or if thou hast thought evil, [lay] thine hand upon thy mouth.
Proverbs 30:33 Surely the churning of milk bringeth forth butter, and the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood: so the forcing of wrath bringeth forth strife.
Proverbs 31:1 The words of king Lemuel, the prophecy that his mother taught him.
Proverbs 31:2 What, my son? and what, the son of my womb? and what, the son of my vows?
Proverbs 31:3 Give not thy strength unto women, nor thy ways to that which destroyeth kings.
Proverbs 31:4 [It is] not for kings, O Lemuel, [it is] not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink:
Proverbs 31:5 Lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgment of any of the afflicted.
Proverbs 31:6 Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.
Proverbs 31:7 Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.
Proverbs 31:8 Open thy mouth for the dumb in the cause of all such as are appointed to destruction.
Proverbs 31:9 Open thy mouth, judge righteously, and plead the cause of the poor and needy.
Proverbs 31:10 Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price [is] far above rubies.
Proverbs 31:11 The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.
Proverbs 31:12 She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.
Proverbs 31:13 She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.
Proverbs 31:14 She is like the merchants’ ships; she bringeth her food from afar.
Proverbs 31:15 She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.
Proverbs 31:16 She considereth a field, and buyeth it: with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.
Proverbs 31:17 She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms.
Proverbs 31:18 She perceiveth that her merchandise [is] good: her candle goeth not out by night.
Proverbs 31:19 She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff.
Proverbs 31:20 She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.
Proverbs 31:21 She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household [are] clothed with scarlet.
Proverbs 31:22 She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing [is] silk and purple.
Proverbs 31:23 Her husband is known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders of the land.
Proverbs 31:24 She maketh fine linen, and selleth [it]; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant.
Proverbs 31:25 Strength and honour [are] her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.
Proverbs 31:26 She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue [is] the law of kindness.
Proverbs 31:27 She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.
Proverbs 31:28 Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband [also], and he praiseth her.
Proverbs 31:29 Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.
Proverbs 31:30 Favour [is] deceitful, and beauty [is] vain: [but] a woman [that] feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.
Proverbs 31:31 Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.#18,941,151textThe Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Chapter 1
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice
that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just
remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages
that you've had."
He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative
in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more
than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments,
a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also
made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind
is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it
appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I
was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the
secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were
unsought--frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile
levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate
revelation was quivering on the horizon--for the intimate revelations
of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are
usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving
judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of
missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested,
and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is
parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission
that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet
marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on.
When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the
world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I
wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the
human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was
exempt from my reaction--Gatsby who represented everything for which I
have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of
successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some
heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related
to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten
thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that
flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the
"creative temperament"--it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic
readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it
is not likely I shall ever find again. No--Gatsby turned out all right
at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the
wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the
abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western
city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we
have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the
actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in
fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale
hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him--with
special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in
Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a
century after my father, and a little later I participated in that
delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the
counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being
the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the
ragged edge of the universe--so I decided to go east and learn the bond
business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it
could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it
over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said,
"Why--ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance
me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I
thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm
season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees,
so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house
together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found
the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but
at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out
to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days
until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed
and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the
electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently
arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a
pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the
freedom of the neighborhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the
trees--just as things grow in fast movies--I had that familiar
conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be
pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen
volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood
on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to
unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas
knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides.
I was rather literary in college--one year I wrote a series of very
solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"--and now I was going
to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most
limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an
epigram--life is much more successfully looked at from a single window,
after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of
the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender
riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where
there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of
land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in
contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most
domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great
wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals--like the
egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact
end--but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual
confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more
arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except
shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the--well, the less fashionable of the two, though
this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little
sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the
egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge
places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on
my right was a colossal affair by any standard--it was a factual
imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side,
spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool
and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion.
Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by
a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a
small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the
water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling
proximity of millionaires--all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg
glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins
on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom
Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom
in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in
Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of
the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven--a
national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute
limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of
anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy--even in college his
freedom with money was a matter for reproach--but now he'd left Chicago
and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for
instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest.
It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy
enough to do that.
Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no
particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever
people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move,
said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it--I had no sight
into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking
a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable
football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East
Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was
even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian
Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach
and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over
sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens--finally when it reached
the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the
momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows,
glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy
afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his
legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired
man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner.
Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and
gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not
even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous
power of that body--he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he
strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle
shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body
capable of enormous leverage--a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of
fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in
it, even toward people he liked--and there were men at New Haven who had
hated his guts.
"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to
say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We
were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I
always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like
him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about
restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the
front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half
acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped
the tide off shore.
"It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again,
politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space,
fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end.
The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass
outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze
blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other
like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of
the ceiling--and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a
shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch
on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored
balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and
fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight
around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the
whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall.
Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught
wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two
young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length
at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised
a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely
to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of
it--indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having
disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise--she leaned slightly
forward with a conscientious expression--then she laughed, an absurd,
charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the
room.
"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness."
She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand
for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one
in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had.
She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker.
(I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people
lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost
imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again--the object
she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something
of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any
exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low,
thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and
down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be
played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it,
bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth--but there was an excitement
in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget:
a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done
gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay,
exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east
and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.
"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel
painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all
night along the North Shore."
"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added
irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby."
"I'd like to."
"She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"
"Never."
"Well, you ought to see her. She's----"
Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped
and rested his hand on my shoulder.
"What you doing, Nick?"
"I'm a bond man."
"Who with?"
I told him.
"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."
"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at
Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.
"I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else."
At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I
started--it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room.
Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and
with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long
as I can remember."
"Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New
York all afternoon."
"No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the
pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."
Her host looked at her incredulously.
"You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of
a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."
I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed
looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect
carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the
shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at
me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented
face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her,
somewhere before.
"You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody
there."
"I don't know a single----"
"You must know Gatsby."
"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"
Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced;
wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled
me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two
young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the
sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished
wind.
"Why CANDLES?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her
fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year."
She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day
of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the
year and then miss it."
"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the
table as if she were getting into bed.
"All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly.
"What do people plan?"
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her
little finger.
"Look!" she complained. "I hurt it."
We all looked--the knuckle was black and blue.
"You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to
but you DID do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man,
a great big hulking physical specimen of a----"
"I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding."
"Hulking," insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a
bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool
as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all
desire. They were here--and they accepted Tom and me, making only a
polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew
that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too
would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the
West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its
close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer
nervous dread of the moment itself.
"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass
of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or
something?"
I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an
unexpected way.
"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently.
"I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read
'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"
"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if
we don't look out the white race will be--will be utterly submerged.
It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."
"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of
unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them.
What was that word we----"
"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her
impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us
who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have
control of things."
"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously
toward the fervent sun.
"You ought to live in California--" began Miss Baker but Tom
interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are
and----" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a
slight nod and she winked at me again. "--and we've produced all the
things that go to make civilization--oh, science and art and all that.
Do you see?"
There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency,
more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost
immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy
seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.
"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's
about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"
"That's why I came over tonight."
"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for
some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people.
He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to
affect his nose----"
"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker.
"Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up
his position."
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon
her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as
I listened--then the glow faded, each light deserting her with
lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear
whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went
inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned
forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a--of a rose, an
absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation.
"An absolute rose?"
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only
extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her
heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those
breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the
table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of
meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in
a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room
beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The
murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted
excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor----" I said.
"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."
"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.
"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised.
"I thought everybody knew."
"I don't."
"Why----" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."
"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't
you think?"
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of
a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back
at the table.
"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and
continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic
outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale
come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away----" her
voice sang "----It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"
"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough
after dinner I want to take you down to the stables."
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her
head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all
subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the
last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again,
pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every
one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom
were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have
mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth
guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament
the situation might have seemed intriguing--my own instinct was to
telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss
Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into
the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while
trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed
Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In
its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and
her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent
emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some
sedative questions about her little girl.
"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly.
"Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."
"I wasn't back from the war."
"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick,
and I'm pretty cynical about everything."
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more,
and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her
daughter.
"I suppose she talks, and--eats, and everything."
"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what
I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"
"Very much."
"It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about--things. Well, she was less
than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether
with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it
was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head
away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope
she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world,
a beautiful little fool."
"You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a
convinced way. "Everybody thinks so--the most advanced people. And I KNOW.
I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything."
Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she
laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated--God, I'm sophisticated!"
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention,
my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said.
It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick
of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited,
and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk
on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather
distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker
sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from
the "Saturday Evening Post"--the words, murmurous and
uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light,
bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair,
glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender
muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
"To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table, "in our
very next issue."
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she
stood up.
"Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the
ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed."
"Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy,
"over at Westchester."
"Oh,--you're JORdan Baker."
I knew now why her face was familiar--its pleasing contemptuous
expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of
the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I
had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story,
but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
"Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you."
"If you'll get up."
"I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon."
"Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange
a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of--oh--fling you
together. You know--lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push
you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing----"
"Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word."
"She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her
run around the country this way."
"Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly.
"Her family."
"Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's
going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of
week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very
good for her."
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
"Is she from New York?" I asked quickly.
"From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our
beautiful white----"
"Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?"
demanded Tom suddenly.
"Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think
we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of
crept up on us and first thing you know----"
"Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later
I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by
side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy
peremptorily called "Wait!
"I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were
engaged to a girl out West."
"That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were
engaged."
"It's libel. I'm too poor."
"But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in
a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true."
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely
engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the
reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on
account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being
rumored into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely
rich--nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove
away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of
the house, child in arms--but apparently there were no such intentions
in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York"
was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book.
Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his
sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside
garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I
reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for
a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown
off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and
a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the
frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the
moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not
alone--fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my
neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets
regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely
movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested
that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was
his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and
that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave
a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone--he stretched out his
arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him
I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward--and
distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away,
that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby
he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
Chapter 2
About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily
joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to
shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of
ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and
hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and
chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of
men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.
Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives
out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey
men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud
which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift
endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T.
J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and
gigantic--their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but,
instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a
nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself
into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes,
dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over
the solemn dumping ground.
The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and
when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on
waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an
hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was
because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress.
The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His
acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular
restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about,
chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I
had no desire to meet her--but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on
the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped
to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the
car.
"We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl."
I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to
have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that
on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.
I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked
back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent
stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick
sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street
ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the
three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night
restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a
garage--Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold--and I followed
Tom inside.
The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the
dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had
occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that
sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the
proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands
on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and
faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his
light blue eyes.
"Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the
shoulder. "How's business?"
"I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going
to sell me that car?"
"Next week; I've got my man working on it now."
"Works pretty slow, don't he?"
"No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it,
maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all."
"I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant----"
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then
I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a
woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle
thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously
as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue
crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an
immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body
were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her
husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in
the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her
husband in a soft, coarse voice:
"Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down."
"Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office,
mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen
dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in
the vicinity--except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
"I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train."
"All right."
"I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level."
She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson
emerged with two chairs from his office door.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before
the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting
torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.
"Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor
Eckleburg.
"Awful."
"It does her good to get away."
"Doesn't her husband object?"
"Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb
he doesn't know he's alive."
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York--or not
quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom
deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be
on the train.
She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched
tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in
New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a
moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream
and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive
she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one,
lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the
mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she
turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the
front glass.
"I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one
for the apartment. They're nice to have--a dog."
We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John
D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very
recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
"What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the
taxi-window.
"All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?"
"I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that
kind?"
The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew
one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.
"That's no police dog," said Tom.
"No, it's not exactly a polICE dog," said the man with disappointment
in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the
brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog
that'll never bother you with catching cold."
"I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?"
"That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten
dollars."
The airedale--undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere
though its feet were startlingly white--changed hands and settled down
into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with
rapture.
"Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately.
"That dog? That dog's a boy."
"It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten
more dogs with it."
We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the
summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great
flock of white sheep turn the corner.
"Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here."
"No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't
come up to the apartment. Won't you,
Myrtle?"
"Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to
be very beautiful by people who ought to know."
"Well, I'd like to, but----"
We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds.
At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of
apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the
neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases
and went haughtily in.
"I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the
elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too."
The apartment was on the top floor--a small living room, a small
dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to
the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it
so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of
ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was
an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred
rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself
into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down
into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle "lay on the table
together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small
scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with
the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and
some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large
hard dog biscuits--one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer
of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey
from a locked bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that
afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it
although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful
sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the
telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at
the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so
I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon
Called Peter"--either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted
things because it didn't make any sense to me.
Just as Tom and Myrtle--after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called
each other by our first names--reappeared, company commenced to arrive
at the apartment door.
The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty
with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky
white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more
rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the
old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about
there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets
jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary
haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered
if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated
my question aloud and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.
Mr. McKee was a pale feminine man from the flat below. He had just
shaved for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone and he
was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He
informed me that he was in the "artistic game" and I gathered later
that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of Mrs.
Wilson's mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife
was shrill, languid, handsome and horrible. She told me with pride
that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times
since they had been married.
Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before and was now
attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream colored chiffon, which
gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room.
With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a
change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage
was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her
assertions became more violently affected moment by moment and as she
expanded the room grew smaller around her until she seemed to be
revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.
"My dear," she told her sister in a high mincing shout, "most of these
fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a
woman up here last week to look at my feet and when she gave me the
bill you'd of thought she had my appendicitus out."
"What was the name of the woman?" asked Mrs. McKee.
"Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people's feet in their own
homes."
"I like your dress," remarked Mrs. McKee, "I think it's adorable."
Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain.
"It's just a crazy old thing," she said. "I just slip it on sometimes when
I don't care what I look like."
"But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean," pursued
Mrs. McKee. "If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could
make something of it."
We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson who removed a strand of hair from
over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr. McKee
regarded her intently with his head on one side and then moved his hand
back and forth slowly in front of his face.
"I should change the light," he said after a moment. "I'd like to bring
out the modelling of the features. And I'd try to get hold of all the
back hair."
"I wouldn't think of changing the light," cried Mrs. McKee. "I think
it's----"
Her husband said "SH!" and we all looked at the subject again whereupon
Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet.
"You McKees have something to drink," he said. "Get some more ice and
mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep."
"I told that boy about the ice." Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair
at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. "These people! You have to keep
after them all the time."
She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the
dog, kissed it with ecstasy and swept into the kitchen, implying that
a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
"I've done some nice things out on Long Island," asserted Mr. McKee.
Tom looked at him blankly.
"Two of them we have framed downstairs."
"Two what?" demanded Tom.
"Two studies. One of them I call 'Montauk Point--the Gulls,' and the
other I call 'Montauk Point--the Sea.' "
The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.
"Do you live down on Long Island, too?" she inquired.
"I live at West Egg."
"Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named
Gatsby's. Do you know him?"
"I live next door to him."
"Well, they say he's a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm's. That's
where all his money comes from."
"Really?"
She nodded.
"I'm scared of him. I'd hate to have him get anything on me."
This absorbing information about my neighbor was interrupted by
Mrs. McKee's pointing suddenly at Catherine:
"Chester, I think you could do something with HER," she broke out,
but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way and turned his attention
to Tom.
"I'd like to do more work on Long Island if I could get the entry. All
I ask is that they should give me a start."
"Ask Myrtle," said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as
Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. "She'll give you a letter of
introduction, won't you, Myrtle?"
"Do what?" she asked, startled.
"You'll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can
do some studies of him." His lips moved silently for a moment as he
invented. " 'George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,' or something like
that."
Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: "Neither of them
can stand the person they're married to."
"Can't they?"
"Can't STAND them." She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. "What I say is,
why go on living with them if they can't stand them? If I was them I'd get
a divorce and get married to each other right away."
"Doesn't she like Wilson either?"
The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle who had overheard
the question and it was violent and obscene.
"You see?" cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again.
"It's really his wife that's keeping them apart. She's a Catholic and
they don't believe in divorce."
Daisy was not a Catholic and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness
of the lie.
"When they do get married," continued Catherine, "they're going west to
live for a while until it blows over."
"It'd be more discreet to go to Europe."
"Oh, do you like Europe?" she exclaimed surprisingly. "I just got back
from Monte Carlo."
"Really."
"Just last year. I went over there with another girl."
"Stay long?"
"No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles.
We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started but we got gypped
out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time
getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!"
The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue
honey of the Mediterranean--then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me
back into the room.
"I almost made a mistake, too," she declared vigorously. "I almost
married a little kyke who'd been after me for years. I knew he was
below me. Everybody kept saying to me: 'Lucille, that man's way below
you!' But if I hadn't met Chester, he'd of got me sure."
"Yes, but listen," said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down,
"at least you didn't marry him."
"I know I didn't."
"Well, I married him," said Myrtle, ambiguously. "And that's the
difference between your case and mine."
"Why did you, Myrtle?" demanded Catherine. "Nobody forced you to."
Myrtle considered.
"I married him because I thought he was a gentleman," she said finally.
"I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn't fit to lick
my shoe."
"You were crazy about him for a while," said Catherine.
"Crazy about him!" cried Myrtle incredulously. "Who said I was crazy about
him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man
there."
She pointed suddenly at me, and every one looked at me accusingly.
I tried to show by my expression that I had played no part in her past.
"The only CRAZY I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a
mistake. He borrowed somebody's best suit to get married in and never
even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out.
She looked around to see who was listening: " 'Oh, is that your suit?' I
said.
'This is the first I ever heard about it.' But I gave it to him and then I
lay down
and cried to beat the band all afternoon."
"She really ought to get away from him," resumed Catherine to me.
"They've been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom's the
first sweetie she ever had."
The bottle of whiskey--a second one--was now in constant demand by all
present, excepting Catherine who "felt just as good on nothing at all."
Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches,
which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk
eastward toward the park through the soft twilight but each time I tried
to go I became entangled in some wild strident argument which pulled me
back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of
yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the
casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and
wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled
by the inexhaustible variety of life.
Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath
poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.
"It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the
last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my
sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather
shoes and I couldn't keep my eyes off him but every time he looked at
me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head.
When we came into the station he was next to me and his white
shirt-front pressed against my arm--and so I told him I'd have to call
a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into
a taxi with him I didn't hardly know I wasn't getting into a subway
train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was 'You can't live
forever, you can't live forever.' "
She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial
laughter.
"My dear," she cried, "I'm going to give you this dress as soon as I'm
through with it. I've got to get another one tomorrow. I'm going to
make a list of all the things I've got to get. A massage and a wave
and a collar for the dog and one of those cute little ash-trays where
you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother's
grave that'll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won't
forget all the things I got to do."
It was nine o'clock--almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch
and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists
clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my
handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the remains of the spot of dried
lather that had worried me all the afternoon.
The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through
the smoke and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared,
reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other,
searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time
toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face
discussing in impassioned voices whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to
mention Daisy's name.
"Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!" shouted Mrs. Wilson. "I'll say it whenever I want
to! Daisy! Dai----"
Making a short deft movement Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his
open hand.
Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women's
voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of
pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door.
When he had gone half way he turned around and stared at the scene--his
wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and
there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the
despairing figure on the couch bleeding fluently and trying to spread
a copy of "Town Tattle" over the tapestry scenes of Versailles.
Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from
the chandelier I followed.
"Come to lunch some day," he suggested, as we groaned down in the
elevator.
"Where?"
"Anywhere."
"Keep your hands off the lever," snapped the elevator boy.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. McKee with dignity, "I didn't know I was
touching it."
"All right," I agreed, "I'll be glad to."
. . . I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the
sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.
"Beauty and the Beast . . . Loneliness . . . Old Grocery Horse . . .
Brook'n Bridge . . . ."
Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania
Station, staring at the morning "Tribune" and waiting for the four
o'clock train.
Chapter 3
There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In
his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the
whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the
afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft or
taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats
slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of
foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties
to and from the city, between nine in the morning and long past
midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to
meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants including an extra
gardener toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers
and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.
Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer
in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back
door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the
kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an
hour, if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's
thumb.
At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several
hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas
tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with
glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of
harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold.
In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked
with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of
his female guests were too young to know one from another.
By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived--no thin five-piece affair
but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and
cornets and piccolos and low and high drums. The last swimmers have
come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from
New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and
salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair shorn in
strange new ways and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The
bar is in full swing and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the
garden outside until the air is alive with chatter and laughter and
casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot and
enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names.
The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun and
now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music and the opera of
voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier, minute by minute,
spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups
change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the
same breath--already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave
here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp,
joyous moment the center of a group and then excited with triumph
glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the
constantly changing light.
Suddenly one of these gypsies in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out
of the air, dumps it down for courage and moving her hands like
Frisco dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the
orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her and there is a
burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda
Gray's understudy from the "Follies." The party has begun.
I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house I was one of
the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not
invited--they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out
to Long Island and somehow they ended up at Gatsby's door. Once there
they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby and after that they
conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with
amusement parks. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby
at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own
ticket of admission.
I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin's egg
blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly
formal note from his employer--the honor would be entirely Gatsby's, it
said, if I would attend his "little party" that night. He had
seen me several times and had intended to call on me long before
but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it--signed
Jay Gatsby in a majestic hand.
Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after
seven and wandered around rather ill-at-ease among swirls and eddies
of people I didn't know--though here and there was a face I had noticed
on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young
Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry
and all talking in low earnest voices to solid and prosperous
Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or
insurance or automobiles. They were, at least, agonizingly aware of the
easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few
words in the right key.
As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host but the two or
three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an
amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements
that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table--the only place
in the garden where a single man could linger without looking
purposeless and alone.
I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when
Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble
steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest
down into the garden.
Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone
before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by.
"Hello!" I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally
loud across the garden.
"I thought you might be here," she responded absently as I came up.
"I remembered you lived next door to----"
She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she'd take care
of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses
who stopped at the foot of the steps.
"Hello!" they cried together. "Sorry you didn't win."
That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week
before.
"You don't know who we are," said one of the girls in yellow, "but we
met you here about a month ago."
"You've dyed your hair since then," remarked Jordan, and I started
but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the
premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer's
basket. With Jordan's slender golden arm resting in mine we descended
the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at
us through the twilight and we sat down at a table with the two girls in
yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble.
"Do you come to these parties often?" inquired Jordan of the girl
beside her.
"The last one was the one I met you at," answered the girl, in an alert,
confident voice. She turned to her companion: "Wasn't it for you,
Lucille?"
It was for Lucille, too.
"I like to come," Lucille said. "I never care what I do, so I always have
a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked
me my name and address--inside of a week I got a package from Croirier's
with a new evening gown in it."
"Did you keep it?" asked Jordan.
"Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the
bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two
hundred and sixty-five dollars."
"There's something funny about a fellow that'll do a thing like that,"
said the other girl eagerly. "He doesn't want any trouble with ANYbody."
"Who doesn't?" I inquired.
"Gatsby. Somebody told me----"
The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
"Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once."
A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and
listened eagerly.
"I don't think it's so much THAT," argued Lucille skeptically; "it's
more that he was a German spy during the war."
One of the men nodded in confirmation.
"I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in
Germany," he assured us positively.
"Oh, no," said the first girl, "it couldn't be that, because he was in
the American army during the war." As our credulity switched back to
her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. "You look at him sometimes when
he thinks nobody's looking at him. I'll bet he killed a man."
She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and
looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he
inspired that there were whispers about him from those who found little
that it was necessary to whisper about in this world.
The first supper--there would be another one after midnight--was now
being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party who were
spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were
three married couples and Jordan's escort, a persistent undergraduate
given to violent innuendo and obviously under the impression
that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person
to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling this party
had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the
function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside--East
Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully on guard against its
spectroscopic gayety.
"Let's get out," whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and
inappropriate half hour. "This is much too polite for me."
We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host--I
had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The
undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.
The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded but Gatsby was not there.
She couldn't find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn't on the
veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked
into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and
probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.
A stout, middle-aged man with enormous owl-eyed spectacles was
sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with
unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he
wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
"What do you think?" he demanded impetuously.
"About what?"
He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
"About that. As a matter of fact you needn't bother to ascertain. I
ascertained. They're real."
"The books?"
He nodded.
"Absolutely real--have pages and everything. I thought they'd be a nice
durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they're absolutely real. Pages
and--Here! Lemme show you."
Taking our skepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and
returned with Volume One of the "Stoddard Lectures."
"See!" he cried triumphantly. "It's a bona fide piece of printed matter.
It fooled me. This fella's a regular Belasco. It's a triumph. What
thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop too--didn't cut the pages.
But what do you want? What do you expect?"
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf
muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable
to collapse.
"Who brought you?" he demanded. "Or did you just come? I was brought.
Most people were brought."
Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully without answering.
"I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt," he continued. "Mrs. Claud
Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I've
been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me
up to sit in a library."
"Has it?"
"A little bit, I think. I can't tell yet. I've only been here
an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They're real. They're----"
"You told us."
We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.
There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden, old men pushing
young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples
holding each other tortuously, fashionably and keeping in the
corners--and a great number of single girls dancing individualistically
or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or
the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had
sung in Italian and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz and between
the numbers people were doing "stunts" all over the garden, while happy
vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage
"twins"--who turned out to be the girls in yellow--did a baby act in
costume and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger bowls.
The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of
silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the
banjoes on the lawn.
I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of
about my age and a rowdy little girl who gave way upon the slightest
provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I
had taken two finger bowls of champagne and the scene had changed
before my eyes into something significant, elemental and profound.
At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled.
"Your face is familiar," he said, politely. "Weren't you in the Third
Division during the war?"
"Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion."
"I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I'd
seen you somewhere before."
We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France.
Evidently he lived in this vicinity for he told me that he had just
bought a hydroplane and was going to try it out in the morning.
"Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound."
"What time?"
"Any time that suits you best."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around
and smiled.
"Having a gay time now?" she inquired.
"Much better." I turned again to my new acquaintance. "This is an unusual
party for me. I haven't even seen the host. I live over there----" I waved
my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, "and this man Gatsby sent
over his chauffeur with an invitation."
For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.
"I'm Gatsby," he said suddenly.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Oh, I beg your pardon."
"I thought you knew, old sport. I'm afraid I'm not a very good host."
He smiled understandingly--much more than understandingly. It was
one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance
in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or
seemed to face--the whole external world for an instant, and then
concentrated on YOU with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It
understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in
you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it
had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to
convey. Precisely at that point it vanished--and I was looking at an
elegant young rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate
formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he
introduced himself I'd got a strong impression that he was picking his
words with care.
Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler
hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on
the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us
in turn.
"If you want anything just ask for it, old sport," he urged me.
"Excuse me. I will rejoin you later."
When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan--constrained to assure her
of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and
corpulent person in his middle years.
"Who is he?" I demanded. "Do you know?"
"He's just a man named Gatsby."
"Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?"
"Now YOU're started on the subject," she answered with a wan smile.
"Well,--he told me once he was an Oxford man."
A dim background started to take shape behind him but at her
next remark it faded away.
"However, I don't believe it."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," she insisted, "I just don't think he went there."
Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl's "I think
he killed a man," and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I
would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang
from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York.
That was comprehensible. But young men didn't--at least in my provincial
inexperience I believed they didn't--drift coolly out of nowhere and buy
a palace on Long Island Sound.
"Anyhow he gives large parties," said Jordan, changing the subject
with an urbane distaste for the concrete. "And I like large parties.
They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy."
There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra leader
rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried. "At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are
going to play for you Mr. Vladimir Tostoff's latest work which attracted
so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the papers
you know there was a big sensation." He smiled with jovial condescension
and added "Some sensation!" whereupon everybody laughed.
"The piece is known," he concluded lustily, "as 'Vladimir Tostoff's
Jazz History of the World.' "
The nature of Mr. Tostoff's composition eluded me, because just as
it began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps
and looking from one group to another with approving eyes.
His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and
his short hair looked as though it were trimmed every day. I could
see nothing sinister about him. I wondered if the fact that he was
not drinking helped to set him off from his guests, for it seemed
to me that he grew more correct as the fraternal hilarity increased.
When the "Jazz History of the World" was over girls were putting
their heads on men's shoulders in a puppyish, convivial way, girls were
swooning backward playfully into men's arms, even into groups knowing
that some one would arrest their falls--but no one swooned backward on
Gatsby and no French bob touched Gatsby's shoulder and no singing
quartets were formed with Gatsby's head for one link.
"I beg your pardon."
Gatsby's butler was suddenly standing beside us.
"Miss Baker?" he inquired. "I beg your pardon but Mr. Gatsby would like
to speak to you alone."
"With me?" she exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, madame."
She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment,
and followed the butler toward the house. I noticed that she wore
her evening dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes--there
was a jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to
walk upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.
I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and
intriguing sounds had issued from a long many-windowed room which
overhung the terrace. Eluding Jordan's undergraduate who was now
engaged in an obstetrical conversation with two chorus girls, and who
implored me to join him, I went inside.
The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was
playing the piano and beside her stood a tall, red haired young lady
from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of
champagne and during the course of her song she had decided ineptly
that everything was very very sad--she was not only singing, she was
weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with
gasping broken sobs and then took up the lyric again in a quavering
soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks--not freely, however, for when
they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed an
inky color, and pursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets. A
humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes on her face
whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair and went off into
a deep vinous sleep.
"She had a fight with a man who says he's her husband," explained a
girl at my elbow.
I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights
with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan's party, the quartet
from East Egg, were rent asunder by dissension. One of the men was
talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife after
attempting to laugh at the situation in a dignified and indifferent
way broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks--at intervals she
appeared suddenly at his side like an angry diamond, and hissed "You
promised!" into his ear.
The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men. The hall was at
present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly indignant
wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in slightly raised
voices.
"Whenever he sees I'm having a good time he wants to go home."
"Never heard anything so selfish in my life."
"We're always the first ones to leave."
"So are we."
"Well, we're almost the last tonight," said one of the men sheepishly.
"The orchestra left half an hour ago."
In spite of the wives' agreement that such malevolence was beyond
credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives were
lifted kicking into the night.
As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and
Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last word
to her but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into
formality as several people approached him to say goodbye.
Jordan's party were calling impatiently to her from the porch but she
lingered for a moment to shake hands.
"I've just heard the most amazing thing," she whispered. "How long were
we in there?"
"Why,--about an hour."
"It was--simply amazing," she repeated abstractedly. "But I swore
I wouldn't tell it and here I am tantalizing you." She yawned
gracefully in my face. "Please come and see me. . . . Phone book.
. . . Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard. . . . My aunt. . . ."
She was hurrying off as she talked--her brown hand waved a
jaunty salute as she melted into her party at the door.
Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I had stayed so late, I
joined the last of Gatsby's guests who were clustered around him. I
wanted to explain that I'd hunted for him early in the evening and to
apologize for not having known him in the garden.
"Don't mention it," he enjoined me eagerly. "Don't give it another
thought, old sport." The familiar expression held no more familiarity
than the hand which reassuringly brushed my shoulder. "And don't forget
we're going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."
Then the butler, behind his shoulder:
"Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir."
"All right, in a minute. Tell them I'll be right there. . . . good
night."
"Good night."
"Good night." He smiled--and suddenly there seemed to be a pleasant
significance in having been among the last to go, as if he had desired
it all the time. "Good night, old sport. . . . Good night."
But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite over.
Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre and
tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side up but
violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupé which had left Gatsby's
drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall accounted for the
detachment of the wheel which was now getting considerable attention from
half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, as they had left their cars
blocking the road a harsh discordant din from those in the rear had been
audible for some time and added to the already violent confusion of
the scene.
A man in a long duster had dismounted from the wreck and now stood in
the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tire and from the
tire to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way.
"See!" he explained. "It went in the ditch."
The fact was infinitely astonishing to him--and I recognized first the
unusual quality of wonder and then the man--it was the late patron of
Gatsby's library.
"How'd it happen?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I know nothing whatever about mechanics," he said decisively.
"But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?"
"Don't ask me," said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole matter.
"I know very little about driving--next to nothing. It happened,
and that's all I know."
"Well, if you're a poor driver you oughtn't to try driving at night."
"But I wasn't even trying," he explained indignantly, "I wasn't even
trying."
An awed hush fell upon the bystanders.
"Do you want to commit suicide?"
"You're lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even TRYing!"
"You don't understand," explained the criminal. "I wasn't driving. There's
another man in the car."
The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained
"Ah-h-h!" as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd--it was
now a crowd--stepped back involuntarily and when the door had opened wide
there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a pale
dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively at the
ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe.
Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant
groaning of the horns the apparition stood swaying for a moment before
he perceived the man in the duster.
"Wha's matter?" he inquired calmly. "Did we run outa gas?"
"Look!"
Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel--he stared
at it for a moment and then looked upward as though he suspected that
it had dropped from the sky.
"It came off," some one explained.
He nodded.
"At first I din' notice we'd stopped."
A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders
he remarked in a determined voice:
"Wonder'ff tell me where there's a gas'line station?"
At least a dozen men, some of them little better off than he was,
explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any physical
bond.
"Back out," he suggested after a moment. "Put her in reverse."
"But the WHEEL'S off!"
He hesitated.
"No harm in trying," he said.
The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and
cut across the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A wafer of a moon
was shining over Gatsby's house, making the night fine as before and
surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden. A
sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great
doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host who
stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.
Reading over what I have written so far I see I have given the
impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were all
that absorbed me. On the contrary they were merely casual events in a
crowded summer and, until much later, they absorbed me infinitely less
than my personal affairs.
Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my shadow
westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York to the
Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen by their
first names and lunched with them in dark crowded restaurants on
little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I even had a short
affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and worked in the
accounting department, but her brother began throwing mean looks in my
direction so when she went on her vacation in July I let it blow
quietly away.
I took dinner usually at the Yale Club--for some reason it was the
gloomiest event of my day--and then I went upstairs to the library and
studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour.
There were generally a few rioters around but they never came into the
library so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was
mellow I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel
and over Thirty-third Street to the Pennsylvania Station.
I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night
and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and
machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and
pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few
minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever
know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their
apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled
back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness. At the
enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes,
and felt it in others--poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows
waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner--young clerks
in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.
Again at eight o'clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were five
deep with throbbing taxi cabs, bound for the theatre district, I felt a
sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited,
and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted
cigarettes outlined unintelligible gestures inside. Imagining that
I, too, was hurrying toward gayety and sharing their intimate
excitement, I wished them well.
For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found
her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her because she
was a golf champion and every one knew her name. Then it was
something more. I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of
tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the
world concealed something--most affectations conceal something
eventually, even though they don't in the beginning--and one day I found
what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she
left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied
about it--and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded
me that night at Daisy's. At her first big golf tournament there was a
row that nearly reached the newspapers--a suggestion that she had moved
her ball from a bad lie in the semi-final round. The thing approached
the proportions of a scandal--then died away. A caddy retracted his
statement and the only other witness admitted that he might have been
mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.
Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw
that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence
from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest.
She wasn't able to endure being at a disadvantage, and given this
unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she
was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the
world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard jaunty body.
It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never
blame deeply--I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that
same house party that we had a curious conversation about driving a
car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our
fender flicked a button on one man's coat.
"You're a rotten driver," I protested. "Either you ought to be more
careful or you oughtn't to drive at all."
"I am careful."
"No, you're not."
"Well, other people are," she said lightly.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"They'll keep out of my way," she insisted. "It takes two to make an
accident."
"Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself."
"I hope I never will," she answered. "I hate careless people. That's why
I like you."
Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had
deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved
her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes
on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of
that tangle back home. I'd been writing letters once a week and signing
them: "Love, Nick," and all I could think of was how, when that certain
girl played tennis, a faint mustache of perspiration appeared on her
upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be
tactfully broken off before I was free.
Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and
this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.
Chapter 4
On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages along shore
the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby's house and twinkled
hilariously on his lawn.
"He's a bootlegger," said the young ladies, moving somewhere between
his cocktails and his flowers. "One time he killed a man who had found out
that he was nephew to von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil.
Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal
glass."
Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a time-table the names
of those who came to Gatsby's house that summer. It is an old time-table
now, disintegrating at its folds and headed "This schedule in effect
July 5th, 1922." But I can still read the grey names and they will give
you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted
Gatsby's hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing
whatever about him.
From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches and a
man named Bunsen whom I knew at Yale and Doctor Webster Civet who
was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie
Voltaires and a whole clan named Blackbuck who always gathered in a
corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near.
And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr.
Chrystie's wife) and Edgar Beaver, whose hair they say turned
cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.
Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only
once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named
Etty in the garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles
and the O. R. P. Schraeders and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of
Georgia and the Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there
three days before he went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the
gravel drive that Mrs. Ulysses Swett's automobile ran over his right
hand. The Dancies came too and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over
sixty, and Maurice A. Flink and the Hammerheads and Beluga the
tobacco importer and Beluga's girls.
From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and
Cecil Schoen and Gulick the state senator and Newton Orchid who
controlled Films Par Excellence and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don
S. Schwartze (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the
movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G.
Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife.
Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B.
("Rot-Gut") Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly--they came to
gamble and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was
cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably
next day.
A man named Klipspringer was there so often and so long that he became
known as "the boarder"--I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical
people there were Gus Waize and Horace O'Donavan and Lester Meyer and
George Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes
and the Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the
Corrigans and the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W.
Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry
L. Palmetto who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train
in Times Square.
Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite
the same ones in physical person but they were so identical one with
another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have
forgotten their names--Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela or Gloria
or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names
of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American
capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to
be.
In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O'Brien came
there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer who had
his nose shot off in the war and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag, his
fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters, and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of the
American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip with a man reputed to be her
chauffeur, and a prince of something whom we called Duke and whose name,
if I ever knew it, I have forgotten.
All these people came to Gatsby's house in the summer.
At nine o'clock, one morning late in July Gatsby's gorgeous car
lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody
from its three noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me
though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane,
and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.
"Good morning, old sport. You're having lunch with me today and I
thought we'd ride up together."
He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that
resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American--that comes,
I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth
and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games.
This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in
the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a
tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.
He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
"It's pretty, isn't it, old sport." He jumped off to give me a better
view. "Haven't you ever seen it before?"
I'd seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright
with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with
triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a
labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind
many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory we started
to town.
I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and
found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first
impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had
gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate
roadhouse next door.
And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn't reached West Egg
village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished
and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored
suit.
"Look here, old sport," he broke out surprisingly. "What's your opinion
of me, anyhow?"
A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which
that question deserves.
"Well, I'm going to tell you something about my life," he interrupted.
"I don't want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you
hear."
So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavored conversation in
his halls.
"I'll tell you God's truth." His right hand suddenly ordered divine
retribution to stand by. "I am the son of some wealthy people in the
middle-west--all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at
Oxford because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years.
It is a family tradition."
He looked at me sideways--and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was
lying. He hurried the phrase "educated at Oxford," or swallowed it or
choked on it as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt
his whole statement fell to pieces and I wondered if there wasn't
something a little sinister about him after all.
"What part of the middle-west?" I inquired casually.
"San Francisco."
"I see."
"My family all died and I came into a good deal of money."
His voice was solemn as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan
still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg
but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.
"After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of
Europe--Paris, Venice, Rome--collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting
big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to
forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago."
With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very
phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a
turbaned "character" leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a
tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.
"Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief and I tried very
hard to die but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a
commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I
took two machine-gun detachments so far forward that there was a half
mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn't advance. We
stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with
sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found
the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was
promoted to be a major and every Allied government gave me a
decoration--even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic
Sea!"
Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them--with
his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro's troubled history and
sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It
appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had
elicited this tribute from Montenegro's warm little heart. My
incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming
hastily through a dozen magazines.
He reached in his pocket and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell
into my palm.
"That's the one from Montenegro."
To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look.
_Orderi di Danilo_, ran the circular legend, _Montenegro, Nicolas Rex_.
"Turn it."
_Major Jay Gatsby_, I read, _For Valour Extraordinary_.
"Here's another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was
taken in Trinity Quad--the man on my left is now the Earl of Dorcaster."
It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an
archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby,
looking a little, not much, younger--with a cricket bat in his hand.
Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace
on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with
their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.
"I'm going to make a big request of you today," he said, pocketing his
souvenirs with satisfaction, "so I thought you ought to know something
about me. I didn't want you to think I was just some nobody. You see,
I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there
trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me." He hesitated.
"You'll hear about it this afternoon."
"At lunch?"
"No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you're taking Miss Baker
to tea."
"Do you mean you're in love with Miss Baker?"
"No, old sport, I'm not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak
to you about this matter."
I hadn't the faintest idea what "this matter" was, but I was more
annoyed than interested. I hadn't asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss
Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly
fantastic and for a moment I was sorry I'd ever set foot upon his
overpopulated lawn.
He wouldn't say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared
the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of
red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with
the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then
the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse
of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we
went by.
With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half
Astoria--only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the
elevated I heard the familiar "jug--jug--SPAT!" of a motor cycle, and a
frantic policeman rode alongside.
"All right, old sport," called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white
card from his wallet he waved it before the man's eyes.
"Right you are," agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. "Know you next
time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse ME!"
"What was that?" I inquired. "The picture of Oxford?"
"I was able to do the commissioner a favor once, and he sends me a
Christmas card every year."
Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a
constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the
river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of
non-olfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always
the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the
mystery and the beauty in the world.
A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two
carriages with drawn blinds and by more cheerful carriages for
friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short
upper lips of south-eastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of
Gatsby's splendid car was included in their somber holiday. As we
crossed Blackwell's Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white
chauffeur, in which sat three modish Negroes, two bucks and a girl. I
laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in
haughty rivalry.
"Anything can happen now that we've slid over this bridge," I thought;
"anything at all. . . ."
Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.
Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby
for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside my eyes
picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.
"Mr. Carraway this is my friend Mr. Wolfsheim."
A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two
fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I
discovered his tiny eyes in the half darkness.
"--so I took one look at him--" said Mr. Wolfsheim, shaking my hand
earnestly, "--and what do you think I did?"
"What?" I inquired politely.
But evidently he was not addressing me for he dropped my hand and
covered Gatsby with his expressive nose.
"I handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid, 'All right, Katspaugh,
don't pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.' He shut it then and
there."
Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the
restaurant whereupon Mr. Wolfsheim swallowed a new sentence he was
starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.
"Highballs?" asked the head waiter.
"This is a nice restaurant here," said Mr. Wolfsheim looking at the
Presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. "But I like across the street better!"
"Yes, highballs," agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfsheim: "It's too hot
over there."
"Hot and small--yes," said Mr. Wolfsheim, "but full of memories."
"What place is that?" I asked.
"The old Metropole.
"The old Metropole," brooded Mr. Wolfsheim gloomily. "Filled with faces
dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can't forget so
long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us
at the table and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was
almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says
somebody wants to speak to him outside. 'All right,' says Rosy and begins
to get up and I pulled him down in his chair.
" 'Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don't you,
so help me, move outside this room.'
"It was four o'clock in the morning then, and if we'd of raised the blinds
we'd of seen daylight."
"Did he go?" I asked innocently.
"Sure he went,"--Mr. Wolfsheim's nose flashed at me indignantly--"He
turned around in the door and says, 'Don't let that waiter take away
my coffee!' Then he went out on the sidewalk and they shot him
three times in his full belly and drove away."
"Four of them were electrocuted," I said, remembering.
"Five with Becker." His nostrils turned to me in an interested way.
"I understand you're looking for a business gonnegtion."
The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered
for me:
"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "this isn't the man!"
"No?" Mr. Wolfsheim seemed disappointed.
"This is just a friend. I told you we'd talk about that some other
time."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Wolfsheim, "I had a wrong man."
A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfsheim, forgetting the more
sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with
ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the
room--he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly
behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one
short glance beneath our own table.
"Look here, old sport," said Gatsby, leaning toward me, "I'm afraid I
made you a little angry this morning in the car."
There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.
"I don't like mysteries," I answered. "And I don't understand why you
won't come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to
come through Miss Baker?"
"Oh, it's nothing underhand," he assured me. "Miss Baker's a great
sportswoman, you know, and she'd never do anything that wasn't all right."
Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up and hurried from the room
leaving me with Mr. Wolfsheim at the table.
"He has to telephone," said Mr. Wolfsheim, following him with his eyes.
"Fine fellow, isn't he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman."
"Yes."
"He's an Oggsford man."
"Oh!"
"He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?"
"I've heard of it."
"It's one of the most famous colleges in the world."
"Have you known Gatsby for a long time?" I inquired.
"Several years," he answered in a gratified way. "I made the pleasure of
his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of
fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: 'There's
the kind of man you'd like to take home and introduce to your mother and
sister.' " He paused. "I see you're looking at my cuff buttons."
I hadn't been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of
oddly familiar pieces of ivory.
"Finest specimens of human molars," he informed me.
"Well!" I inspected them. "That's a very interesting idea."
"Yeah." He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. "Yeah, Gatsby's very
careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend's wife."
When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat
down Mr. Wolfsheim drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet.
"I have enjoyed my lunch," he said, "and I'm going to run off from you
two young men before I outstay my welcome."
"Don't hurry, Meyer," said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfsheim
raised his hand in a sort of benediction.
"You're very polite but I belong to another generation," he announced
solemnly. "You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and
your----" He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his
hand--"As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won't impose myself
on you any longer."
As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling.
I wondered if I had said anything to offend him.
"He becomes very sentimental sometimes," explained Gatsby. "This is one of
his sentimental days. He's quite a character around New York--a denizen of
Broadway."
"Who is he anyhow--an actor?"
"No."
"A dentist?"
"Meyer Wolfsheim? No, he's a gambler." Gatsby hesitated, then added
coolly: "He's the man who fixed the World's Series back in 1919."
"Fixed the World's Series?" I repeated.
The idea staggered me. I remembered of course that the World's Series
had been fixed in 1919 but if I had thought of it at all I would have
thought of it as a thing that merely HAPPENED, the end of some
inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to
play with the faith of fifty million people--with the single-mindedness
of a burglar blowing a safe.
"How did he happen to do that?" I asked after a minute.
"He just saw the opportunity."
"Why isn't he in jail?"
"They can't get him, old sport. He's a smart man."
I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught
sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.
"Come along with me for a minute," I said. "I've got to say hello
to someone."
When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our
direction.
"Where've you been?" he demanded eagerly. "Daisy's furious because you
haven't called up."
"This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan."
They shook hands briefly and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment
came over Gatsby's face.
"How've you been, anyhow?" demanded Tom of me. "How'd you happen to come
up this far to eat?"
"I've been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby."
I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.
One October day in nineteen-seventeen----
(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight
chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel)
--I was walking along from one place to another half on the sidewalks and
half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from
England with rubber nobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground.
I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind and
whenever this happened the red, white and blue banners in front of all
the houses stretched out stiff and said TUT-TUT-TUT-TUT in a disapproving
way.
The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to
Daisy Fay's house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and
by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She
dressed in white, and had a little white roadster and all day long
the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp
Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night, "anyways,
for an hour!"
When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside
the curb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen
before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn't see me until
I was five feet away.
"Hello Jordan," she called unexpectedly. "Please come here."
I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older
girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross and
make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn't come
that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way
that every young girl wants to be looked at sometime, and because it
seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name
was Jay Gatsby and I didn't lay eyes on him again for over four
years--even after I'd met him on Long Island I didn't realize it was the
same man.
That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself,
and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn't see Daisy very often.
She went with a slightly older crowd--when she went with anyone at all.
Wild rumors were circulating about her--how her mother had found her
packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say goodbye to a
soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she
wasn't on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After
that she didn't play around with the soldiers any more but only
with a few flat-footed, short-sighted young men in town who couldn't
get into the army at all.
By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a debut
after the Armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a
man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago with
more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came
down with a hundred people in four private cars and hired a whole
floor of the Seelbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her
a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
I was bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal
dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in
her flowered dress--and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of
sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.
" 'Gratulate me," she muttered. "Never had a drink before but oh, how I do
enjoy it."
"What's the matter, Daisy?"
I was scared, I can tell you; I'd never seen a girl like that before.
"Here, dearis." She groped around in a waste-basket she had with her
on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. "Take 'em downstairs and
give 'em back to whoever they belong to. Tell 'em all Daisy's change' her
mine. Say 'Daisy's change' her mine!'."
She began to cry--she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her
mother's maid and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She
wouldn't let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and
squeezed it up into a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the
soap dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.
But she didn't say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put
ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress and half an
hour later when we walked out of the room the pearls were around her
neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o'clock she married Tom
Buchanan without so much as a shiver and started off on a three months'
trip to the South Seas.
I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back and I thought I'd
never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a
minute she'd look around uneasily and say "Where's Tom gone?" and
wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the
door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour
rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable
delight. It was touching to see them together--it made you laugh in a
hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa
Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night and ripped
a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the
papers too because her arm was broken--she was one of the chambermaids
in the Santa Barbara Hotel.
The next April Daisy had her little girl and they went to France for a
year. I saw them one spring in Cannes and later in Deauville and then
they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago,
as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich
and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation.
Perhaps because she doesn't drink. It's a great advantage not to drink
among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover,
you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else
is so blind that they don't see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in
for amour at all--and yet there's something in that voice of hers. . . .
Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time
in years. It was when I asked you--do you remember?--if you knew Gatsby
in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me
up, and said "What Gatsby?" and when I described him--I was half
asleep--she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used
to know. It wasn't until then that I connected this Gatsby with the
officer in her white car.
When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza
for half an hour and were driving in a Victoria through Central Park.
The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in
the West Fifties and the clear voices of girls, already gathered like
crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:
"I'm the Sheik of Araby,
Your love belongs to me.
At night when you're asleep,
Into your tent I'll creep----"
"It was a strange coincidence," I said.
"But it wasn't a coincidence at all."
"Why not?"
"Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay."
Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired
on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the
womb of his purposeless splendor.
"He wants to know--" continued Jordan "--if you'll invite Daisy to your
house some afternoon and then let him come over."
The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a
mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths so that he could
"come over" some afternoon to a stranger's garden.
"Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?"
"He's afraid. He's waited so long. He thought you might be offended.
You see he's a regular tough underneath it all."
Something worried me.
"Why didn't he ask you to arrange a meeting?"
"He wants her to see his house," she explained. "And your house is right
next door."
"Oh!"
"I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties,
some night," went on Jordan, "but she never did. Then he began asking
people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found.
It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have
heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately
suggested a luncheon in New York--and I thought he'd go mad:
" 'I don't want to do anything out of the way!' he kept saying. 'I want to
see her right next door.'
"When I said you were a particular friend of Tom's he started to abandon
the whole idea. He doesn't know very much about Tom, though he says he's
read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse
of Daisy's name."
It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm
around Jordan's golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to
dinner. Suddenly I wasn't thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more but of
this clean, hard, limited person who dealt in universal skepticism and
who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began
to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: "There are only the
pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."
"And Daisy ought to have something in her life," murmured Jordan to me.
"Does she want to see Gatsby?"
"She's not to know about it. Gatsby doesn't want her to know. You're
just supposed to invite her to tea."
We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the facade of Fifty-ninth
Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park.
Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan I had no girl whose disembodied face
floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs and so I drew up the
girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled and so
I drew her up again, closer, this time to my face.
Chapter 5
When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that
my house was on fire. Two o'clock and the whole corner of the peninsula
was blazing with light which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin
elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner I saw that it
was Gatsby's house, lit from tower to cellar.
At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved
itself into "hide-and-go-seek" or "sardines-in-the-box" with all the
house thrown open to the game. But there wasn't a sound. Only wind in
the trees which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again
as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I
saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn.
"Your place looks like the world's fair," I said.
"Does it?" He turned his eyes toward it absently. "I have been glancing
into some of the rooms. Let's go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car."
"It's too late."
"Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven't made use
of it all summer."
"I've got to go to bed."
"All right."
He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness.
"I talked with Miss Baker," I said after a moment. "I'm going to call up
Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea."
"Oh, that's all right," he said carelessly. "I don't want to put you to
any trouble."
"What day would suit you?"
"What day would suit YOU?" he corrected me quickly. "I don't want to put
you to any trouble, you see."
"How about the day after tomorrow?" He considered for a moment. Then,
with reluctance:
"I want to get the grass cut," he said.
We both looked at the grass--there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn
ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that
he meant my grass.
"There's another little thing," he said uncertainly, and hesitated.
"Would you rather put it off for a few days?" I asked.
"Oh, it isn't about that. At least----" He fumbled with a series of
beginnings. "Why, I thought--why, look here, old sport, you don't make
much money, do you?"
"Not very much."
This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently.
"I thought you didn't, if you'll pardon my--you see, I carry on a
little business on the side, a sort of sideline, you understand. And I
thought that if you don't make very much--You're selling bonds, aren't
you, old sport?"
"Trying to."
"Well, this would interest you. It wouldn't take up much of your
time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be
a rather confidential sort of thing."
I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might
have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was
obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice
except to cut him off there.
"I've got my hands full," I said. "I'm much obliged but I couldn't take
on any more work."
"You wouldn't have to do any business with Wolfsheim." Evidently he
thought that I was shying away from the "gonnegtion" mentioned at lunch,
but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I'd
begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went
unwillingly home.
The evening had made me light-headed and happy; I think I walked into a
deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I didn't know whether or not
Gatsby went to Coney Island or for how many hours he "glanced into
rooms" while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the
office next morning and invited her to come to tea.
"Don't bring Tom," I warned her.
"What?"
"Don't bring Tom."
"Who is 'Tom'?" she asked innocently.
The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o'clock a man in a
raincoat dragging a lawn-mower tapped at my front door and said that
Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I
had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back so I drove into West Egg
Village to search for her among soggy white-washed alleys and to buy
some cups and lemons and flowers.
The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o'clock a greenhouse arrived
from Gatsby's, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour
later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel
suit, silver shirt and gold-colored tie hurried in. He was pale and
there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.
"Is everything all right?" he asked immediately.
"The grass looks fine, if that's what you mean."
"What grass?" he inquired blankly. "Oh, the grass in the yard." He looked
out the window at it, but judging from his expression I don't believe
he saw a thing.
"Looks very good," he remarked vaguely. "One of the papers said they
thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was 'The Journal.' Have
you got everything you need in the shape of--of tea?"
I took him into the pantry where he looked a little reproachfully at the
Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen
shop.
"Will they do?" I asked.
"Of course, of course! They're fine!" and he added hollowly, ". . .old
sport."
The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist through which
occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes
through a copy of Clay's "Economics," starting at the Finnish tread that
shook the kitchen floor and peering toward the bleared windows from time
to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking
place outside. Finally he got up and informed me in an uncertain voice
that he was going home.
"Why's that?"
"Nobody's coming to tea. It's too late!" He looked at his watch as if
there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. "I can't wait
all day."
"Don't be silly; it's just two minutes to four."
He sat down, miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there
was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up and,
a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard.
Under the dripping bare lilac trees a large open car was coming up the
drive. It stopped. Daisy's face, tipped sideways beneath a
three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic
smile.
"Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?"
The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had
to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone
before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of
blue paint across her cheek and her hand was wet with glistening drops as
I took it to help her from the car.
"Are you in love with me," she said low in my ear. "Or why did I have
to come alone?"
"That's the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far
away and spend an hour."
"Come back in an hour, Ferdie." Then in a grave murmur, "His name is
Ferdie."
"Does the gasoline affect his nose?"
"I don't think so," she said innocently. "Why?"
We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living room was deserted.
"Well, that's funny!" I exclaimed.
"What's funny?"
She turned her head as there was a light, dignified knocking at the front
door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands
plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of
water glaring tragically into my eyes.
With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the
hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire and disappeared into the
living room. It wasn't a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own
heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
For half a minute there wasn't a sound. Then from the living room I
heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh followed by Daisy's
voice on a clear artificial note.
"I certainly am awfully glad to see you again."
A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall so I went
into the room.
Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the
mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom.
His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a
defunct mantelpiece clock and from this position his distraught eyes
stared down at Daisy who was sitting frightened but graceful on the
edge of a stiff chair.
"We've met before," muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at
me and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily
the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his
head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers and set
it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the
sofa and his chin in his hand.
"I'm sorry about the clock," he said.
My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn't muster up
a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head.
"It's an old clock," I told them idiotically.
I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on
the floor.
"We haven't met for many years," said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact
as it could ever be.
"Five years next November."
The automatic quality of Gatsby's answer set us all back at least another
minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that
they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in
on a tray.
Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency
established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and while Daisy
and I talked looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with
tense unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn't an end in itself I
made an excuse at the first possible moment and got to my feet.
"Where are you going?" demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm.
"I'll be back."
"I've got to speak to you about something before you go."
He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door and whispered:
"Oh, God!" in a miserable way.
"What's the matter?"
"This is a terrible mistake," he said, shaking his head from side to
side, "a terrible, terrible mistake."
"You're just embarrassed, that's all," and luckily I added: "Daisy's
embarrassed too."
"She's embarrassed?" he repeated incredulously.
"Just as much as you are."
"Don't talk so loud."
"You're acting like a little boy," I broke out impatiently. "Not only
that but you're rude. Daisy's sitting in there all alone."
He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable
reproach and opening the door cautiously went back into the other room.
I walked out the back way--just as Gatsby had when he had made his
nervous circuit of the house half an hour before--and ran for a huge
black knotted tree whose massed leaves made a fabric against the rain.
Once more it was pouring and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by
Gatsby's gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric
marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except
Gatsby's enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church
steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the "period"
craze, a decade before, and there was a story that he'd agreed to pay
five years' taxes on all the neighboring cottages if the owners would
have their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps their refusal took the
heart out of his plan to Found a Family--he went into an immediate
decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on the
door. Americans, while occasionally willing to be serfs, have always
been obstinate about being peasantry.
After half an hour the sun shone again and the grocer's automobile
rounded Gatsby's drive with the raw material for his servants' dinner--I
felt sure he wouldn't eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper
windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from a
large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I
went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of
their voices, rising and swelling a little, now and then, with gusts of
emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within
the house too.
I went in--after making every possible noise in the kitchen short of
pushing over the stove--but I don't believe they heard a sound. They
were sitting at either end of the couch looking at each other as if
some question had been asked or was in the air, and every vestige of
embarrassment was gone. Daisy's face was smeared with tears and when I
came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before
a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding.
He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new
well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.
"Oh, hello, old sport," he said, as if he hadn't seen me for years. I
thought for a moment he was going to shake hands.
"It's stopped raining."
"Has it?" When he realized what I was talking about, that there were
twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man,
like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to
Daisy. "What do you think of that? It's stopped raining."
"I'm glad, Jay." Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only
of her unexpected joy.
"I want you and Daisy to come over to my house," he said, "I'd like to
show her around."
"You're sure you want me to come?"
"Absolutely, old sport."
Daisy went upstairs to wash her face--too late I thought with humiliation
of my towels--while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.
"My house looks well, doesn't it?" he demanded. "See how the whole
front of it catches the light."
I agreed that it was splendid.
"Yes." His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. "It took
me just three years to earn the money that bought it."
"I thought you inherited your money."
"I did, old sport," he said automatically, "but I lost most of it in
the big panic--the panic of the war."
I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what
business he was in he answered "That's my affair," before he realized
that it wasn't the appropriate reply.
"Oh, I've been in several things," he corrected himself. "I was in the
drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I'm not in either
one now." He looked at me with more attention. "Do you mean you've been
thinking over what I proposed the other night?"
Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass
buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.
"That huge place THERE?" she cried pointing.
"Do you like it?"
"I love it, but I don't see how you live there all alone."
"I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who
do interesting things. Celebrated people."
Instead of taking the short cut along the Sound we went down the road and
entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this
aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the
gardens, the sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn
and plum blossoms and the pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate.
It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright
dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the
trees.
And inside as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music rooms and
Restoration salons I felt that there were guests concealed behind
every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we
had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of "the Merton College
Library" I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into
ghostly laughter.
We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender
silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing rooms and poolrooms,
and bathrooms with sunken baths--intruding into one chamber where a
dishevelled man in pajamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It
was Mr. Klipspringer, the "boarder." I had seen him wandering hungrily
about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby's own apartment,
a bedroom and a bath and an Adam study, where we sat down and drank a
glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall.
He hadn't once ceased looking at Daisy and I think he revalued
everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew
from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his
possessions in a dazed way as though in her actual and astounding
presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a
flight of stairs.
His bedroom was the simplest room of all--except where the dresser was
garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush
with delight and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and
shaded his eyes and began to laugh.
"It's the funniest thing, old sport," he said hilariously. "I can't--when
I try to----"
He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third.
After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with
wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it
right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an
inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running
down like an overwound clock.
Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent
cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and
his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high.
"I've got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection
of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall."
He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one
before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel
which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in
many-colored disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft
rich heap mounted higher--shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in
coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange with monograms of
Indian blue. Suddenly with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into
the shirts and began to cry stormily.
"They're such beautiful shirts," she sobbed, her voice muffled in the
thick folds. "It makes me sad because I've never seen such--such beautiful
shirts before."
After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the
hydroplane and the midsummer flowers--but outside Gatsby's window it
began to rain again so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated
surface of the Sound.
"If it wasn't for the mist we could see your home across the bay," said
Gatsby. "You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of
your dock."
Daisy put her arm through his abruptly but he seemed absorbed
in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the
colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared
to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed
very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star
to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of
enchanted objects had diminished by one.
I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in
the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting
costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.
"Who's this?"
"That? That's Mr. Dan Cody, old sport."
The name sounded faintly familiar.
"He's dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago."
There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the
bureau--Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly--taken apparently
when he was about eighteen.
"I adore it!" exclaimed Daisy. "The pompadour! You never told me you had
a pompadour--or a yacht."
"Look at this," said Gatsby quickly. "Here's a lot of clippings--about
you."
They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies
when the phone rang and Gatsby took up the receiver.
"Yes. . . . Well, I can't talk now. . . . I can't talk now, old
sport. . . . I said a SMALL town. . . . He must know what a small town
is. . . . Well, he's no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small
town. . . ."
He rang off.
"Come here QUICK!" cried Daisy at the window.
The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west,
and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.
"Look at that," she whispered, and then after a moment: "I'd like to
just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you
around."
I tried to go then, but they wouldn't hear of it; perhaps my presence
made them feel more satisfactorily alone.
"I know what we'll do," said Gatsby, "we'll have Klipspringer play the
piano."
He went out of the room calling "Ewing!" and returned in a few
minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man with
shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blonde hair. He was now decently clothed
in a "sport shirt" open at the neck, sneakers and duck trousers of a
nebulous hue.
"Did we interrupt your exercises?" inquired Daisy politely.
"I was asleep," cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment.
"That is, I'd BEEN asleep. Then I got up. . . ."
"Klipspringer plays the piano," said Gatsby, cutting him off. "Don't you,
Ewing, old sport?"
"I don't play well. I don't--I hardly play at all. I'm all out of
prac----"
"We'll go downstairs," interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The
grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light.
In the music room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He
lit Daisy's cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on
a couch far across the room where there was no light save what the
gleaming floor bounced in from the hall.
When Klipspringer had played "The Love Nest" he turned around on the
bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.
"I'm all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn't play. I'm all
out of prac----"
"Don't talk so much, old sport," commanded Gatsby. "Play!"
IN THE MORNING,
IN THE EVENING,
AIN'T WE GOT FUN----
Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the
Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains,
men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was
the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on
the air.
ONE THING'S SURE AND NOTHING'S SURER
THE RICH GET RICHER AND THE POOR GET--CHILDREN.
IN THE MEANTIME,
IN BETWEEN TIME----
As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment
had come back into Gatsby's face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to
him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five
years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when
Daisy tumbled short of his dreams--not through her own fault but
because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond
her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative
passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright
feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can
challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took
hold of hers and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward
her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most with its
fluctuating, feverish warmth because it couldn't be over-dreamed--that
voice was a deathless song.
They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand;
Gatsby didn't know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they
looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out
of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there
together.
Chapter 6
About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one
morning at Gatsby's door and asked him if he had anything to say.
"Anything to say about what?" inquired Gatsby politely.
"Why,--any statement to give out."
It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard
Gatsby's name around his office in a connection which he either
wouldn't reveal or didn't fully understand. This was his day off
and with laudable initiative he had hurried out "to see."
It was a random shot, and yet the reporter's instinct was right. Gatsby's
notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his
hospitality and so become authorities on his past, had increased
all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary
legends such as the "underground pipe-line to Canada" attached
themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he
didn't live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house
and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why
these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North
Dakota, isn't easy to say.
James Gatz--that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had
changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that
witnessed the beginning of his career--when he saw Dan Cody's yacht drop
anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz
who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green
jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay Gatsby who
borrowed a row-boat, pulled out to the TUOLOMEE and informed Cody that
a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour.
I suppose he'd had the name ready for a long time, even then. His
parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people--his imagination had
never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that
Jay Gatsby, of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic
conception of himself. He was a son of God--a phrase which, if it means
anything, means just that--and he must be about His Father's Business,
the service of a vast, vulgar and meretricious beauty. So he invented
just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be
likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.
For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of
Lake Superior as a clam digger and a salmon fisher or in any other
capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body lived
naturally through the half fierce, half lazy work of the bracing days.
He knew women early and since they spoiled him he became contemptuous
of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of the others
because they were hysterical about things which in his overwhelming
self-absorption he took for granted.
But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque
and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe
of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the
clock ticked on the wash-stand and the moon soaked with wet
light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the
pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid
scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an
outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the
unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded
securely on a fairy's wing.
An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before, to
the small Lutheran college of St. Olaf in southern Minnesota. He stayed
there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the drums of
his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor's work with
which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to Lake
Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the day
that Dan Cody's yacht dropped anchor in the shallows along shore.
Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields,
of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since Seventy-five. The
transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire
found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and,
suspecting this an infinite number of women tried to separate him from
his money. The none too savory ramifications by which Ella Kaye, the
newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and sent him
to sea in a yacht, were common knowledge to the turgid journalism
of 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable shores for five
years when he turned up as James Gatz's destiny at Little Girl Bay.
To the young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed
deck, the yacht represented all the beauty and glamor in the world. I
suppose he smiled at Cody--he had probably discovered that people liked
him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of
them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick, and
extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and
bought him a blue coat, six pair of white duck trousers and a yachting
cap. And when the TUOLOMEE left for the West Indies and the Barbary
Coast Gatsby left too.
He was employed in a vague personal capacity--while he remained with
Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even jailor,
for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk might soon be
about and he provided for such contingencies by reposing more and more
trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years during which the
boat went three times around the continent. It might have lasted
indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye came on board one night
in Boston and a week later Dan Cody inhospitably died.
I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby's bedroom, a grey, florid
man with a hard empty face--the pioneer debauchee who during one phase
of American life brought back to the eastern seaboard the savage
violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to
Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay parties
women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he formed the
habit of letting liquor alone.
And it was from Cody that he inherited money--a legacy of twenty-five
thousand dollars. He didn't get it. He never understood the legal
device that was used against him but what remained of the millions
went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate
education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the
substantiality of a man.
He told me all this very much later, but I've put it down here with the
idea of exploding those first wild rumors about his antecedents, which
weren't even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time of
confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and
nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while
Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of
misconceptions away.
It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For
several weeks I didn't see him or hear his voice on the phone--mostly
I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to
ingratiate myself with her senile aunt--but finally I went over to
his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn't been there two minutes when
somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled,
naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn't happened
before.
They were a party of three on horseback--Tom and a man named Sloane and
a pretty woman in a brown riding habit who had been there previously.
"I'm delighted to see you," said Gatsby standing on his porch.
"I'm delighted that you dropped in."
As though they cared!
"Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar." He walked around the room
quickly, ringing bells. "I'll have something to drink for you in just
a minute."
He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be
uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague
way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A
lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all,
thanks. . . . I'm sorry----
"Did you have a nice ride?"
"Very good roads around here."
"I suppose the automobiles----"
"Yeah."
Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom who had accepted
the introduction as a stranger.
"I believe we've met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan."
"Oh, yes," said Tom, gruffly polite but obviously not remembering.
"So we did. I remember very well."
"About two weeks ago."
"That's right. You were with Nick here."
"I know your wife," continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.
"That so?"
Tom turned to me.
"You live near here, Nick?"
"Next door."
"That so?"
Mr. Sloane didn't enter into the conversation but lounged back haughtily
in his chair; the woman said nothing either--until unexpectedly, after
two highballs, she became cordial.
"We'll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby," she suggested.
"What do you say?"
"Certainly. I'd be delighted to have you."
"Be ver' nice," said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. "Well--think ought to
be starting home."
"Please don't hurry," Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now
and he wanted to see more of Tom. "Why don't you--why don't you stay for
supper? I wouldn't be surprised if some other people dropped in from
New York."
"You come to supper with ME," said the lady enthusiastically.
"Both of you."
This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.
"Come along," he said--but to her only.
"I mean it," she insisted. "I'd love to have you. Lots of room."
Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn't see
that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn't.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to," I said.
"Well, you come," she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.
Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.
"We won't be late if we start now," she insisted aloud.
"I haven't got a horse," said Gatsby. "I used to ride in the army but
I've never bought a horse. I'll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me
for just a minute."
The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began
an impassioned conversation aside.
"My God, I believe the man's coming," said Tom. "Doesn't he know she
doesn't want him?"
"She says she does want him."
"She has a big dinner party and he won't know a soul there." He frowned.
"I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be
old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to
suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish."
Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted
their horses.
"Come on," said Mr. Sloane to Tom, "we're late. We've got to go." And then
to me: "Tell him we couldn't wait, will you?"
Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod and
they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August
foliage just as Gatsby with hat and light overcoat in hand came out
the front door.
Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy's running around alone, for on the
following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby's party. Perhaps
his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness--it
stands out in my memory from Gatsby's other parties that summer. There
were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same
profusion of champagne, the same many-colored, many-keyed commotion,
but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that
hadn't been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it,
grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own
standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had
no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again,
through Daisy's eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new
eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of
adjustment.
They arrived at twilight and as we strolled out among the sparkling
hundreds Daisy's voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.
"These things excite me SO," she whispered. "If you want to kiss me
any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I'll be glad
to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card.
I'm giving out green----"
"Look around," suggested Gatsby.
"I'm looking around. I'm having a marvelous----"
"You must see the faces of many people you've heard about."
Tom's arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.
"We don't go around very much," he said. "In fact I was just thinking
I don't know a soul here."
"Perhaps you know that lady." Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human
orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white plum tree. Tom and Daisy
stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the
recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies.
"She's lovely," said Daisy.
"The man bending over her is her director."
He took them ceremoniously from group to group:
"Mrs. Buchanan . . . and Mr. Buchanan----" After an instant's hesitation
he added: "the polo player."
"Oh no," objected Tom quickly, "Not me."
But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained "the polo
player" for the rest of the evening.
"I've never met so many celebrities!" Daisy exclaimed. "I liked that
man--what was his name?--with the sort of blue nose."
Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.
"Well, I liked him anyhow."
"I'd a little rather not be the polo player," said Tom pleasantly, "I'd
rather look at all these famous people in--in oblivion."
Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful,
conservative fox-trot--I had never seen him dance before. Then they
sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour while
at her request I remained watchfully in the garden: "In case there's a
fire or a flood," she explained, "or any act of God."
Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together.
"Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?" he said. "A fellow's
getting off some funny stuff."
"Go ahead," answered Daisy genially, "And if you want to take down any
addresses here's my little gold pencil. . . ." She looked around after
a moment and told me the girl was "common but pretty," and I knew that
except for the half hour she'd been alone with Gatsby she wasn't having
a good time.
We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault--Gatsby had
been called to the phone and I'd enjoyed these same people only two
weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.
"How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?"
The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my
shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.
"Wha?"
A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf
with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker's defence:
"Oh, she's all right now. When she's had five or six cocktails she always
starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone."
"I do leave it alone," affirmed the accused hollowly.
"We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: 'There's somebody
that needs your help, Doc.' "
"She's much obliged, I'm sure," said another friend, without gratitude.
"But you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool."
"Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool," mumbled Miss
Baedeker. "They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey."
"Then you ought to leave it alone," countered Doctor Civet.
"Speak for yourself!" cried Miss Baedeker violently. "Your hand shakes.
I wouldn't let you operate on me!"
It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with
Daisy and watching the moving picture director and his Star. They were
still under the white plum tree and their faces were touching except
for a pale thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he
had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this
proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree
and kiss at her cheek.
"I like her," said Daisy, "I think she's lovely."
But the rest offended her--and inarguably, because it wasn't a gesture but
an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented "place"
that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village--appalled
by its raw vigor that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too
obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short cut from nothing
to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed
to understand.
I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It
was dark here in front: only the bright door sent ten square feet of
light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow
moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow,
an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an
invisible glass.
"Who is this Gatsby anyhow?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Some big bootlegger?"
"Where'd you hear that?" I inquired.
"I didn't hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are
just big bootleggers, you know."
"Not Gatsby," I said shortly.
He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his
feet.
"Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie
together."
A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy's fur collar.
"At least they're more interesting than the people we know," she said
with an effort.
"You didn't look so interested."
"Well, I was."
Tom laughed and turned to me.
"Did you notice Daisy's face when that girl asked her to put her under
a cold shower?"
Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper,
bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had
before and would never have again. When the melody rose, her voice
broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and
each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.
"Lots of people come who haven't been invited," she said suddenly.
"That girl hadn't been invited. They simply force their way in and he's
too polite to object."
"I'd like to know who he is and what he does," insisted Tom. "And I think
I'll make a point of finding out."
"I can tell you right now," she answered. "He owned some drug stores,
a lot of drug stores. He built them up himself."
The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.
"Good night, Nick," said Daisy.
Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps where
"Three o'Clock in the Morning," a neat, sad little waltz of that year,
was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of
Gatsby's party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from
her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling
her back inside? What would happen now in the dim incalculable hours?
Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare
and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with
one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot
out those five years of unwavering devotion.
I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free
and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run
up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were
extinguished in the guest rooms overhead. When he came down the steps at
last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes
were bright and tired.
"She didn't like it," he said immediately.
"Of course she did."
"She didn't like it," he insisted. "She didn't have a good time."
He was silent and I guessed at his unutterable depression.
"I feel far away from her," he said. "It's hard to make her understand."
"You mean about the dance?"
"The dance?" He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of
his fingers. "Old sport, the dance is unimportant."
He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say:
"I never loved you." After she had obliterated three years with that
sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken.
One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to
Louisville and be married from her house--just as if it were five
years ago.
"And she doesn't understand," he said. "She used to be able to
understand. We'd sit for hours----"
He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds
and discarded favors and crushed flowers.
"I wouldn't ask too much of her," I ventured. "You can't repeat the past."
"Can't repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the
shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
"I'm going to fix everything just the way it was before," he said,
nodding determinedly. "She'll see."
He talked a lot about the past and I gathered that he wanted to recover
something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy.
His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could
once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he
could find out what that thing was. . . .
. . . One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down
the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where
there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight.
They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night
with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of
the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the
darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the
corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really
formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees--he could
climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the
pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy's white face came up to his
own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his
unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp
again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer
to the tuning fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed
her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the
incarnation was complete.
Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was
reminded of something--an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that
I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to
take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though
there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But
they made no sound and what I had almost remembered was
uncommunicable forever.
Chapter 7
It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights
in his house failed to go on one Saturday night--and, as obscurely as it
had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over.
Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned
expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove
sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out--an
unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously
from the door.
"Is Mr. Gatsby sick?"
"Nope." After a pause he added "sir" in a dilatory, grudging way.
"I hadn't seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway
came over."
"Who?" he demanded rudely.
"Carraway."
"Carraway. All right, I'll tell him." Abruptly he slammed the door.
My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his
house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never
went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered
moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the
kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was
that the new people weren't servants at all.
Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.
"Going away?" I inquired.
"No, old sport."
"I hear you fired all your servants."
"I wanted somebody who wouldn't gossip. Daisy comes over quite often--in
the afternoons."
So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the
disapproval in her eyes.
"They're some people Wolfsheim wanted to do something for. They're all
brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel."
"I see."
He was calling up at Daisy's request--would I come to lunch at
her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later
Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming.
Something was up. And yet I couldn't believe that they would choose
this occasion for a scene--especially for the rather harrowing scene
that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.
The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of
the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the
hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush
at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion;
the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white
shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers,
lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-book
slapped to the floor.
"Oh, my!" she gasped.
I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it
at arm's length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that
I had no designs upon it--but every one near by, including the woman,
suspected me just the same.
"Hot!" said the conductor to familiar faces. "Some weather! Hot! Hot! Hot!
Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it . . . ?"
My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand.
That any one should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed,
whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart!
. . . Through the hall of the Buchanans' house blew a faint wind,
carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we
waited at the door.
"The master's body!" roared the butler into the mouthpiece. "I'm sorry,
madame, but we can't furnish it--it's far too hot to touch this noon!"
What he really said was: "Yes . . . yes . . . I'll see."
He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take
our stiff straw hats.
"Madame expects you in the salon!" he cried, needlessly indicating the
direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the
common store of life.
The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and
Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols, weighing down
their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.
"We can't move," they said together.
Jordan's fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in
mine.
"And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?" I inquired.
Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall
telephone.
Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet and gazed around with
fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting
laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.
"The rumor is," whispered Jordan, "that that's Tom's girl on the
telephone."
We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance.
"Very well, then, I won't sell you the car at all. . . . I'm
under no obligations to you at all. . . . And as for your bothering me
about it at lunch time I won't stand that at all!"
"Holding down the receiver," said Daisy cynically.
"No, he's not," I assured her. "It's a bona fide deal. I happen to
know about it."
Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his
thick body, and hurried into the room.
"Mr. Gatsby!" He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed
dislike. "I'm glad to see you, sir. . . . Nick. . . ."
"Make us a cold drink," cried Daisy.
As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled
his face down kissing him on the mouth.
"You know I love you," she murmured.
"You forget there's a lady present," said Jordan.
Daisy looked around doubtfully.
"You kiss Nick too."
"What a low, vulgar girl!"
"I don't care!" cried Daisy and began to clog on the brick fireplace.
Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as
a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.
"Bles-sed pre-cious," she crooned, holding out her arms. "Come to your
own mother that loves you."
The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted
shyly into her mother's dress.
"The Bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy
hair? Stand up now, and say How-de-do."
Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand.
Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don't think he had
ever really believed in its existence before.
"I got dressed before luncheon," said the child, turning eagerly to
Daisy.
"That's because your mother wanted to show you off." Her face bent into
the single wrinkle of the small white neck. "You dream, you. You absolute
little dream."
"Yes," admitted the child calmly. "Aunt Jordan's got on a white
dress too."
"How do you like mother's friends?" Daisy turned her around so that she
faced Gatsby. "Do you think they're pretty?"
"Where's Daddy?"
"She doesn't look like her father," explained Daisy. "She looks like me.
She's got my hair and shape of the face."
Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held
out her hand.
"Come, Pammy."
"Goodbye, sweetheart!"
With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her
nurse's hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back,
preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.
Gatsby took up his drink.
"They certainly look cool," he said, with visible tension.
We drank in long greedy swallows.
"I read somewhere that the sun's getting hotter every year," said Tom
genially. "It seems that pretty soon the earth's going to fall into the
sun--or wait a minute--it's just the opposite--the sun's getting colder
every year.
"Come outside," he suggested to Gatsby, "I'd like you to have a look at
the place."
I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the
heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby's eyes
followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.
"I'm right across from you."
"So you are."
Our eyes lifted over the rosebeds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse
of the dog days along shore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved
against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and
the abounding blessed isles.
"There's sport for you," said Tom, nodding. "I'd like to be out there
with him for about an hour."
We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened, too, against the heat,
and drank down nervous gayety with the cold ale.
"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon," cried Daisy, "and the
day after that, and the next thirty years?"
"Don't be morbid," Jordan said. "Life starts all over again when it gets
crisp in the fall."
"But it's so hot," insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, "And
everything's so confused. Let's all go to town!"
Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its
senselessness into forms.
"I've heard of making a garage out of a stable," Tom was saying to
Gatsby, "but I'm the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage."
"Who wants to go to town?" demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby's eyes
floated toward her. "Ah," she cried, "you look so cool."
Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space.
With an effort she glanced down at the table.
"You always look so cool," she repeated.
She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was
astounded. His mouth opened a little and he looked at Gatsby and then
back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as some one he knew a
long time ago.
"You resemble the advertisement of the man," she went on innocently.
"You know the advertisement of the man----"
"All right," broke in Tom quickly, "I'm perfectly willing to go to
town. Come on--we're all going to town."
He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife.
No one moved.
"Come on!" His temper cracked a little. "What's the matter, anyhow?
If we're going to town let's start."
His hand, trembling with his effort at self control, bore to his lips the
last of his glass of ale. Daisy's voice got us to our feet and out on
to the blazing gravel drive.
"Are we just going to go?" she objected. "Like this? Aren't we going to
let any one smoke a cigarette first?"
"Everybody smoked all through lunch."
"Oh, let's have fun," she begged him. "It's too hot to fuss."
He didn't answer.
"Have it your own way," she said. "Come on, Jordan."
They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling
the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already
in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not
before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.
"Have you got your stables here?" asked Gatsby with an effort.
"About a quarter of a mile down the road."
"Oh."
A pause.
"I don't see the idea of going to town," broke out Tom savagely.
"Women get these notions in their heads----"
"Shall we take anything to drink?" called Daisy from an upper window.
"I'll get some whiskey," answered Tom. He went inside.
Gatsby turned to me rigidly:
"I can't say anything in his house, old sport."
"She's got an indiscreet voice," I remarked. "It's full of----"
I hesitated.
"Her voice is full of money," he said suddenly.
That was it. I'd never understood before. It was full of money--that was
the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the
cymbals' song of it. . . . High in a white palace the king's daughter,
the golden girl. . . .
Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed
by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and
carrying light capes over their arms.
"Shall we all go in my car?" suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green
leather of the seat. "I ought to have left it in the shade."
"Is it standard shift?" demanded Tom.
"Yes."
"Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town."
The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.
"I don't think there's much gas," he objected.
"Plenty of gas," said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge.
"And if it runs out I can stop at a drug store. You can buy anything at a
drug store nowadays."
A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom
frowning and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar
and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words,
passed over Gatsby's face.
"Come on, Daisy," said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby's
car. "I'll take you in this circus wagon."
He opened the door but she moved out from the circle of his arm.
"You take Nick and Jordan. We'll follow you in the coupé."
She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and
Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby's car, Tom pushed the
unfamiliar gears tentatively and we shot off into the oppressive heat
leaving them out of sight behind.
"Did you see that?" demanded Tom.
"See what?"
He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all
along.
"You think I'm pretty dumb, don't you?" he suggested. "Perhaps I am, but
I have a--almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do.
Maybe you don't believe that, but science----"
He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from
the edge of the theoretical abyss.
"I've made a small investigation of this fellow," he continued. "I could
have gone deeper if I'd known----"
"Do you mean you've been to a medium?" inquired Jordan humorously.
"What?" Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. "A medium?"
"About Gatsby."
"About Gatsby! No, I haven't. I said I'd been making a small
investigation of his past."
"And you found he was an Oxford man," said Jordan helpfully.
"An Oxford man!" He was incredulous. "Like hell he is! He wears a
pink suit."
"Nevertheless he's an Oxford man."
"Oxford, New Mexico," snorted Tom contemptuously, "or something like
that."
"Listen, Tom. If you're such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?"
demanded Jordan crossly.
"Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married--God knows
where!"
We were all irritable now with the fading ale and, aware of it,
we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg's faded
eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby's caution about
gasoline.
"We've got enough to get us to town," said Tom.
"But there's a garage right here," objected Jordan. "I don't want to get
stalled in this baking heat."
Tom threw on both brakes impatiently and we slid to an abrupt
dusty stop under Wilson's sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged
from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.
"Let's have some gas!" cried Tom roughly. "What do you think we stopped
for--to admire the view?"
"I'm sick," said Wilson without moving. "I been sick all day."
"What's the matter?"
"I'm all run down."
"Well, shall I help myself?" Tom demanded. "You sounded well enough
on the phone."
With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and,
breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face
was green.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," he said. "But I need money
pretty bad and I was wondering what you were going to do with your
old car."
"How do you like this one?" inquired Tom. "I bought it last week."
"It's a nice yellow one," said Wilson, as he strained at the handle.
"Like to buy it?"
"Big chance," Wilson smiled faintly. "No, but I could make some money
on the other."
"What do you want money for, all of a sudden?"
"I've been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to
go west."
"Your wife does!" exclaimed Tom, startled.
"She's been talking about it for ten years." He rested for a moment
against the pump, shading his eyes. "And now she's going whether she wants
to or not. I'm going to get her away."
The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a
waving hand.
"What do I owe you?" demanded Tom harshly.
"I just got wised up to something funny the last two days," remarked
Wilson. "That's why I want to get away. That's why I been bothering you
about the car."
"What do I owe you?"
"Dollar twenty."
The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had
a bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions
hadn't alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some
sort of life apart from him in another world and the shock had
made him physically sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made
a parallel discovery less than an hour before--and it occurred to me
that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so
profound as the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so
sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty--as if he had just got
some poor girl with child.
"I'll let you have that car," said Tom. "I'll send it over tomorrow
afternoon."
That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad
glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been
warned of something behind. Over the ashheaps the giant eyes of
Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil but I perceived, after
a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity
from less than twenty feet away.
In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside
a little and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed
was she that she had no consciousness of being observed and one
emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly
developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar--it was an
expression I had often seen on women's faces but on Myrtle Wilson's
face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her
eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan
Baker, whom she took to be his wife.
There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we
drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his
mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping
precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the
accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving
Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour,
until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of
the easygoing blue coupé.
"Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool," suggested Jordan.
"I love New York on summer afternoons when every one's away. There's
something very sensuous about it--overripe, as if all sorts of funny
fruits were going to fall into your hands."
The word "sensuous" had the effect of further disquieting Tom but before
he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop and Daisy signalled us
to draw up alongside.
"Where are we going?" she cried.
"How about the movies?"
"It's so hot," she complained. "You go. We'll ride around and meet you
after." With an effort her wit rose faintly, "We'll meet you on some
corner. I'll be the man smoking two cigarettes."
"We can't argue about it here," Tom said impatiently as a truck gave
out a cursing whistle behind us. "You follow me to the south side of
Central Park, in front of the Plaza."
Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car,
and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into
sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side street and out
of his life forever.
But they didn't. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging
the parlor of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.
The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into
that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the
course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my
legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The
notion originated with Daisy's suggestion that we hire five bathrooms
and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as "a place to
have a mint julep." Each of us said over and over that it was a "crazy
idea"--we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or
pretended to think, that we were being very funny. . . .
The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four
o'clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from
the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us,
fixing her hair.
"It's a swell suite," whispered Jordan respectfully and every one
laughed.
"Open another window," commanded Daisy, without turning around.
"There aren't any more."
"Well, we'd better telephone for an axe----"
"The thing to do is to forget about the heat," said Tom impatiently.
"You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it."
He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it on the table.
"Why not let her alone, old sport?" remarked Gatsby. "You're the one that
wanted to come to town."
There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail
and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered "Excuse me"--but
this time no one laughed.
"I'll pick it up," I offered.
"I've got it." Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered "Hum!" in an
interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.
"That's a great expression of yours, isn't it?" said Tom sharply.
"What is?"
"All this 'old sport' business. Where'd you pick that up?"
"Now see here, Tom," said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, "if
you're going to make personal remarks I won't stay here a minute. Call
up and order some ice for the mint julep."
As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and
we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn's Wedding March
from the ballroom below.
"Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!" cried Jordan dismally.
"Still--I was married in the middle of June," Daisy remembered,
"Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?"
"Biloxi," he answered shortly.
"A man named Biloxi. 'Blocks' Biloxi, and he made boxes--that's a
fact--and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee."
"They carried him into my house," appended Jordan, "because we lived
just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy
told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died." After a
moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, "There
wasn't any connection."
"I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis," I remarked.
"That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left.
He gave me an aluminum putter that I use today."
The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated
in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of "Yea--ea--ea!"
and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.
"We're getting old," said Daisy. "If we were young we'd rise and dance."
"Remember Biloxi," Jordan warned her. "Where'd you know him, Tom?"
"Biloxi?" He concentrated with an effort. "I didn't know him. He was a
friend of Daisy's."
"He was not," she denied. "I'd never seen him before. He came down in
the private car."
"Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville.
Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room
for him."
Jordan smiled.
"He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of
your class at Yale."
Tom and I looked at each other blankly.
"BilOxi?"
"First place, we didn't have any president----"
Gatsby's foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.
"By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you're an Oxford man."
"Not exactly."
"Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford."
"Yes--I went there."
A pause. Then Tom's voice, incredulous and insulting:
"You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven."
Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but
the silence was unbroken by his "Thank you" and the soft closing of the
door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.
"I told you I went there," said Gatsby.
"I heard you, but I'd like to know when."
"It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That's why I
can't really call myself an Oxford man."
Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all
looking at Gatsby.
"It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the
Armistice," he continued. "We could go to any of the universities in
England or France."
I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals
of complete faith in him that I'd experienced before.
Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.
"Open the whiskey, Tom," she ordered. "And I'll make you a mint julep.
Then you won't seem so stupid to yourself. . . . Look at the mint!"
"Wait a minute," snapped Tom, "I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more
question."
"Go on," Gatsby said politely.
"What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?"
They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content.
"He isn't causing a row." Daisy looked desperately from one to the
other. "You're causing a row. Please have a little self control."
"Self control!" repeated Tom incredulously. "I suppose the latest thing
is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife.
Well, if that's the idea you can count me out. . . . Nowadays people begin
by sneering at family life and family institutions and next they'll
throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black
and white."
Flushed with his impassioned gibberish he saw himself standing alone on
the last barrier of civilization.
"We're all white here," murmured Jordan.
"I know I'm not very popular. I don't give big parties. I suppose
you've got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any
friends--in the modern world."
Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened
his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.
"I've got something to tell YOU, old sport,----" began Gatsby. But Daisy
guessed at his intention.
"Please don't!" she interrupted helplessly. "Please let's all go home.
Why don't we all go home?"
"That's a good idea." I got up. "Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink."
"I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me."
"Your wife doesn't love you," said Gatsby. "She's never loved you.
She loves me."
"You must be crazy!" exclaimed Tom automatically.
Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.
"She never loved you, do you hear?" he cried. "She only married you
because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible
mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!"
At this point Jordan and I tried to go but Tom and Gatsby insisted with
competitive firmness that we remain--as though neither of them had
anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously
of their emotions.
"Sit down Daisy." Tom's voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal
note. "What's been going on? I want to hear all about it."
"I told you what's been going on," said Gatsby. "Going on for five
years--and you didn't know."
Tom turned to Daisy sharply.
"You've been seeing this fellow for five years?"
"Not seeing," said Gatsby. "No, we couldn't meet. But both of us loved
each other all that time, old sport, and you didn't know. I used to laugh
sometimes--"but there was no laughter in his eyes, "to think that you
didn't know."
"Oh--that's all." Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman
and leaned back in his chair.
"You're crazy!" he exploded. "I can't speak about what happened five years
ago, because I didn't know Daisy then--and I'll be damned if I see how you
got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back
door. But all the rest of that's a God Damned lie. Daisy loved me when
she married me and she loves me now."
"No," said Gatsby, shaking his head.
"She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas
in her head and doesn't know what she's doing." He nodded sagely. "And
what's more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree
and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I
love her all the time."
"You're revolting," said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice,
dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: "Do you
know why we left Chicago? I'm surprised that they didn't treat you to
the story of that little spree."
Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.
"Daisy, that's all over now," he said earnestly. "It doesn't matter any
more. Just tell him the truth--that you never loved him--and it's all
wiped out forever."
She looked at him blindly. "Why,--how could I love him--possibly?"
"You never loved him."
She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal,
as though she realized at last what she was doing--and as though she had
never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now.
It was too late.
"I never loved him," she said, with perceptible reluctance.
"Not at Kapiolani?" demanded Tom suddenly.
"No."
From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up
on hot waves of air.
"Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes
dry?" There was a husky tenderness in his tone. ". . . Daisy?"
"Please don't." Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it.
She looked at Gatsby. "There, Jay," she said--but her hand as she tried
to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and
the burning match on the carpet.
"Oh, you want too much!" she cried to Gatsby. "I love you now--isn't that
enough? I can't help what's past." She began to sob helplessly.
"I did love him once--but I loved you too."
Gatsby's eyes opened and closed.
"You loved me TOO?" he repeated.
"Even that's a lie," said Tom savagely. "She didn't know you were alive.
Why,--there're things between Daisy and me that you'll never know,
things that neither of us can ever forget."
The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.
"I want to speak to Daisy alone," he insisted. "She's all excited now----"
"Even alone I can't say I never loved Tom," she admitted in a pitiful
voice. "It wouldn't be true."
"Of course it wouldn't," agreed Tom.
She turned to her husband.
"As if it mattered to you," she said.
"Of course it matters. I'm going to take better care of you from now on."
"You don't understand," said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. "You're not
going to take care of her any more."
"I'm not?" Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to
control himself now. "Why's that?"
"Daisy's leaving you."
"Nonsense."
"I am, though," she said with a visible effort.
"She's not leaving me!" Tom's words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby.
"Certainly not for a common swindler who'd have to steal the ring he
put on her finger."
"I won't stand this!" cried Daisy. "Oh, please let's get out."
"Who are you, anyhow?" broke out Tom. "You're one of that bunch that
hangs around with Meyer Wolfsheim--that much I happen to know. I've made
a little investigation into your affairs--and I'll carry it further
tomorrow."
"You can suit yourself about that, old sport." said Gatsby steadily.
"I found out what your 'drug stores' were." He turned to us and spoke
rapidly. "He and this Wolfsheim bought up a lot of side-street drug stores
here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That's one of
his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw
him and I wasn't far wrong."
"What about it?" said Gatsby politely. "I guess your friend Walter Chase
wasn't too proud to come in on it."
"And you left him in the lurch, didn't you? You let him go to jail for
a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject
of YOU."
"He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old
sport."
"Don't you call me 'old sport'!" cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.
"Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfsheim scared
him into shutting his mouth."
That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby's face.
"That drug store business was just small change," continued Tom slowly,
"but you've got something on now that Walter's afraid to tell me
about."
I glanced at Daisy who was staring terrified between Gatsby
and her husband and at Jordan who had begun to balance an invisible
but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to
Gatsby--and was startled at his expression. He looked--and this is said
in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden--as if he had
"killed a man." For a moment the set of his face could be described in
just that fantastic way.
It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything,
defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with
every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave
that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped
away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling
unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.
The voice begged again to go.
"PLEASE, Tom! I can't stand this any more."
Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage
she had had, were definitely gone.
"You two start on home, Daisy," said Tom. "In Mr. Gatsby's car."
She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn.
"Go on. He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous
little flirtation is over."
They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated,
like ghosts even from our pity.
After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of
whiskey in the towel.
"Want any of this stuff? Jordan? . . . Nick?"
I didn't answer.
"Nick?" He asked again.
"What?"
"Want any?"
"No . . . I just remembered that today's my birthday."
I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous menacing road of a
new decade.
It was seven o'clock when we got into the coupé with him and started
for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his
voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamor on the
sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy
has its limits and we were content to let all their tragic arguments
fade with the city lights behind. Thirty--the promise of a decade
of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning
brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside
me who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten
dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face
fell lazily against my coat's shoulder and the formidable stroke of
thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the
ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through
the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage and
found George Wilson sick in his office--really sick, pale as his own
pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed but
Wilson refused, saying that he'd miss a lot of business if he did.
While his neighbor was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke
out overhead.
"I've got my wife locked in up there," explained Wilson calmly.
"She's going to stay there till the day after tomorrow and then we're
going to move away."
Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors for four years and
Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally
he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn't working he sat on a
chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed
along the road. When any one spoke to him he invariably laughed in an
agreeable, colorless way. He was his wife's man and not his own.
So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson
wouldn't say a word--instead he began to throw curious, suspicious
glances at his visitor and ask him what he'd been doing at certain
times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy some
workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant and Michaelis took
the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn't.
He supposed he forgot to, that's all. When he came outside again
a little after seven he was reminded of the conversation because he
heard Mrs. Wilson's voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage.
"Beat me!" he heard her cry. "Throw me down and beat me, you dirty
little coward!"
A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and
shouting; before he could move from his door the business was over.
The "death car" as the newspapers called it, didn't stop; it came out
of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment and then
disappeared around the next bend. Michaelis wasn't even sure of its
color--he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other
car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards
beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life
violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick, dark
blood with the dust.
Michaelis and this man reached her first but when they had torn open
her shirtwaist still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left
breast was swinging loose like a flap and there was no need to listen
for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped at the
corners as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous
vitality she had stored so long.
We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still
some distance away.
"Wreck!" said Tom. "That's good. Wilson'll have a little business
at last."
He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping until,
as we came nearer, the hushed intent faces of the people at the garage
door made him automatically put on the brakes.
"We'll take a look," he said doubtfully, "just a look."
I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly
from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked
toward the door resolved itself into the words "Oh, my God!" uttered over
and over in a gasping moan.
"There's some bad trouble here," said Tom excitedly.
He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the
garage which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging wire basket
overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat and with a violent
thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through.
The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it
was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals
disarranged the line and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.
Myrtle Wilson's body wrapped in a blanket and then in another
blanket as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night lay on a
work table by the wall and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over
it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down
names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I
couldn't find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed
clamorously through the bare garage--then I saw Wilson standing on the
raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to
the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low
voice and attempting from time to time to lay a hand on his shoulder,
but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the
swinging light to the laden table by the wall and then jerk back to
the light again and he gave out incessantly his high horrible call.
"O, my Ga-od! O, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!"
Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and after staring around the
garage with glazed eyes addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the
policeman.
"M-a-v--" the policeman was saying, "--o----"
"No,--r--" corrected the man, "M-a-v-r-o----"
"Listen to me!" muttered Tom fiercely.
"r--" said the policeman, "o----"
"g----"
"g--" He looked up as Tom's broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder.
"What you want, fella?"
"What happened--that's what I want to know!"
"Auto hit her. Ins'antly killed."
"Instantly killed," repeated Tom, staring.
"She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn't even stopus car."
"There was two cars," said Michaelis, "one comin', one goin', see?"
"Going where?" asked the policeman keenly.
"One goin' each way. Well, she--" His hand rose toward the blankets but
stopped half way and fell to his side, "--she ran out there an' the one
comin' from N'York knock right into her goin' thirty or forty miles an
hour."
"What's the name of this place here?" demanded the officer.
"Hasn't got any name."
A pale, well-dressed Negro stepped near.
"It was a yellow car," he said, "big yellow car. New."
"See the accident?" asked the policeman.
"No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster'n forty. Going
fifty, sixty."
"Come here and let's have your name. Look out now. I want to get his
name."
Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson swaying
in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among
his gasping cries.
"You don't have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of
car it was!"
Watching Tom I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten
under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and standing
in front of him seized him firmly by the upper arms.
"You've got to pull yourself together," he said with soothing
gruffness.
Wilson's eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then
would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.
"Listen," said Tom, shaking him a little. "I just got here a minute ago,
from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we've been talking about.
That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn't mine, do you hear? I
haven't seen it all afternoon."
Only the Negro and I were near enough to hear what he said but the
policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent
eyes.
"What's all that?" he demanded.
"I'm a friend of his." Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on
Wilson's body. "He says he knows the car that did it. . . . It was a yellow
car."
Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
"And what color's your car?"
"It's a blue car, a coupé."
"We've come straight from New York," I said.
Some one who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this and
the policeman turned away.
"Now, if you'll let me have that name again correct----"
Picking up Wilson like a doll Tom carried him into the office,
set him down in a chair and came back.
"If somebody'll come here and sit with him!" he snapped
authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced
at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the
door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the
table. As he passed close to me he whispered "Let's get out."
Self consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we
pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor,
case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.
Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend--then his foot came down
hard and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I
heard a low husky sob and saw that the tears were overflowing down his
face.
"The God Damn coward!" he whimpered. "He didn't even stop his car."
The Buchanans' house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling
trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor
where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
"Daisy's home," he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and
frowned slightly.
"I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There's nothing we can
do tonight."
A change had come over him and he spoke gravely, and with decision.
As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of
the situation in a few brisk phrases.
"I'll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you're waiting
you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some
supper--if you want any." He opened the door. "Come in."
"No thanks. But I'd be glad if you'd order me the taxi. I'll wait
outside."
Jordan put her hand on my arm.
"Won't you come in, Nick?"
"No thanks."
I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered
for a moment more.
"It's only half past nine," she said.
I'd be damned if I'd go in; I'd had enough of all of them for one day
and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of
this in my expression for she turned abruptly away and ran up the
porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head
in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler's
voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the
house intending to wait by the gate.
I hadn't gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from
between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that
time because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his
pink suit under the moon.
"What are you doing?" I inquired.
"Just standing here, old sport."
Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going
to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn't have been surprised to see
sinister faces, the faces of "Wolfsheim's people," behind him in the
dark shrubbery.
"Did you see any trouble on the road?" he asked after a minute.
"Yes."
He hesitated.
"Was she killed?"
"Yes."
"I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It's better that the shock
should all come at once. She stood it pretty well."
He spoke as if Daisy's reaction was the only thing that mattered.
"I got to West Egg by a side road," he went on, "and left the car in my
garage. I don't think anybody saw us but of course I can't be sure."
I disliked him so much by this time that I didn't find it necessary to
tell him he was wrong.
"Who was the woman?" he inquired.
"Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it
happen?"
"Well, I tried to swing the wheel----" He broke off, and suddenly I
guessed at the truth.
"Was Daisy driving?"
"Yes," he said after a moment, "but of course I'll say I was. You see,
when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would
steady her to drive--and this woman rushed out at us just as we were
passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute but it
seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody
she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other
car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand
reached the wheel I felt the shock--it must have killed her instantly."
"It ripped her open----"
"Don't tell me, old sport." He winced. "Anyhow--Daisy stepped on it.
I tried to make her stop, but she couldn't so I pulled on the emergency
brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.
"She'll be all right tomorrow," he said presently. "I'm just going to
wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness
this afternoon. She's locked herself into her room and if he tries any
brutality she's going to turn the light out and on again."
"He won't touch her," I said. "He's not thinking about her."
"I don't trust him, old sport."
"How long are you going to wait?"
"All night if necessary. Anyhow till they all go to bed."
A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had
been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it--he might think
anything. I looked at the house: there were two or three bright windows
downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy's room on the second floor.
"You wait here," I said. "I'll see if there's any sign of a commotion."
I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly
and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open,
and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined
that June night three months before I came to a small rectangle of light
which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn but I found
a rift at the sill.
Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table
with a plate of cold fried chicken between them and two bottles of
ale. He was talking intently across the table at her and in his
earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a
while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.
They weren't happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the
ale--and yet they weren't unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air
of natural intimacy about the picture and anybody would have said that
they were conspiring together.
As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the
dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in
the drive.
"Is it all quiet up there?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, it's all quiet." I hesitated. "You'd better come home and get
some sleep."
He shook his head.
"I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport."
He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his
scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of
the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the
moonlight--watching over nothing.
Chapter 8
I couldn't sleep all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the
Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage
frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby's drive
and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress--I felt that I
had something to tell him, something to warn him about and morning
would be too late.
Crossing his lawn I saw that his front door was still open and he was
leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.
"Nothing happened," he said wanly. "I waited, and about four o'clock she
came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out
the light."
His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we
hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains
that were like pavilions and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for
electric light switches--once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the
keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust
everywhere and the rooms were musty as though they hadn't been aired for
many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table with two stale dry
cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the
drawing-room we sat smoking out into the darkness.
"You ought to go away," I said. "It's pretty certain they'll trace
your car."
"Go away NOW, old sport?"
"Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal."
He wouldn't consider it. He couldn't possibly leave Daisy until he knew
what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I
couldn't bear to shake him free.
It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with
Dan Cody--told it to me because "Jay Gatsby" had broken up like glass
against Tom's hard malice and the long secret extravaganza was played
out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything, now, without
reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.
She was the first "nice" girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed
capacities he had come in contact with such people but always
with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly
desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers
from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him--he had never been
in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless
intensity was that Daisy lived there--it was as casual a thing to her
as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it,
a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other
bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its
corridors and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in
lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year's shining
motor cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It
excited him too that many men had already loved Daisy--it increased
her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house,
pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.
But he knew that he was in Daisy's house by a colossal accident.
However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a
penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible
cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made
the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and
unscrupulously--eventually he took Daisy one still October night,
took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.
He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under
false pretenses. I don't mean that he had traded on his phantom
millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he
let her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as
herself--that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of
fact he had no such facilities--he had no comfortable family standing
behind him and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government
to be blown anywhere about the world.
But he didn't despise himself and it didn't turn out as he had
imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go--but
now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail.
He knew that Daisy was extraordinary but he didn't realize just how
extraordinary a "nice" girl could be. She vanished into her rich
house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby--nothing. He felt
married to her, that was all.
When they met again two days later it was Gatsby who was breathless,
who was somehow betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought
luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably
as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth.
She had caught a cold and it made her voice huskier and more charming
than ever and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery
that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes
and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot
struggles of the poor.
"I can't describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her,
old sport. I even hoped for a while that she'd throw me over, but she
didn't, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot
because I knew different things from her. . . . Well, there I was,
way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and
all of a sudden I didn't care. What was the use of doing great
things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going
to do?"
On the last afternoon before he went abroad he sat with Daisy in
his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day with fire
in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he
changed his arm a little and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The
afternoon had made them tranquil for a while as if to give them a deep
memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been
closer in their month of love nor communicated more profoundly one
with another than when she brushed silent lips against his coat's
shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though
she were asleep.
He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went
to the front and following the Argonne battles he got his majority and
the command of the divisional machine guns. After the Armistice
he tried frantically to get home but some complication or
misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now--there
was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy's letters. She didn't see why
he couldn't come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside
and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be
reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids
and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of
the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new
tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the
"Beale Street Blues" while a hundred pairs of golden and silver
slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were
always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low sweet fever,
while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the
sad horns around the floor.
Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the
season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with
half a dozen men and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and
chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor
beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a
decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately--and the decision
must be made by some force--of love, of money, of unquestionable
practicality--that was close at hand.
That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom
Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his
position and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain
struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was
still at Oxford.
It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of
the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey turning,
gold turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew
and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a
slow pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool
lovely day.
"I don't think she ever loved him." Gatsby turned around from a window
and looked at me challengingly. "You must remember, old sport, she was
very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that
frightened her--that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper.
And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying."
He sat down gloomily.
"Of course she might have loved him, just for a minute, when they were
first married--and loved me more even then, do you see?"
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark:
"In any case," he said, "it was just personal."
What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in
his conception of the affair that couldn't be measured?
He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding
trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville
on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the
streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the
November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which
they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy's house had always
seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses so his
idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded
with a melancholy beauty.
He left feeling that if he had searched harder he might have found
her--that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach--he was penniless
now--was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a
folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar
buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow
trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have
seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.
The track curved and now it was going away from the sun which, as it
sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing
city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand
desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of
the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too
fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of
it, the freshest and the best, forever.
It was nine o'clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the
porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there
was an autumn flavor in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby's
former servants, came to the foot of the steps.
"I'm going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves'll start falling
pretty soon and then there's always trouble with the pipes."
"Don't do it today," Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically.
"You know, old sport, I've never used that pool all summer?"
I looked at my watch and stood up.
"Twelve minutes to my train."
I didn't want to go to the city. I wasn't worth a decent stroke of work
but it was more than that--I didn't want to leave Gatsby. I missed that
train, and then another, before I could get myself away.
"I'll call you up," I said finally.
"Do, old sport."
"I'll call you about noon."
We walked slowly down the steps.
"I suppose Daisy'll call too." He looked at me anxiously as if he
hoped I'd corroborate this.
"I suppose so."
"Well--goodbye."
We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I
remembered something and turned around.
"They're a rotten crowd," I shouted across the lawn. "You're worth the
whole damn bunch put together."
I've always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave
him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded
politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding
smile, as if we'd been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time.
His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the
white steps and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral
home three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the
faces of those who guessed at his corruption--and he had stood on those
steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.
I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for
that--I and the others.
"Goodbye," I called. "I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby."
Up in the city I tried for a while to list the quotations on an
interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair.
Just before noon the phone woke me and I started up with sweat
breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called
me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements
between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find
in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something
fresh and cool as if a divot from a green golf links had come
sailing in at the office window but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.
"I've left Daisy's house," she said. "I'm at Hempstead and I'm going down
to Southampton this afternoon."
Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy's house, but the act
annoyed me and her next remark made me rigid.
"You weren't so nice to me last night."
"How could it have mattered then?"
Silence for a moment. Then--
"However--I want to see you."
"I want to see you too."
"Suppose I don't go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?"
"No--I don't think this afternoon."
"Very well."
"It's impossible this afternoon. Various----"
We talked like that for a while and then abruptly we weren't talking any
longer. I don't know which of us hung up with a sharp click but I know I
didn't care. I couldn't have talked to her across a tea-table that day if
I never talked to her again in this world.
I called Gatsby's house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I
tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was
being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my
time-table I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I
leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.
When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed
deliberately to the other side of the car. I suppose there'd be a
curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark
spots in the dust and some garrulous man telling over and over what
had happened until it became less and less real even to him and he
could tell it no longer and Myrtle Wilson's tragic achievement was
forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the
garage after we left there the night before.
They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must
have broken her rule against drinking that night for when she
arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the
ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of
this she immediately fainted as if that was the intolerable part of
the affair. Someone kind or curious took her in his car and drove
her in the wake of her sister's body.
Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front
of the garage while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the
couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open and
everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it.
Finally someone said it was a shame and closed the door. Michaelis and
several other men were with him--first four or five men, later two or
three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait
there fifteen minutes longer while he went back to his own place and made
a pot of coffee. After that he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.
About three o'clock the quality of Wilson's incoherent muttering
changed--he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He
announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged
to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had
come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.
But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry "Oh,
my God!" again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt
to distract him.
"How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit
still a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?"
"Twelve years."
"Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still--I asked you a
question. Did you ever have any children?"
The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light and whenever
Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him
like the car that hadn't stopped a few hours before. He didn't like to go
into the garage because the work bench was stained where the body had
been lying so he moved uncomfortably around the office--he knew every
object in it before morning--and from time to time sat down beside Wilson
trying to keep him more quiet.
"Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you
haven't been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church
and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?"
"Don't belong to any."
"You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have
gone to church once. Didn't you get married in a church? Listen, George,
listen to me. Didn't you get married in a church?"
"That was a long time ago."
The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking--for a moment he
was silent. Then the same half knowing, half bewildered look came back
into his faded eyes.
"Look in the drawer there," he said, pointing at the desk.
"Which drawer?"
"That drawer--that one."
Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but
a small expensive dog leash made of leather and braided silver. It was
apparently new.
"This?" he inquired, holding it up.
Wilson stared and nodded.
"I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it but I
knew it was something funny."
"You mean your wife bought it?"
"She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau."
Michaelis didn't see anything odd in that and he gave Wilson a dozen
reasons why his wife might have bought the dog leash. But conceivably
Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle,
because he began saying "Oh, my God!" again in a whisper--his comforter
left several explanations in the air.
"Then he killed her," said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.
"Who did?"
"I have a way of finding out."
"You're morbid, George," said his friend. "This has been a strain to you
and you don't know what you're saying. You'd better try and sit quiet
till morning."
"He murdered her."
"It was an accident, George."
Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly
with the ghost of a superior "Hm!"
"I know," he said definitely, "I'm one of these trusting fellas and I
don't think any harm to NObody, but when I get to know a thing I know
it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he
wouldn't stop."
Michaelis had seen this too but it hadn't occurred to him that there was
any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been
running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any
particular car.
"How could she of been like that?"
"She's a deep one," said Wilson, as if that answered the question.
"Ah-h-h----"
He began to rock again and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in
his hand.
"Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?"
This was a forlorn hope--he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend:
there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when
he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and
realized that dawn wasn't far off. About five o'clock it was blue enough
outside to snap off the light.
Wilson's glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where small grey
clouds took on fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint
dawn wind.
"I spoke to her," he muttered, after a long silence. "I told her she might
fool me but she couldn't fool God. I took her to the window--" With an
effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face
pressed against it, "--and I said 'God knows what you've been doing,
everything you've been doing. You may fool me but you can't fool God!' "
Standing behind him Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the
eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg which had just emerged pale and enormous
from the dissolving night.
"God sees everything," repeated Wilson.
"That's an advertisement," Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn
away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a
long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight.
By six o'clock Michaelis was worn out and grateful for the sound of a
car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before
who had promised to come back so he cooked breakfast for three which
he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now and Michaelis
went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and hurried back to the
garage Wilson was gone.
His movements--he was on foot all the time--were afterward traced to Port
Roosevelt and then to Gad's Hill where he bought a sandwich that he
didn't eat and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking
slowly for he didn't reach Gad's Hill until noon. Thus far there was
no difficulty in accounting for his time--there were boys who had seen a
man "acting sort of crazy" and motorists at whom he stared oddly from
the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared from view.
The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, that he "had
a way of finding out," supposed that he spent that time going from
garage to garage thereabouts inquiring for a yellow car. On the other
hand no garage man who had seen him ever came forward--and perhaps he
had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to know. By
half past two he was in West Egg where he asked someone the way to
Gatsby's house. So by that time he knew Gatsby's name.
At two o'clock Gatsby put on his bathing suit and left word with the
butler that if any one phoned word was to be brought to him at the
pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had amused
his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him pump it up.
Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn't to be taken out
under any circumstances--and this was strange because the front right
fender needed repair.
Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he
stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he
needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among
the yellowing trees.
No telephone message arrived but the butler went without his sleep and
waited for it until four o'clock--until long after there was any one to
give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn't
believe it would come and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true
he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high
price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up
at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he
found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was
upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being
real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted
fortuitously about . . . like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward
him through the amorphous trees.
The chauffeur--he was one of Wolfsheim's protégés--heard the
shots--afterward he could only say that he hadn't thought anything much
about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby's house and my
rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed any
one. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four
of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener and I, hurried down to the pool.
There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the
fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other.
With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden
mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that
scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental
course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves
revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of compass, a thin red circle
in the water.
It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener
saw Wilson's body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was
complete.
Chapter 9
After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the
next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and
newspaper men in and out of Gatsby's front door. A rope stretched
across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but
little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard and
there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool.
Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the
expression "mad man" as he bent over Wilson's body that afternoon, and
the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper
reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare--grotesque, circumstantial,
eager and untrue. When Michaelis's testimony at the inquest brought to
light Wilson's suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would
shortly be served up in racy pasquinade--but Catherine, who might have
said anything, didn't say a word. She showed a surprising amount of
character about it too--looked at the coroner with determined eyes under
that corrected brow of hers and swore that her sister had never seen
Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her
sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it
and cried into her handkerchief as if the very suggestion was more
than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man "deranged by
grief" in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And
it rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on
Gatsby's side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of
the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and
every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and
confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn't move or breathe or
speak hour upon hour it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no
one else was interested--interested, I mean, with that intense personal
interest to which every one has some vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her
instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away
early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
"Left no address?"
"No."
"Say when they'd be back?"
"No."
"Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?"
"I don't know. Can't say."
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he
lay and reassure him: "I'll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don't worry.
Just trust me and I'll get somebody for you----"
Meyer Wolfsheim's name wasn't in the phone book. The butler gave me his
office address on Broadway and I called Information, but by the time I
had the number it was long after five and no one answered the phone.
"Will you ring again?"
"I've rung them three times."
"It's very important."
"Sorry. I'm afraid no one's there."
I went back to the drawing room and thought for an instant that they were
chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But
as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes,
his protest continued in my brain.
"Look here, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me. You've got
to try hard. I can't go through this alone."
Some one started to ask me questions but I broke away and going upstairs
looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk--he'd never told me
definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing--only the
picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence staring down from
the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfsheim
which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next
train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd
start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire
from Daisy before noon--but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived, no
one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men.
When the butler brought back Wolfsheim's answer I began to have a
feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me
against them all.
_Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my
life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad
act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as
I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in
this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me
know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a
thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly
MEYER Wolfsheim_
and then hasty addenda beneath:
_Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all._
When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was
calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came
through as a man's voice, very thin and far away.
"This is Slagle speaking. . . ."
"Yes?" The name was unfamiliar.
"Hell of a note, isn't it? Get my wire?"
"There haven't been any wires."
"Young Parke's in trouble," he said rapidly. "They picked him up when he
handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York
giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about
that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns----"
"Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here--this isn't Mr. Gatsby.
Mr. Gatsby's dead."
There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an
exclamation . . . then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz
arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was
leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.
It was Gatsby's father, a solemn old man very helpless and dismayed,
bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His
eyes leaked continuously with excitement and when I took the bag and
umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse
grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the
point of collapse so I took him into the music room and made him sit
down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn't eat and the
glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.
"I saw it in the Chicago newspaper," he said. "It was all in the Chicago
newspaper. I started right away."
"I didn't know how to reach you."
His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.
"It was a mad man," he said. "He must have been mad."
"Wouldn't you like some coffee?" I urged him.
"I don't want anything. I'm all right now, Mr.----"
"Carraway."
"Well, I'm all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?"
I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there.
Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall;
when I told them who had arrived they went reluctantly away.
After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth
ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and
unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the
quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the
first time and saw the height and splendor of the hall and the great
rooms opening out from it into other rooms his grief began to be mixed
with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took
off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been
deferred until he came.
"I didn't know what you'd want, Mr. Gatsby----"
"Gatz is my name."
"--Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body west."
He shook his head.
"Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in
the East. Were you a friend of my boy's, Mr.--?"
"We were close friends."
"He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man but
he had a lot of brain power here."
He touched his head impressively and I nodded.
"If he'd of lived he'd of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill.
He'd of helped build up the country."
"That's true," I said, uncomfortably.
He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed,
and lay down stiffly--was instantly asleep.
That night an obviously frightened person called up and demanded to know
who I was before he would give his name.
"This is Mr. Carraway," I said.
"Oh--" He sounded relieved. "This is Klipspringer."
I was relieved too for that seemed to promise another friend
at Gatsby's grave. I didn't want it to be in the papers and draw
a sightseeing crowd so I'd been calling up a few people myself.
They were hard to find.
"The funeral's tomorrow," I said. "Three o'clock, here at the house.
I wish you'd tell anybody who'd be interested."
"Oh, I will," he broke out hastily. "Of course I'm not likely to see
anybody, but if I do."
His tone made me suspicious.
"Of course you'll be there yourself."
"Well, I'll certainly try. What I called up about is----"
"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "How about saying you'll come?"
"Well, the fact is--the truth of the matter is that I'm staying with
some people up here in Greenwich and they rather expect me to be with
them tomorrow. In fact there's a sort of picnic or something.
Of course I'll do my very best to get away."
I ejaculated an unrestrained "Huh!" and he must have heard me for he went
on nervously:
"What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if
it'd be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You
see they're tennis shoes and I'm sort of helpless without them. My
address is care of B. F.----"
I didn't hear the rest of the name because I hung up the receiver.
After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby--one gentleman to whom I
telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was
my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at
Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby's liquor and I should have known
better than to call him.
The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer
Wolfsheim; I couldn't seem to reach him any other way. The door that I
pushed open on the advice of an elevator boy was marked "The Swastika
Holding Company" and at first there didn't seem to be any one inside.
But when I'd shouted "Hello" several times in vain an argument broke
out behind a partition and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an
interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.
"Nobody's in," she said. "Mr. Wolfsheim's gone to Chicago."
The first part of this was obviously untrue for someone had begun to
whistle "The Rosary," tunelessly, inside.
"Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him."
"I can't get him back from Chicago, can I?"
At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim's called "Stella!"
from the other side of the door.
"Leave your name on the desk," she said quickly. "I'll give it to him
when he gets back."
"But I know he's there."
She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up
and down her hips.
"You young men think you can force your way in here any time," she
scolded. "We're getting sickantired of it. When I say he's in Chicago,
he's in ChiCAgo."
I mentioned Gatsby.
"Oh--h!" She looked at me over again. "Will you just--what was your name?"
She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway,
holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a
reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me
a cigar.
"My memory goes back to when I first met him," he said. "A young
major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got
in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform
because he couldn't buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was
when he come into Winebrenner's poolroom at Forty-third Street and
asked for a job. He hadn't eat anything for a couple of days. 'Come on
have some lunch with me,' I sid. He ate more than four dollars' worth of
food in half an hour."
"Did you start him in business?" I inquired.
"Start him! I made him."
"Oh."
"I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right
away he was a fine appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told
me he was an Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join up
in the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he
did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like
that in everything--" He held up two bulbous fingers "--always
together."
I wondered if this partnership had included the World's Series transaction
in 1919.
"Now he's dead," I said after a moment. "You were his closest friend,
so I know you'll want to come to his funeral this afternoon."
"I'd like to come."
"Well, come then."
The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly and as he shook his head his
eyes filled with tears.
"I can't do it--I can't get mixed up in it," he said.
"There's nothing to get mixed up in. It's all over now."
"When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way.
I keep out. When I was a young man it was different--if a friend of mine
died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that's
sentimental but I mean it--to the bitter end."
I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come,
so I stood up.
"Are you a college man?" he inquired suddenly.
For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a "gonnegtion" but he
only nodded and shook my hand.
"Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not
after he is dead," he suggested. "After that my own rule is to let
everything alone."
When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg
in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found
Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his
son and in his son's possessions was continually increasing and now he
had something to show me.
"Jimmy sent me this picture." He took out his wallet with trembling
fingers. "Look there."
It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with
many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. "Look there!" and
then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think
it was more real to him now than the house itself.
"Jimmy sent it to me. I think it's a very pretty picture. It shows up
well."
"Very well. Had you seen him lately?"
"He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in
now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home but I see now
there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him.
And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me."
He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute,
lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from
his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called "Hopalong Cassidy."
"Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows
you."
He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see.
On the last fly-leaf was printed the word SCHEDULE, and the date
September 12th, 1906. And underneath:
Rise from bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.00 A.M.
Dumbbell exercise and wall-scaling . . . . . . 6.15-6.30 "
Study electricity, etc . . . . . . . . . . . . 7.15-8.15 "
Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.30-4.30 P.M.
Baseball and sports . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.30-5.00 "
Practice elocution, poise and how to attain it 5.00-6.00 "
Study needed inventions . . . . . . . . . . . 7.00-9.00 "
GENERAL RESOLVES
No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable]
No more smokeing or chewing
Bath every other day
Read one improving book or magazine per week
Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week
Be better to parents
"I come across this book by accident," said the old man. "It just shows
you, don't it?"
"It just shows you."
"Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or
something. Do you notice what he's got about improving his mind? He was
always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once and I beat him
for it."
He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then
looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the
list for my own use.
A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing and
I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did
Gatsby's father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and
stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously and he
spoke of the rain in a worried uncertain way. The minister glanced
several times at his watch so I took him aside and asked him to wait
for half an hour. But it wasn't any use. Nobody came.
About five o'clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery
and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate--first a motor hearse,
horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and I in the
limousine, and, a little later, four or five servants and the postman
from West Egg in Gatsby's station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we
started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then
the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked
around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found
marvelling over Gatsby's books in the library one night three months
before.
I'd never seen him since then. I don't know how he knew about the
funeral or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses and
he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled
from Gatsby's grave.
I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment but he was already too
far away and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy
hadn't sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur
"Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on," and then the owl-eyed
man said "Amen to that," in a brave voice.
We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-Eyes spoke
to me by the gate.
"I couldn't get to the house," he remarked.
"Neither could anybody else."
"Go on!" He started. "Why, my God! they used to go there by the
hundreds."
He took off his glasses and wiped them again outside and in.
"The poor son-of-a-bitch," he said.
One of my most vivid memories is of coming back west from prep school
and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than
Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o'clock of a
December evening with a few Chicago friends already caught up into
their own holiday gayeties to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember
the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This or That's and
the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as
we caught sight of old acquaintances and the matchings of invitations:
"Are you going to the Ordways'? the Herseys'? the Schultzes'?"
and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands.
And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul
Railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside
the gate.
When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow,
began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the
dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace
came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked
back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our
identity with this country for one strange hour before we melted
indistinguishably into it again.
That's my middle west--not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede
towns but the thrilling, returning trains of my youth and the street
lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly
wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a
little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent
from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are
still called through decades by a family's name. I see now that this
has been a story of the West, after all--Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and
Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some
deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.
Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware
of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the
Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the
children and the very old--even then it had always for me a quality of
distortion. West Egg especially still figures in my more fantastic
dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at
once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging
sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress
suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a
drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over
the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a
house--the wrong house. But no one knows the woman's name, and no one
cares.
After Gatsby's death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted
beyond my eyes' power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle
leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the
line I decided to come back home.
There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant
thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to
leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent
sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and
around what had happened to us together and what had happened
afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still listening in a big
chair.
She was dressed to play golf and I remember thinking she looked like a
good illustration, her chin raised a little, jauntily, her hair the
color of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless
glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that
she was engaged to another man. I doubted that though there were
several she could have married at a nod of her head but I pretended to
be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn't making a
mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say
goodbye.
"Nevertheless you did throw me over," said Jordan suddenly. "You threw me
over on the telephone. I don't give a damn about you now but it was a
new experience for me and I felt a little dizzy for a while."
We shook hands.
"Oh, and do you remember--" she added, "----a conversation we had once
about driving a car?"
"Why--not exactly."
"You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver?
Well, I met another bad driver, didn't I? I mean it was careless of me
to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest,
straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride."
"I'm thirty," I said. "I'm five years too old to lie to myself and call
it honor."
She didn't answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously
sorry, I turned away.
One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead
of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a
little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving
sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I
slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into
the windows of a jewelry store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back
holding out his hand.
"What's the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?"
"Yes. You know what I think of you."
"You're crazy, Nick," he said quickly. "Crazy as hell. I don't know
what's the matter with you."
"Tom," I inquired, "what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?"
He stared at me without a word and I knew I had guessed right about
those missing hours. I started to turn away but he took a step after me
and grabbed my arm.
"I told him the truth," he said. "He came to the door while we were
getting ready to leave and when I sent down word that we weren't in he
tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I
hadn't told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his
pocket every minute he was in the house----" He broke off defiantly.
"What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw
dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy's but he was a tough
one. He ran over Myrtle like you'd run over a dog and never even stopped
his car."
There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact
that it wasn't true.
"And if you think I didn't have my share of suffering--look here, when I
went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting
there on the sideboard I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it
was awful----"
I couldn't forgive him or like him but I saw that what he had done was,
to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused.
They were careless people, Tom and Daisy--they smashed up things and
creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast
carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other
people clean up the mess they had made. . . .
I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as
though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewelry store to
buy a pearl necklace--or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons--rid of my
provincial squeamishness forever.
Gatsby's house was still empty when I left--the grass on his lawn had
grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never
took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and
pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to
East Egg the night of the accident and perhaps he had made a story
about it all his own. I didn't want to hear it and I avoided him when I
got off the train.
I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling
parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the
music and the laughter faint and incessant from his garden and the
cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car
there and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn't
investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the
ends of the earth and didn't know that the party was over.
On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer,
I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once
more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a
piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight and I erased it,
drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the
beach and sprawled out on the sand.
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any
lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound.
And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away
until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered
once for Dutch sailors' eyes--a fresh, green breast of the new world.
Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had
once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams;
for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the
presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation
he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in
history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of
Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of
Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must
have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not
know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity
beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under
the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by
year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter--tomorrow
we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine
morning----
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into
the past.
THE END#18,941,083textTHE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 1787
We the people of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,
establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence,
promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves
and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the
United States of America.
Article 1
Section 1. All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a
Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and
House of Representatives.
Section 2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members
chosen every second Year by the People of the several States,
and the electors in each State shall have the qualifications requisite
for electors of the most numerous branch of the State legislature.
No Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to the
Age of twenty five Years, and been seven Years a citizen of the United States,
and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State in which
he shall be chosen.
Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among
the several States which may be included within this Union,
according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined
by adding to the whole number of free Persons, including those
bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed,
three fifths of all other Persons. The actual Enumeration shall be made
within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the
United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years,
in such Manner as they shall by law Direct. The number of
Representatives shall not exceed one for every thirty Thousand,
but each State shall have at least one Representative;
and until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshire
shall be entitled to chuse three, Massachusetts eight, Rhode Island
and Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six,
New Jersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six,
Virginia ten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three.
When vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, the Executive
Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill such Vacancies.
The House of Representatives shall chuse their Speaker and other Officers;
and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment.
Section 3. The Senate of the United States shall be composed of
two Senators from each State, chosen by the legislature thereof,
for six Years; and each Senator shall have one Vote.
Immediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the first Election,
they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes. The Seats of
the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at the expiration of the
second Year, of the second Class at the expiration of the fourth Year,
and of the third Class at the expiration of the sixth Year, so that one third
may be chosen every second Year; and if vacancies happen by Resignation,
or otherwise, during the recess of the Legislature of any State,
the Executive thereof may make temporary Appointments until the
next meeting of the Legislature, which shall then fill such Vacancies.
No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of
thirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States,
and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State
for which he shall be chosen.
The Vice-President of the United States shall be President of the Senate,
but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided.
The Senate shall choose their other Officers, and also a President
pro tempore, in the Absence of the Vice-President, or when he shall
exercise the Office of President of the United States.
The Senate shall have the sole Power to try all Impeachments.
When sitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation.
When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice
shall preside: And no Person shall be convicted without the Concurrence
of two thirds of the Members present.
Judgment in cases of Impeachment shall not extend further than to removal
from Office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of honor,
Trust or Profit under the United States: but the Party convicted shall
nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and
Punishment, according to Law.
Section 4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for Senators and
Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by the Legislature thereof;
but the Congress may at any time by Law make or alter such Regulations,
except as to the Places of chusing Senators.
The Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year,
and such Meeting shall be on the first Monday in December,
unless they shall by law appoint a different Day.
Section 5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections,
Returns and Qualifications of its own Members, and a
Majority of each shall constitute a Quorum to do Business;
but a smaller Number may adjourn from day to day,
and may be authorized to compel the Attendance of absent Members,
in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each House may provide.
Each house may determine the Rules of its Proceedings,
punish its Members for disorderly Behavior, and, with the
Concurrence of two-thirds, expel a Member.
Each house shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings,
and from time to time publish the same, excepting such Parts as may
in their Judgment require Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the
Members of either House on any question shall, at the Desire of
one fifth of those Present, be entered on the Journal.
Neither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without the
Consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to
any other Place than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.
Section 6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation
for their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the Treasury
of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony and
Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance
at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning
from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House,
they shall not be questioned in any other Place.
No Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he was elected,
be appointed to any civil Office under the authority of the United States,
which shall have been created, or the Emoluments whereof shall have been
increased during such time; and no Person holding any Office under the
United States, shall be a Member of either House during his Continuance
in Office.
Section 7. All Bills for raising Revenue shall originate in the
House of Representatives; but the Senate may propose or concur with
Amendments as on other Bills.
Every Bill which shall have passed the House of Representatives and
the Senate, shall, before it become a Law, be presented to the
President of the United States; If he approve he shall sign it,
but if not he shall return it, with his Objections to that House
in which it shall have originated, who shall enter the Objections
at large on their Journal, and proceed to reconsider it.
If after such Reconsideration two thirds of that house
shall agree to pass the Bill, it shall be sent,
together with the Objections, to the other House, by which
it shall likewise be reconsidered, and if approved by two thirds
of that House, it shall become a law. But in all such Cases
the Votes of both Houses shall be determined by Yeas and Nays,
and the Names of the Persons voting for and against the Bill shall be
entered on the Journal of each House respectively. If any Bill
shall not be returned by the President within ten Days (Sundays excepted)
after it shall have been presented to him, the Same shall be a Law,
in like Manner as if he had signed it, unless the Congress by their
Adjournment prevent its Return, in which case it shall not be a Law.
Every Order, Resolution, or Vote to which the Concurrence of the Senate
and House of Representatives may be necessary (except on a question
of Adjournment) shall be presented to the President of the United States;
and before the Same shall take Effect, shall be approved by him,
or being disapproved by him, shall be repassed by two thirds of
the Senate and House of Representatives, according to the Rules
and Limitations prescribed in the Case of a Bill.
Section 8. The Congress shall have Power to lay and collect Taxes, Duties,
Imposts and Excises, to pay the Debts and provide for the common Defence
and general Welfare of the United States; but all Duties, Imposts and Excises
shall be uniform throughout the United States;
To borrow Money on the credit of the United States;
To regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States,
and with the Indian Tribes;
To establish an uniform Rule of Naturalization, and uniform Laws
on the subject of Bankruptcies throughout the United States;
To coin Money, regulate the Value thereof, and of foreign Coin,
and fix the Standard of Weights and Measures;
To provide for the Punishment of counterfeiting the Securities
and current Coin of the United States;
To establish Post Offices and Post Roads;
To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing
for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right
to their respective Writings and Discoveries;
To constitute Tribunals inferior to the supreme Court;
To define and punish Piracies and Felonies committed on the high Seas,
and Offenses against the Law of Nations;
To declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal,
and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water;
To raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Use
shall be for a longer term than two Years;
To provide and maintain a Navy;
To make Rules for the Government and Regulation of the land and naval Forces;
To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the Union,
suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions;
To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and for
governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the
United States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment
of the Officers, and the Authority of training the militia according
to the discipline prescribed by Congress;
To exercise exclusive Legislation in all Cases whatsoever,
over such District (not exceeding ten Miles square) as may,
by Cession of particular States, and the Acceptance of Congress,
become the Seat of the Government of the United States, and to
exercise like Authority over all Places purchased by the Consent
of the Legislature of the State in which the Same shall be,
for the Erection of Forts, Magazines, Arsenals, Dockyards,
and other needful Buildings;--And
To make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying
into Execution the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested
by this Constitution in the Government of the United States,
or in any Department or Officer thereof.
Section 9. The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any
of the States now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not
be prohibited by the Congress prior to the Year one thousand eight
hundred and eight, but a Tax or Duty may be imposed on such Importation,
not exceeding ten dollars for each Person.
The Privilege of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall not be suspended, unless
when in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion the public Safety may require it.
No Bill of Attainder or ex post facto Law shall be passed.
No Capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion
to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.
No Tax or Duty shall be laid on Articles exported from any State.
No Preference shall be given by any Regulation of Commerce or Revenue
to the Ports of one State over those of another: nor shall Vessels bound to,
or from, one State, be obliged to enter, clear, or pay Duties in another.
No Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in Consequence
of Appropriations made by Law; and a regular Statement and Account
of the Receipts and Expenditures of all public Money shall be
published from time to time.
No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States;
and no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall,
without the Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument,
Office, or Title, of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince,
or foreign State.
Section 10. No State shall enter into any Treaty, Alliance, or
Confederation; grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal; coin Money;
emit Bills of Credit; make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender
in Payment of Debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law,
or Law impairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility.
No State shall, without the Consent of the Congress, lay any Imposts or Duties
on Imports or Exports, except what may be absolutely necessary for executing
it's inspection Laws: and the net Produce of all Duties and Imposts,
laid by any State on Imports or Exports, shall be for the Use of the Treasury
of the United States; and all such Laws shall be subject to the Revision
and Controul of the Congress.
No State shall, without the Consent of Congress, lay any Duty of
Tonnage, keep Troops, or Ships of War in time of Peace, enter into any
Agreement or Compact with another State, or with a foreign Power, or
engage in War, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent Danger
as will not admit of delay.
ARTICLE 2
Section 1. The executive Power shall be vested in a President
of the United States of America. He shall hold his Office during
the Term of four Years, and, together with the Vice President
chosen for the same Term, be elected, as follows:
Each State shall appoint, in such Manner as the Legislature thereof may direct,
a Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators and Representatives
to which the State may be entitled in the Congress: but no Senator or
Representative, or Person holding an Office of Trust or Profit under
the United States, shall be appointed an Elector.
The Electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by Ballot
for two Persons, of whom one at least shall not be an Inhabitant of
the same State with themselves. And they shall make a List of
all the Persons voted for, and of the Number of Votes for each;
which List they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to
the Seat of the Government of the United States, directed to the
President of the Senate. The President of the Senate shall,
in the Presence of the Senate and House of Representatives,
open all the Certificates, and the Votes shall then be counted.
The Person having the greatest Number of Votes shall be the President,
if such Number be a Majority of the whole Number of Electors appointed;
and if there be more than one who have such Majority, and have an equal
Number of votes, then the House of Representatives shall immediately
chuse by Ballot one of them for President; and if no Person have
a Majority, then from the five highest on the List the said House
shall in like Manner chuse the President. But in chusing the President,
the Votes shall be taken by States, the Representation from each State
having one Vote; a Quorum for this Purpose shall consist of a Member
or Members from two thirds of the States, and a Majority of all the
States shall be necessary to a Choice. In every Case, after the Choice
of the President, the Person having the greatest Number of Votes of
the Electors shall be the Vice President. But if there should remain
two or more who have equal Votes, the Senate shall chuse from them
by Ballot the Vice President.
The Congress may determine the Time of chusing the Electors,
and the Day on which they shall give their Votes; which Day
shall be the same throughout the United States.
No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States,
at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to
the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that
Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years,
and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.
In Case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death,
Resignation, or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the
said Office, the Same shall devolve on the Vice President, and the
Congress may by Law provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation
or Inability, both of the President and Vice President, declaring what
Officer shall then act as President, and such Officer shall act accordingly,
until the Disability be removed, or a President shall be elected.
The President shall, at stated Times, receive for his Services,
a Compensation, which shall neither be encreased nor diminished during
the Period for which he shall have been elected, and he shall not receive
within that Period any other Emolument from the United States, or any of them.
Before he enter on the Execution of his Office, he shall take the
following Oath or Affirmation:--"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that
I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,
and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the
Constitution of the United States."
Section 2. The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army
and Navy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States,
when called into the actual Service of the United States;
he may require the Opinion, in writing, of the principal Officer
in each of the executive Departments, upon any Subject relating to
the Duties of their respective Offices, and he shall have Power
to grant Reprieves and Pardons for Offenses against the United States,
except in Cases of impeachment.
He shall have Power, by and with the Advice and Consent of the
Senate, to make Treaties, provided two thirds of the Senators
present concur; and he shall nominate, and by and with the Advice
and Consent of the Senate, shall appoint Ambassadors, other public
Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court, and all other
Officers of the United States, whose Appointments are not herein
otherwise provided for, and which shall be established by Law:
but the Congress may by Law vest the Appointment of such inferior Officers,
as they think proper, in the President alone, in the Courts of Law,
or in the Heads of Departments.
The President shall have Power to fill up all Vacancies that may happen
during the Recess of the Senate, by granting Commissions which shall
expire at the End of their next session.
Section 3. He shall from time to time give to the Congress
Information of the State of the Union, and recommend to their
Consideration such Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient;
he may, on extraordinary Occasions, convene both Houses, or either
of them, and in Case of Disagreement between them, with Respect to
the Time of Adjournment, he may adjourn them to such Time as he shall
think proper; he shall receive Ambassadors and other public Ministers;
he shall take Care that the Laws be faithfully executed, and shall
Commission all the Officers of the United States.
Section 4. The President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the
United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for,
and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.
ARTICLE THREE
Section 1. The judicial Power of the United States, shall be vested
in one supreme Court, and in such inferior Courts as the Congress may
from time to time ordain and establish. The Judges, both of the supreme
and inferior Courts, shall hold their Offices during good behavior,
and shall, at stated Times, receive for their Services, a Compensation,
which shall not be diminished during their Continuance in Office.
Section 2. The judicial Power shall extend to all Cases, in Law and Equity,
arising under this Constitution, the Laws of the United States, and Treaties
made, or which shall be made, under their Authority;--to all Cases affecting
Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls;--to all Cases of admiralty
and maritime Jurisdiction;--to Controversies to which the United States
shall be a Party;--to Controversies between two or more States;--between a
State and Citizens of another State;--between Citizens of different States;
--between Citizens of the same State claiming Lands under Grants of
different States, and between a State, or the Citizens thereof,
and foreign States, Citizens or Subjects.
In all cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls,
and those in which a State shall be Party, the supreme Court shall have
original Jurisdiction. In all the other Cases before mentioned, the
supreme Court shall have appellate Jurisdiction, both as to Law and Fact,
with such Exceptions, and under such Regulations as the Congress shall make.
The Trial of all Crimes, except in Cases of Impeachment, shall be by Jury;
and such Trial shall be held in the State where the said Crimes shall
have been committed; but when not committed within any State, the Trial
shall be at such Place or Places as the Congress may by Law have directed.
Section 3. Treason against the United States, shall consist only in
levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them
Aid and Comfort. No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on
the Testimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession
in open Court.
The Congress shall have power to declare the punishment of Treason,
but no Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood,
or Forfeiture except during the Life of the Person attainted.
ARTICLE FOUR
Section 1. Full Faith and Credit shall be given in each State to the
public Acts, Records, and judicial Proceedings of every other State.
And the Congress may by general Laws prescribe the Manner in which such Acts,
Records, and Proceedings shall be proved, and the Effect thereof.
Section 2. The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all
Privileges and Immunities of Citizens in the several States.
A Person charged in any State with Treason, Felony, or other Crime,
who shall flee from Justice, and be found in another State,
shall on Demand of the executive Authority of the State from
which he fled, be delivered up, to be removed to the State having
Jurisdiction of the Crime.
No person held to Service or Labor in one State, under the Laws thereof,
escaping into another, shall, in Consequence of any Law or Regulation therein,
be discharged from such Service or Labor, But shall be delivered up on Claim
of the Party to whom such Service or Labor may be due.
Section 3. New States may be admitted by the Congress into this Union;
but no new States shall be formed or erected within the Jurisdiction
of any other State; nor any State be formed by the Junction of two
or more States, or Parts of States, without the Consent of the
Legislatures of the States concerned as well as of the Congress.
The Congress shall have Power to dispose of and make all needful Rules
and Regulations respecting the Territory or other Property belonging
to the United States; and nothing in this Constitution shall be so
construed as to Prejudice any Claims of the United States,
or of any particular State.
Section 4. The United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union
a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of them against
Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of the Executive
(when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domestic Violence.
ARTICLE FIVE
The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary,
shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of
the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention
for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents
and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures
of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths
thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by
the Congress; Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the
Year one thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect
the first and fourth Clauses in the ninth Section of the first Article;
and that no State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of it's
equal Suffrage in the Senate.
ARTICLE SIX
All Debts contracted and Engagements entered into, before the Adoption
of this Constitution, shall be as valid against the United States
under this Constitution, as under the Confederation.
This Constitution, and the Laws of the United States which shall be made
in Pursuance thereof; and all Treaties made, or which shall be made,
under the Authority of the United States, shall be the supreme
Law of the Land; and the Judges in every State shall be bound thereby,
any Thing in the Constitution or Laws of any State to the Contrary
notwithstanding.
The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the
several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers,
both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound
by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution; but no religious
Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust
under the United States
ARTICLE SEVEN
The Ratification of the Conventions of nine States, shall be sufficient for the
Establishment of this Constitution between the States so ratifying the Same.
Done in Convention by the Unanimous Consent of the States present
the Seventeenth Day of September in the Year of our Lord one
thousand seven hundred and eighty seven and of the Independence of the
United States of America the Twelfth In Witness whereof We have
hereunto subscribed our Names,
Go. WASHINGTON--
Presid. and deputy from Virginia
New Hampshire
John Langdon
Nicholas Gilman
Massachusetts
Nathaniel Gorham
Rufus King
Connecticut
Wm. Saml. Johnson
Roger Sherman
New York
Alexander Hamilton
New Jersey
Wil: Livingston
David Brearley
Wm. Paterson
Jona: Dayton
Pennsylvania
B Franklin
Thomas Mifflin
Robt Morris
Geo. Clymer
Thos FitzSimons
Jared Ingersoll
James Wilson
Gouv Morris
Delaware
Geo: Read
Gunning Bedford jun
John Dickinson
Richard Bassett
Jaco: Broom
Maryland
James Mchenry
Dan of St Thos. Jenifer
Danl Carroll
Virginia
John Blair--
James Madison Jr.
North Carolina
Wm. Blount
Rich'd Dobbs Spaight
Hu Williamson
South Carolina
J. Rutledge
Charles Cotesworth Pinckney
Charles Pinckney
Pierce Butler
Georgia
William Few
Abr Baldwin
Attest:
William Jackson, Secretary#18,941,042textKing James Bible:Book of Genesis
Genesis 1:1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
Genesis 1:2 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness [was] upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
Genesis 1:3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
Genesis 1:4 And God saw the light, that [it was] good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
Genesis 1:5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
Genesis 1:6 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
Genesis 1:7 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which [were] under the firmament from the waters which [were] above the firmament: and it was so.
Genesis 1:8 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.
Genesis 1:9 And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry [land] appear: and it was so.
Genesis 1:10 And God called the dry [land] Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:11 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, [and] the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed [is] in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.
Genesis 1:12 And the earth brought forth grass, [and] herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed [was] in itself, after his kind: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:13 And the evening and the morning were the third day.
Genesis 1:14 And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years:
Genesis 1:15 And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so.
Genesis 1:16 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: [he made] the stars also.
Genesis 1:17 And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth,
Genesis 1:18 And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:19 And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.
Genesis 1:20 And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl [that] may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.
Genesis 1:21 And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:22 And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth.
Genesis 1:23 And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.
Genesis 1:24 And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind: and it was so.
Genesis 1:25 And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that [it was] good.
Genesis 1:26 And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.
Genesis 1:27 So God created man in his [own] image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.
Genesis 1:28 And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.
Genesis 1:29 And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which [is] upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which [is] the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat.
Genesis 1:30 And to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing that creepeth upon the earth, wherein [there is] life, [I have given] every green herb for meat: and it was so.
Genesis 1:31 And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, [it was] very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.
Genesis 2:1 Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them.
Genesis 2:2 And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.
Genesis 2:3 And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made.
Genesis 2:4 These [are] the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the LORD God made the earth and the heavens,
Genesis 2:5 And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and [there was] not a man to till the ground.
Genesis 2:6 But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground.
Genesis 2:7 And the LORD God formed man [of] the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
Genesis 2:8 And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.
Genesis 2:9 And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
Genesis 2:10 And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads.
Genesis 2:11 The name of the first [is] Pison: that [is] it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where [there is] gold;
Genesis 2:12 And the gold of that land [is] good: there [is] bdellium and the onyx stone.
Genesis 2:13 And the name of the second river [is] Gihon: the same [is] it that compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia.
Genesis 2:14 And the name of the third river [is] Hiddekel: that [is] it which goeth toward the east of Assyria. And the fourth river [is] Euphrates.
Genesis 2:15 And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.
Genesis 2:16 And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat:
Genesis 2:17 But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
Genesis 2:18 And the LORD God said, [It is] not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.
Genesis 2:19 And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought [them] unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that [was] the name thereof.
Genesis 2:20 And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him.
Genesis 2:21 And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
Genesis 2:22 And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.
Genesis 2:23 And Adam said, This [is] now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.
Genesis 2:24 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.
Genesis 2:25 And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
Genesis 3:1 Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?
Genesis 3:2 And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:
Genesis 3:3 But of the fruit of the tree which [is] in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.
Genesis 3:4 And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:
Genesis 3:5 For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.
Genesis 3:6 And when the woman saw that the tree [was] good for food, and that it [was] pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make [one] wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.
Genesis 3:7 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they [were] naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.
Genesis 3:8 And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.
Genesis 3:9 And the LORD God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where [art] thou?
Genesis 3:10 And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I [was] naked; and I hid myself.
Genesis 3:11 And he said, Who told thee that thou [wast] naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?
Genesis 3:12 And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest [to be] with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
Genesis 3:13 And the LORD God said unto the woman, What [is] this [that] thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.
Genesis 3:14 And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou [art] cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life:
Genesis 3:15 And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.
Genesis 3:16 Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire [shall be] to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.
Genesis 3:17 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed [is] the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat [of] it all the days of thy life;
Genesis 3:18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
Genesis 3:19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou [art], and unto dust shalt thou return.
Genesis 3:20 And Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living.
Genesis 3:21 Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them.
Genesis 3:22 And the LORD God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:
Genesis 3:23 Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.
Genesis 3:24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.
Genesis 4:1 And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived, and bare Cain, and said, I have gotten a man from the LORD.
Genesis 4:2 And she again bare his brother Abel. And Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain was a tiller of the ground.
Genesis 4:3 And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the LORD.
Genesis 4:4 And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And the LORD had respect unto Abel and to his offering:
Genesis 4:5 But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.
Genesis 4:6 And the LORD said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen?
Genesis 4:7 If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee [shall be] his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.
Genesis 4:8 And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.
Genesis 4:9 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where [is] Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: [Am] I my brother’s keeper?
Genesis 4:10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
Genesis 4:11 And now [art] thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand;
Genesis 4:12 When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
Genesis 4:13 And Cain said unto the LORD, My punishment [is] greater than I can bear.
Genesis 4:14 Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, [that] every one that findeth me shall slay me.
Genesis 4:15 And the LORD said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the LORD set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.
Genesis 4:16 And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.
Genesis 4:17 And Cain knew his wife; and she conceived, and bare Enoch: and he builded a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son, Enoch.
Genesis 4:18 And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methusael: and Methusael begat Lamech.
Genesis 4:19 And Lamech took unto him two wives: the name of the one [was] Adah, and the name of the other Zillah.
Genesis 4:20 And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and [of such as have] cattle.
Genesis 4:21 And his brother’s name [was] Jubal: he was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ.
Genesis 4:22 And Zillah, she also bare Tubalcain, an instructer of every artificer in brass and iron: and the sister of Tubalcain [was] Naamah.
Genesis 4:23 And Lamech said unto his wives, Adah and Zillah, Hear my voice; ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my speech: for I have slain a man to my wounding, and a young man to my hurt.
Genesis 4:24 If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy and sevenfold.
Genesis 4:25 And Adam knew his wife again; and she bare a son, and called his name Seth: For God, [said she], hath appointed me another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew.
Genesis 4:26 And to Seth, to him also there was born a son; and he called his name Enos: then began men to call upon the name of the LORD.
Genesis 5:1 This [is] the book of the generations of Adam. In the day that God created man, in the likeness of God made he him;
Genesis 5:2 Male and female created he them; and blessed them, and called their name Adam, in the day when they were created.
Genesis 5:3 And Adam lived an hundred and thirty years, and begat [a son] in his own likeness, after his image; and called his name Seth:
Genesis 5:4 And the days of Adam after he had begotten Seth were eight hundred years: and he begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:5 And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died.
Genesis 5:6 And Seth lived an hundred and five years, and begat Enos:
Genesis 5:7 And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:8 And all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years: and he died.
Genesis 5:9 And Enos lived ninety years, and begat Cainan:
Genesis 5:10 And Enos lived after he begat Cainan eight hundred and fifteen years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:11 And all the days of Enos were nine hundred and five years: and he died.
Genesis 5:12 And Cainan lived seventy years, and begat Mahalaleel:
Genesis 5:13 And Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:14 And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years: and he died.
Genesis 5:15 And Mahalaleel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared:
Genesis 5:16 And Mahalaleel lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:17 And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five years: and he died.
Genesis 5:18 And Jared lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat Enoch:
Genesis 5:19 And Jared lived after he begat Enoch eight hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:20 And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died.
Genesis 5:21 And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat Methuselah:
Genesis 5:22 And Enoch walked with God after he begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:23 And all the days of Enoch were three hundred sixty and five years:
Genesis 5:24 And Enoch walked with God: and he [was] not; for God took him.
Genesis 5:25 And Methuselah lived an hundred eighty and seven years, and begat Lamech:
Genesis 5:26 And Methuselah lived after he begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:27 And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.
Genesis 5:28 And Lamech lived an hundred eighty and two years, and begat a son:
Genesis 5:29 And he called his name Noah, saying, This [same] shall comfort us concerning our work and toil of our hands, because of the ground which the LORD hath cursed.
Genesis 5:30 And Lamech lived after he begat Noah five hundred ninety and five years, and begat sons and daughters:
Genesis 5:31 And all the days of Lamech were seven hundred seventy and seven years: and he died.
Genesis 5:32 And Noah was five hundred years old: and Noah begat Shem, Ham, and Japheth.
Genesis 6:1 And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them,
Genesis 6:2 That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they [were] fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.
Genesis 6:3 And the LORD said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also [is] flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.
Genesis 6:4 There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare [children] to them, the same [became] mighty men which [were] of old, men of renown.
Genesis 6:5 And GOD saw that the wickedness of man [was] great in the earth, and [that] every imagination of the thoughts of his heart [was] only evil continually.
Genesis 6:6 And it repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.
Genesis 6:7 And the LORD said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.
Genesis 6:8 But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD.
Genesis 6:9 These [are] the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man [and] perfect in his generations, [and] Noah walked with God.
Genesis 6:10 And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth.
Genesis 6:11 The earth also was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence.
Genesis 6:12 And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth.
Genesis 6:13 And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth.
Genesis 6:14 Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch.
Genesis 6:15 And this [is the fashion] which thou shalt make it [of]: The length of the ark [shall be] three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits.
Genesis 6:16 A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; [with] lower, second, and third [stories] shalt thou make it.
Genesis 6:17 And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein [is] the breath of life, from under heaven; [and] every thing that [is] in the earth shall die.
Genesis 6:18 But with thee will I establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons’ wives with thee.
Genesis 6:19 And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every [sort] shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep [them] alive with thee; they shall be male and female.
Genesis 6:20 Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind, two of every [sort] shall come unto thee, to keep [them] alive.
Genesis 6:21 And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and thou shalt gather [it] to thee; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them.
Genesis 6:22 Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.
Genesis 7:1 And the LORD said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before me in this generation.
Genesis 7:2 Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that [are] not clean by two, the male and his female.
Genesis 7:3 Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth.
Genesis 7:4 For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth.
Genesis 7:5 And Noah did according unto all that the LORD commanded him.
Genesis 7:6 And Noah [was] six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.
Genesis 7:7 And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood.
Genesis 7:8 Of clean beasts, and of beasts that [are] not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing that creepeth upon the earth,
Genesis 7:9 There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah.
Genesis 7:10 And it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth.
Genesis 7:11 In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.
Genesis 7:12 And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.
Genesis 7:13 In the selfsame day entered Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japheth, the sons of Noah, and Noah’s wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark;
Genesis 7:14 They, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his kind, every bird of every sort.
Genesis 7:15 And they went in unto Noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein [is] the breath of life.
Genesis 7:16 And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him: and the LORD shut him in.
Genesis 7:17 And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth.
Genesis 7:18 And the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters.
Genesis 7:19 And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that [were] under the whole heaven, were covered.
Genesis 7:20 Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered.
Genesis 7:21 And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man:
Genesis 7:22 All in whose nostrils [was] the breath of life, of all that [was] in the dry [land], died.
Genesis 7:23 And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained [alive], and they that [were] with him in the ark.
Genesis 7:24 And the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.
Genesis 8:1 And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that [was] with him in the ark: and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters asswaged;
Genesis 8:2 The fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained;
Genesis 8:3 And the waters returned from off the earth continually: and after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated.
Genesis 8:4 And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat.
Genesis 8:5 And the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth [month], on the first [day] of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen.
Genesis 8:6 And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he had made:
Genesis 8:7 And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth.
Genesis 8:8 Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground;
Genesis 8:9 But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark, for the waters [were] on the face of the whole earth: then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.
Genesis 8:10 And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark;
Genesis 8:11 And the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth [was] an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.
Genesis 8:12 And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more.
Genesis 8:13 And it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the first [month], the first [day] of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth: and Noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry.
Genesis 8:14 And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the month, was the earth dried.
Genesis 8:15 And God spake unto Noah, saying,
Genesis 8:16 Go forth of the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons’ wives with thee.
Genesis 8:17 Bring forth with thee every living thing that [is] with thee, of all flesh, [both] of fowl, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruitful, and multiply upon the earth.
Genesis 8:18 And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him:
Genesis 8:19 Every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, [and] whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark.
Genesis 8:20 And Noah builded an altar unto the LORD; and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar.
Genesis 8:21 And the LORD smelled a sweet savour; and the LORD said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart [is] evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done.
Genesis 8:22 While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.
Genesis 9:1 And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.
Genesis 9:2 And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all that moveth [upon] the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered.
Genesis 9:3 Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things.
Genesis 9:4 But flesh with the life thereof, [which is] the blood thereof, shall ye not eat.
Genesis 9:5 And surely your blood of your lives will I require; at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man; at the hand of every man’s brother will I require the life of man.
Genesis 9:6 Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man.
Genesis 9:7 And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.
Genesis 9:8 And God spake unto Noah, and to his sons with him, saying,
Genesis 9:9 And I, behold, I establish my covenant with you, and with your seed after you;
Genesis 9:10 And with every living creature that [is] with you, of the fowl, of the cattle, and of every beast of the earth with you; from all that go out of the ark, to every beast of the earth.
Genesis 9:11 And I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.
Genesis 9:12 And God said, This [is] the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that [is] with you, for perpetual generations:
Genesis 9:13 I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
Genesis 9:14 And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud:
Genesis 9:15 And I will remember my covenant, which [is] between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.
Genesis 9:16 And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that [is] upon the earth.
Genesis 9:17 And God said unto Noah, This [is] the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh that [is] upon the earth.
Genesis 9:18 And the sons of Noah, that went forth of the ark, were Shem, and Ham, and Japheth: and Ham [is] the father of Canaan.
Genesis 9:19 These [are] the three sons of Noah: and of them was the whole earth overspread.
Genesis 9:20 And Noah began [to be] an husbandman, and he planted a vineyard:
Genesis 9:21 And he drank of the wine, and was drunken; and he was uncovered within his tent.
Genesis 9:22 And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father, and told his two brethren without.
Genesis 9:23 And Shem and Japheth took a garment, and laid [it] upon both their shoulders, and went backward, and covered the nakedness of their father; and their faces [were] backward, and they saw not their father’s nakedness.
Genesis 9:24 And Noah awoke from his wine, and knew what his younger son had done unto him.
Genesis 9:25 And he said, Cursed [be] Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.
Genesis 9:26 And he said, Blessed [be] the LORD God of Shem; and Canaan shall be his servant.
Genesis 9:27 God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem; and Canaan shall be his servant.
Genesis 9:28 And Noah lived after the flood three hundred and fifty years.
Genesis 9:29 And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years: and he died.
Genesis 10:1 Now these [are] the generations of the sons of Noah, Shem, Ham, and Japheth: and unto them were sons born after the flood.
Genesis 10:2 The sons of Japheth; Gomer, and Magog, and Madai, and Javan, and Tubal, and Meshech, and Tiras.
Genesis 10:3 And the sons of Gomer; Ashkenaz, and Riphath, and Togarmah.
Genesis 10:4 And the sons of Javan; Elishah, and Tarshish, Kittim, and Dodanim.
Genesis 10:5 By these were the isles of the Gentiles divided in their lands; every one after his tongue, after their families, in their nations.
Genesis 10:6 And the sons of Ham; Cush, and Mizraim, and Phut, and Canaan.
Genesis 10:7 And the sons of Cush; Seba, and Havilah, and Sabtah, and Raamah, and Sabtecha: and the sons of Raamah; Sheba, and Dedan.
Genesis 10:8 And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth.
Genesis 10:9 He was a mighty hunter before the LORD: wherefore it is said, Even as Nimrod the mighty hunter before the LORD.
Genesis 10:10 And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar.
Genesis 10:11 Out of that land went forth Asshur, and builded Nineveh, and the city Rehoboth, and Calah,
Genesis 10:12 And Resen between Nineveh and Calah: the same [is] a great city.
Genesis 10:13 And Mizraim begat Ludim, and Anamim, and Lehabim, and Naphtuhim,
Genesis 10:14 And Pathrusim, and Casluhim, (out of whom came Philistim,) and Caphtorim.
Genesis 10:15 And Canaan begat Sidon his firstborn, and Heth,
Genesis 10:16 And the Jebusite, and the Amorite, and the Girgasite,
Genesis 10:17 And the Hivite, and the Arkite, and the Sinite,
Genesis 10:18 And the Arvadite, and the Zemarite, and the Hamathite: and afterward were the families of the Canaanites spread abroad.
Genesis 10:19 And the border of the Canaanites was from Sidon, as thou comest to Gerar, unto Gaza; as thou goest, unto Sodom, and Gomorrah, and Admah, and Zeboim, even unto Lasha.
Genesis 10:20 These [are] the sons of Ham, after their families, after their tongues, in their countries, [and] in their nations.
Genesis 10:21 Unto Shem also, the father of all the children of Eber, the brother of Japheth the elder, even to him were [children] born.
Genesis 10:22 The children of Shem; Elam, and Asshur, and Arphaxad, and Lud, and Aram.
Genesis 10:23 And the children of Aram; Uz, and Hul, and Gether, and Mash.
Genesis 10:24 And Arphaxad begat Salah; and Salah begat Eber.
Genesis 10:25 And unto Eber were born two sons: the name of one [was] Peleg; for in his days was the earth divided; and his brother’s name [was] Joktan.
Genesis 10:26 And Joktan begat Almodad, and Sheleph, and Hazarmaveth, and Jerah,
Genesis 10:27 And Hadoram, and Uzal, and Diklah,
Genesis 10:28 And Obal, and Abimael, and Sheba,
Genesis 10:29 And Ophir, and Havilah, and Jobab: all these [were] the sons of Joktan.
Genesis 10:30 And their dwelling was from Mesha, as thou goest unto Sephar a mount of the east.
Genesis 10:31 These [are] the sons of Shem, after their families, after their tongues, in their lands, after their nations.
Genesis 10:32 These [are] the families of the sons of Noah, after their generations, in their nations: and by these were the nations divided in the earth after the flood.
Genesis 11:1 And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.
Genesis 11:2 And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.
Genesis 11:3 And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them throughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter.
Genesis 11:4 And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top [may reach] unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.
Genesis 11:5 And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.
Genesis 11:6 And the LORD said, Behold, the people [is] one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
Genesis 11:7 Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.
Genesis 11:8 So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.
Genesis 11:9 Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.
Genesis 11:10 These [are] the generations of Shem: Shem [was] an hundred years old, and begat Arphaxad two years after the flood:
Genesis 11:11 And Shem lived after he begat Arphaxad five hundred years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:12 And Arphaxad lived five and thirty years, and begat Salah:
Genesis 11:13 And Arphaxad lived after he begat Salah four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:14 And Salah lived thirty years, and begat Eber:
Genesis 11:15 And Salah lived after he begat Eber four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:16 And Eber lived four and thirty years, and begat Peleg:
Genesis 11:17 And Eber lived after he begat Peleg four hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:18 And Peleg lived thirty years, and begat Reu:
Genesis 11:19 And Peleg lived after he begat Reu two hundred and nine years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:20 And Reu lived two and thirty years, and begat Serug:
Genesis 11:21 And Reu lived after he begat Serug two hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:22 And Serug lived thirty years, and begat Nahor:
Genesis 11:23 And Serug lived after he begat Nahor two hundred years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:24 And Nahor lived nine and twenty years, and begat Terah:
Genesis 11:25 And Nahor lived after he begat Terah an hundred and nineteen years, and begat sons and daughters.
Genesis 11:26 And Terah lived seventy years, and begat Abram, Nahor, and Haran.
Genesis 11:27 Now these [are] the generations of Terah: Terah begat Abram, Nahor, and Haran; and Haran begat Lot.
Genesis 11:28 And Haran died before his father Terah in the land of his nativity, in Ur of the Chaldees.
Genesis 11:29 And Abram and Nahor took them wives: the name of Abram’s wife [was] Sarai; and the name of Nahor’s wife, Milcah, the daughter of Haran, the father of Milcah, and the father of Iscah.
Genesis 11:30 But Sarai was barren; she [had] no child.
Genesis 11:31 And Terah took Abram his son, and Lot the son of Haran his son’s son, and Sarai his daughter in law, his son Abram’s wife; and they went forth with them from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan; and they came unto Haran, and dwelt there.
Genesis 11:32 And the days of Terah were two hundred and five years: and Terah died in Haran.
Genesis 12:1 Now the LORD had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee:
Genesis 12:2 And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing:
Genesis 12:3 And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee: and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed.
Genesis 12:4 So Abram departed, as the LORD had spoken unto him; and Lot went with him: and Abram [was] seventy and five years old when he departed out of Haran.
Genesis 12:5 And Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their substance that they had gathered, and the souls that they had gotten in Haran; and they went forth to go into the land of Canaan; and into the land of Canaan they came.
Genesis 12:6 And Abram passed through the land unto the place of Sichem, unto the plain of Moreh. And the Canaanite [was] then in the land.
Genesis 12:7 And the LORD appeared unto Abram, and said, Unto thy seed will I give this land: and there builded he an altar unto the LORD, who appeared unto him.
Genesis 12:8 And he removed from thence unto a mountain on the east of Bethel, and pitched his tent, [having] Bethel on the west, and Hai on the east: and there he builded an altar unto the LORD, and called upon the name of the LORD.
Genesis 12:9 And Abram journeyed, going on still toward the south.
Genesis 12:10 And there was a famine in the land: and Abram went down into Egypt to sojourn there; for the famine [was] grievous in the land.
Genesis 12:11 And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou [art] a fair woman to look upon:
Genesis 12:12 Therefore it shall come to pass, when the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This [is] his wife: and they will kill me, but they will save thee alive.
Genesis 12:13 Say, I pray thee, thou [art] my sister: that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because of thee.
Genesis 12:14 And it came to pass, that, when Abram was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she [was] very fair.
Genesis 12:15 The princes also of Pharaoh saw her, and commended her before Pharaoh: and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s house.
Genesis 12:16 And he entreated Abram well for her sake: and he had sheep, and oxen, and he asses, and menservants, and maidservants, and she asses, and camels.
Genesis 12:17 And the LORD plagued Pharaoh and his house with great plagues because of Sarai Abram’s wife.
Genesis 12:18 And Pharaoh called Abram, and said, What [is] this [that] thou hast done unto me? why didst thou not tell me that she [was] thy wife?
Genesis 12:19 Why saidst thou, She [is] my sister? so I might have taken her to me to wife: now therefore behold thy wife, take [her], and go thy way.
Genesis 12:20 And Pharaoh commanded [his] men concerning him: and they sent him away, and his wife, and all that he had.
Genesis 13:1 And Abram went up out of Egypt, he, and his wife, and all that he had, and Lot with him, into the south.
Genesis 13:2 And Abram [was] very rich in cattle, in silver, and in gold.
Genesis 13:3 And he went on his journeys from the south even to Bethel, unto the place where his tent had been at the beginning, between Bethel and Hai;
Genesis 13:4 Unto the place of the altar, which he had made there at the first: and there Abram called on the name of the LORD.
Genesis 13:5 And Lot also, which went with Abram, had flocks, and herds, and tents.
Genesis 13:6 And the land was not able to bear them, that they might dwell together: for their substance was great, so that they could not dwell together.
Genesis 13:7 And there was a strife between the herdmen of Abram’s cattle and the herdmen of Lot’s cattle: and the Canaanite and the Perizzite dwelled then in the land.
Genesis 13:8 And Abram said unto Lot, Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdmen and thy herdmen; for we [be] brethren.
Genesis 13:9 [Is] not the whole land before thee? separate thyself, I pray thee, from me: if [thou wilt take] the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if [thou depart] to the right hand, then I will go to the left.
Genesis 13:10 And Lot lifted up his eyes, and beheld all the plain of Jordan, that it [was] well watered every where, before the LORD destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, [even] as the garden of the LORD, like the land of Egypt, as thou comest unto Zoar.
Genesis 13:11 Then Lot chose him all the plain of Jordan; and Lot journeyed east: and they separated themselves the one from the other.
Genesis 13:12 Abram dwelled in the land of Canaan, and Lot dwelled in the cities of the plain, and pitched [his] tent toward Sodom.
Genesis 13:13 But the men of Sodom [were] wicked and sinners before the LORD exceedingly.
Genesis 13:14 And the LORD said unto Abram, after that Lot was separated from him, Lift up now thine eyes, and look from the place where thou art northward, and southward, and eastward, and westward:
Genesis 13:15 For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed for ever.
Genesis 13:16 And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth: so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, [then] shall thy seed also be numbered.
Genesis 13:17 Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee.
Genesis 13:18 Then Abram removed [his] tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which [is] in Hebron, and built there an altar unto the LORD.
Genesis 14:1 And it came to pass in the days of Amraphel king of Shinar, Arioch king of Ellasar, Chedorlaomer king of Elam, and Tidal king of nations;
Genesis 14:2 [That these] made war with Bera king of Sodom, and with Birsha king of Gomorrah, Shinab king of Admah, and Shemeber king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela, which is Zoar.
Genesis 14:3 All these were joined together in the vale of Siddim, which is the salt sea.
Genesis 14:4 Twelve years they served Chedorlaomer, and in the thirteenth year they rebelled.
Genesis 14:5 And in the fourteenth year came Chedorlaomer, and the kings that [were] with him, and smote the Rephaims in Ashteroth Karnaim, and the Zuzims in Ham, and the Emims in Shaveh Kiriathaim,
Genesis 14:6 And the Horites in their mount Seir, unto Elparan, which [is] by the wilderness.
Genesis 14:7 And they returned, and came to Enmishpat, which [is] Kadesh, and smote all the country of the Amalekites, and also the Amorites, that dwelt in Hazezontamar.
Genesis 14:8 And there went out the king of Sodom, and the king of Gomorrah, and the king of Admah, and the king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela (the same [is] Zoar;) and they joined battle with them in the vale of Siddim;
Genesis 14:9 With Chedorlaomer the king of Elam, and with Tidal king of nations, and Amraphel king of Shinar, and Arioch king of Ellasar; four kings with five.
Genesis 14:10 And the vale of Siddim [was full of] slimepits; and the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fled, and fell there; and they that remained fled to the mountain.
Genesis 14:11 And they took all the goods of Sodom and Gomorrah, and all their victuals, and went their way.
Genesis 14:12 And they took Lot, Abram’s brother’s son, who dwelt in Sodom, and his goods, and departed.
Genesis 14:13 And there came one that had escaped, and told Abram the Hebrew; for he dwelt in the plain of Mamre the Amorite, brother of Eshcol, and brother of Aner: and these [were] confederate with Abram.
Genesis 14:14 And when Abram heard that his brother was taken captive, he armed his trained [servants], born in his own house, three hundred and eighteen, and pursued [them] unto Dan.
Genesis 14:15 And he divided himself against them, he and his servants, by night, and smote them, and pursued them unto Hobah, which [is] on the left hand of Damascus.
Genesis 14:16 And he brought back all the goods, and also brought again his brother Lot, and his goods, and the women also, and the people.
Genesis 14:17 And the king of Sodom went out to meet him after his return from the slaughter of Chedorlaomer, and of the kings that [were] with him, at the valley of Shaveh, which [is] the king’s dale.
Genesis 14:18 And Melchizedek king of Salem brought forth bread and wine: and he [was] the priest of the most high God.
Genesis 14:19 And he blessed him, and said, Blessed [be] Abram of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth:
Genesis 14:20 And blessed be the most high God, which hath delivered thine enemies into thy hand. And he gave him tithes of all.
Genesis 14:21 And the king of Sodom said unto Abram, Give me the persons, and take the goods to thyself.
Genesis 14:22 And Abram said to the king of Sodom, I have lift up mine hand unto the LORD, the most high God, the possessor of heaven and earth,
Genesis 14:23 That I will not [take] from a thread even to a shoelatchet, and that I will not take any thing that [is] thine, lest thou shouldest say, I have made Abram rich:
Genesis 14:24 Save only that which the young men have eaten, and the portion of the men which went with me, Aner, Eshcol, and Mamre; let them take their portion.
Genesis 15:1 After these things the word of the LORD came unto Abram in a vision, saying, Fear not, Abram: I [am] thy shield, [and] thy exceeding great reward.
Genesis 15:2 And Abram said, Lord GOD, what wilt thou give me, seeing I go childless, and the steward of my house [is] this Eliezer of Damascus?
Genesis 15:3 And Abram said, Behold, to me thou hast given no seed: and, lo, one born in my house is mine heir.
Genesis 15:4 And, behold, the word of the LORD [came] unto him, saying, This shall not be thine heir; but he that shall come forth out of thine own bowels shall be thine heir.
Genesis 15:5 And he brought him forth abroad, and said, Look now toward heaven, and tell the stars, if thou be able to number them: and he said unto him, So shall thy seed be.
Genesis 15:6 And he believed in the LORD; and he counted it to him for righteousness.
Genesis 15:7 And he said unto him, I [am] the LORD that brought thee out of Ur of the Chaldees, to give thee this land to inherit it.
Genesis 15:8 And he said, Lord GOD, whereby shall I know that I shall inherit it?
Genesis 15:9 And he said unto him, Take me an heifer of three years old, and a she goat of three years old, and a ram of three years old, and a turtledove, and a young pigeon.
Genesis 15:10 And he took unto him all these, and divided them in the midst, and laid each piece one against another: but the birds divided he not.
Genesis 15:11 And when the fowls came down upon the carcases, Abram drove them away.
Genesis 15:12 And when the sun was going down, a deep sleep fell upon Abram; and, lo, an horror of great darkness fell upon him.
Genesis 15:13 And he said unto Abram, Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land [that is] not theirs, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them four hundred years;
Genesis 15:14 And also that nation, whom they shall serve, will I judge: and afterward shall they come out with great substance.
Genesis 15:15 And thou shalt go to thy fathers in peace; thou shalt be buried in a good old age.
Genesis 15:16 But in the fourth generation they shall come hither again: for the iniquity of the Amorites [is] not yet full.
Genesis 15:17 And it came to pass, that, when the sun went down, and it was dark, behold a smoking furnace, and a burning lamp that passed between those pieces.
Genesis 15:18 In the same day the LORD made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the great river, the river Euphrates:
Genesis 15:19 The Kenites, and the Kenizzites, and the Kadmonites,
Genesis 15:20 And the Hittites, and the Perizzites, and the Rephaims,
Genesis 15:21 And the Amorites, and the Canaanites, and the Girgashites, and the Jebusites.
Genesis 16:1 Now Sarai Abram’s wife bare him no children: and she had an handmaid, an Egyptian, whose name [was] Hagar.
Genesis 16:2 And Sarai said unto Abram, Behold now, the LORD hath restrained me from bearing: I pray thee, go in unto my maid; it may be that I may obtain children by her. And Abram hearkened to the voice of Sarai.
Genesis 16:3 And Sarai Abram’s wife took Hagar her maid the Egyptian, after Abram had dwelt ten years in the land of Canaan, and gave her to her husband Abram to be his wife.
Genesis 16:4 And he went in unto Hagar, and she conceived: and when she saw that she had conceived, her mistress was despised in her eyes.
Genesis 16:5 And Sarai said unto Abram, My wrong [be] upon thee: I have given my maid into thy bosom; and when she saw that she had conceived, I was despised in her eyes: the LORD judge between me and thee.
Genesis 16:6 But Abram said unto Sarai, Behold, thy maid [is] in thy hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee. And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face.
Genesis 16:7 And the angel of the LORD found her by a fountain of water in the wilderness, by the fountain in the way to Shur.
Genesis 16:8 And he said, Hagar, Sarai’s maid, whence camest thou? and whither wilt thou go? And she said, I flee from the face of my mistress Sarai.
Genesis 16:9 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Return to thy mistress, and submit thyself under her hands.
Genesis 16:10 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, I will multiply thy seed exceedingly, that it shall not be numbered for multitude.
Genesis 16:11 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Behold, thou [art] with child, and shalt bear a son, and shalt call his name Ishmael; because the LORD hath heard thy affliction.
Genesis 16:12 And he will be a wild man; his hand [will be] against every man, and every man’s hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.
Genesis 16:13 And she called the name of the LORD that spake unto her, Thou God seest me: for she said, Have I also here looked after him that seeth me?
Genesis 16:14 Wherefore the well was called Beerlahairoi; behold, [it is] between Kadesh and Bered.
Genesis 16:15 And Hagar bare Abram a son: and Abram called his son’s name, which Hagar bare, Ishmael.
Genesis 16:16 And Abram [was] fourscore and six years old, when Hagar bare Ishmael to Abram.
Genesis 17:1 And when Abram was ninety years old and nine, the LORD appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I [am] the Almighty God; walk before me, and be thou perfect.
Genesis 17:2 And I will make my covenant between me and thee, and will multiply thee exceedingly.
Genesis 17:3 And Abram fell on his face: and God talked with him, saying,
Genesis 17:4 As for me, behold, my covenant [is] with thee, and thou shalt be a father of many nations.
Genesis 17:5 Neither shall thy name any more be called Abram, but thy name shall be Abraham; for a father of many nations have I made thee.
Genesis 17:6 And I will make thee exceeding fruitful, and I will make nations of thee, and kings shall come out of thee.
Genesis 17:7 And I will establish my covenant between me and thee and thy seed after thee in their generations for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.
Genesis 17:8 And I will give unto thee, and to thy seed after thee, the land wherein thou art a stranger, all the land of Canaan, for an everlasting possession; and I will be their God.
Genesis 17:9 And God said unto Abraham, Thou shalt keep my covenant therefore, thou, and thy seed after thee in their generations.
Genesis 17:10 This [is] my covenant, which ye shall keep, between me and you and thy seed after thee; Every man child among you shall be circumcised.
Genesis 17:11 And ye shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin; and it shall be a token of the covenant betwixt me and you.
Genesis 17:12 And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every man child in your generations, he that is born in the house, or bought with money of any stranger, which [is] not of thy seed.
Genesis 17:13 He that is born in thy house, and he that is bought with thy money, must needs be circumcised: and my covenant shall be in your flesh for an everlasting covenant.
Genesis 17:14 And the uncircumcised man child whose flesh of his foreskin is not circumcised, that soul shall be cut off from his people; he hath broken my covenant.
Genesis 17:15 And God said unto Abraham, As for Sarai thy wife, thou shalt not call her name Sarai, but Sarah [shall] her name [be].
Genesis 17:16 And I will bless her, and give thee a son also of her: yea, I will bless her, and she shall be [a mother] of nations; kings of people shall be of her.
Genesis 17:17 Then Abraham fell upon his face, and laughed, and said in his heart, Shall [a child] be born unto him that is an hundred years old? and shall Sarah, that is ninety years old, bear?
Genesis 17:18 And Abraham said unto God, O that Ishmael might live before thee!
Genesis 17:19 And God said, Sarah thy wife shall bear thee a son indeed; and thou shalt call his name Isaac: and I will establish my covenant with him for an everlasting covenant, [and] with his seed after him.
Genesis 17:20 And as for Ishmael, I have heard thee: Behold, I have blessed him, and will make him fruitful, and will multiply him exceedingly; twelve princes shall he beget, and I will make him a great nation.
Genesis 17:21 But my covenant will I establish with Isaac, which Sarah shall bear unto thee at this set time in the next year.
Genesis 17:22 And he left off talking with him, and God went up from Abraham.
Genesis 17:23 And Abraham took Ishmael his son, and all that were born in his house, and all that were bought with his money, every male among the men of Abraham’s house; and circumcised the flesh of their foreskin in the selfsame day, as God had said unto him.
Genesis 17:24 And Abraham [was] ninety years old and nine, when he was circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin.
Genesis 17:25 And Ishmael his son [was] thirteen years old, when he was circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin.
Genesis 17:26 In the selfsame day was Abraham circumcised, and Ishmael his son.
Genesis 17:27 And all the men of his house, born in the house, and bought with money of the stranger, were circumcised with him.
Genesis 18:1 And the LORD appeared unto him in the plains of Mamre: and he sat in the tent door in the heat of the day;
Genesis 18:2 And he lift up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him: and when he saw [them], he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself toward the ground,
Genesis 18:3 And said, My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant:
Genesis 18:4 Let a little water, I pray you, be fetched, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree:
Genesis 18:5 And I will fetch a morsel of bread, and comfort ye your hearts; after that ye shall pass on: for therefore are ye come to your servant. And they said, So do, as thou hast said.
Genesis 18:6 And Abraham hastened into the tent unto Sarah, and said, Make ready quickly three measures of fine meal, knead [it], and make cakes upon the hearth.
Genesis 18:7 And Abraham ran unto the herd, and fetcht a calf tender and good, and gave [it] unto a young man; and he hasted to dress it.
Genesis 18:8 And he took butter, and milk, and the calf which he had dressed, and set [it] before them; and he stood by them under the tree, and they did eat.
Genesis 18:9 And they said unto him, Where [is] Sarah thy wife? And he said, Behold, in the tent.
Genesis 18:10 And he said, I will certainly return unto thee according to the time of life; and, lo, Sarah thy wife shall have a son. And Sarah heard [it] in the tent door, which [was] behind him.
Genesis 18:11 Now Abraham and Sarah [were] old [and] well stricken in age; [and] it ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women.
Genesis 18:12 Therefore Sarah laughed within herself, saying, After I am waxed old shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?
Genesis 18:13 And the LORD said unto Abraham, Wherefore did Sarah laugh, saying, Shall I of a surety bear a child, which am old?
Genesis 18:14 Is any thing too hard for the LORD? At the time appointed I will return unto thee, according to the time of life, and Sarah shall have a son.
Genesis 18:15 Then Sarah denied, saying, I laughed not; for she was afraid. And he said, Nay; but thou didst laugh.
Genesis 18:16 And the men rose up from thence, and looked toward Sodom: and Abraham went with them to bring them on the way.
Genesis 18:17 And the LORD said, Shall I hide from Abraham that thing which I do;
Genesis 18:18 Seeing that Abraham shall surely become a great and mighty nation, and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed in him?
Genesis 18:19 For I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the LORD, to do justice and judgment; that the LORD may bring upon Abraham that which he hath spoken of him.
Genesis 18:20 And the LORD said, Because the cry of Sodom and Gomorrah is great, and because their sin is very grievous;
Genesis 18:21 I will go down now, and see whether they have done altogether according to the cry of it, which is come unto me; and if not, I will know.
Genesis 18:22 And the men turned their faces from thence, and went toward Sodom: but Abraham stood yet before the LORD.
Genesis 18:23 And Abraham drew near, and said, Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?
Genesis 18:24 Peradventure there be fifty righteous within the city: wilt thou also destroy and not spare the place for the fifty righteous that [are] therein?
Genesis 18:25 That be far from thee to do after this manner, to slay the righteous with the wicked: and that the righteous should be as the wicked, that be far from thee: Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?
Genesis 18:26 And the LORD said, If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for their sakes.
Genesis 18:27 And Abraham answered and said, Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the Lord, which [am but] dust and ashes:
Genesis 18:28 Peradventure there shall lack five of the fifty righteous: wilt thou destroy all the city for [lack of] five? And he said, If I find there forty and five, I will not destroy [it].
Genesis 18:29 And he spake unto him yet again, and said, Peradventure there shall be forty found there. And he said, I will not do [it] for forty’s sake.
Genesis 18:30 And he said [unto him], Oh let not the Lord be angry, and I will speak: Peradventure there shall thirty be found there. And he said, I will not do [it], if I find thirty there.
Genesis 18:31 And he said, Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the Lord: Peradventure there shall be twenty found there. And he said, I will not destroy [it] for twenty’s sake.
Genesis 18:32 And he said, Oh let not the Lord be angry, and I will speak yet but this once: Peradventure ten shall be found there. And he said, I will not destroy [it] for ten’s sake.
Genesis 18:33 And the LORD went his way, as soon as he had left communing with Abraham: and Abraham returned unto his place.
Genesis 19:1 And there came two angels to Sodom at even; and Lot sat in the gate of Sodom: and Lot seeing [them] rose up to meet them; and he bowed himself with his face toward the ground;
Genesis 19:2 And he said, Behold now, my lords, turn in, I pray you, into your servant’s house, and tarry all night, and wash your feet, and ye shall rise up early, and go on your ways. And they said, Nay; but we will abide in the street all night.
Genesis 19:3 And he pressed upon them greatly; and they turned in unto him, and entered into his house; and he made them a feast, and did bake unleavened bread, and they did eat.
Genesis 19:4 But before they lay down, the men of the city, [even] the men of Sodom, compassed the house round, both old and young, all the people from every quarter:
Genesis 19:5 And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where [are] the men which came in to thee this night? bring them out unto us, that we may know them.
Genesis 19:6 And Lot went out at the door unto them, and shut the door after him,
Genesis 19:7 And said, I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly.
Genesis 19:8 Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as [is] good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof.
Genesis 19:9 And they said, Stand back. And they said [again], This one [fellow] came in to sojourn, and he will needs be a judge: now will we deal worse with thee, than with them. And they pressed sore upon the man, [even] Lot, and came near to break the door.
Genesis 19:10 But the men put forth their hand, and pulled Lot into the house to them, and shut to the door.
Genesis 19:11 And they smote the men that [were] at the door of the house with blindness, both small and great: so that they wearied themselves to find the door.
Genesis 19:12 And the men said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides? son in law, and thy sons, and thy daughters, and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring [them] out of this place:
Genesis 19:13 For we will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the LORD; and the LORD hath sent us to destroy it.
Genesis 19:14 And Lot went out, and spake unto his sons in law, which married his daughters, and said, Up, get you out of this place; for the LORD will destroy this city. But he seemed as one that mocked unto his sons in law.
Genesis 19:15 And when the morning arose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, Arise, take thy wife, and thy two daughters, which are here; lest thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city.
Genesis 19:16 And while he lingered, the men laid hold upon his hand, and upon the hand of his wife, and upon the hand of his two daughters; the LORD being merciful unto him: and they brought him forth, and set him without the city.
Genesis 19:17 And it came to pass, when they had brought them forth abroad, that he said, Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed.
Genesis 19:18 And Lot said unto them, Oh, not so, my Lord:
Genesis 19:19 Behold now, thy servant hath found grace in thy sight, and thou hast magnified thy mercy, which thou hast shewed unto me in saving my life; and I cannot escape to the mountain, lest some evil take me, and I die:
Genesis 19:20 Behold now, this city [is] near to flee unto, and it [is] a little one: Oh, let me escape thither, ([is] it not a little one?) and my soul shall live.
Genesis 19:21 And he said unto him, See, I have accepted thee concerning this thing also, that I will not overthrow this city, for the which thou hast spoken.
Genesis 19:22 Haste thee, escape thither; for I cannot do any thing till thou be come thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar.
Genesis 19:23 The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar.
Genesis 19:24 Then the LORD rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the LORD out of heaven;
Genesis 19:25 And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.
Genesis 19:26 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.
Genesis 19:27 And Abraham gat up early in the morning to the place where he stood before the LORD:
Genesis 19:28 And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and, lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.
Genesis 19:29 And it came to pass, when God destroyed the cities of the plain, that God remembered Abraham, and sent Lot out of the midst of the overthrow, when he overthrew the cities in the which Lot dwelt.
Genesis 19:30 And Lot went up out of Zoar, and dwelt in the mountain, and his two daughters with him; for he feared to dwell in Zoar: and he dwelt in a cave, he and his two daughters.
Genesis 19:31 And the firstborn said unto the younger, Our father [is] old, and [there is] not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth:
Genesis 19:32 Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.
Genesis 19:33 And they made their father drink wine that night: and the firstborn went in, and lay with her father; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.
Genesis 19:34 And it came to pass on the morrow, that the firstborn said unto the younger, Behold, I lay yesternight with my father: let us make him drink wine this night also; and go thou in, [and] lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.
Genesis 19:35 And they made their father drink wine that night also: and the younger arose, and lay with him; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.
Genesis 19:36 Thus were both the daughters of Lot with child by their father.
Genesis 19:37 And the firstborn bare a son, and called his name Moab: the same [is] the father of the Moabites unto this day.
Genesis 19:38 And the younger, she also bare a son, and called his name Benammi: the same [is] the father of the children of Ammon unto this day.
Genesis 20:1 And Abraham journeyed from thence toward the south country, and dwelled between Kadesh and Shur, and sojourned in Gerar.
Genesis 20:2 And Abraham said of Sarah his wife, She [is] my sister: and Abimelech king of Gerar sent, and took Sarah.
Genesis 20:3 But God came to Abimelech in a dream by night, and said to him, Behold, thou [art but] a dead man, for the woman which thou hast taken; for she [is] a man’s wife.
Genesis 20:4 But Abimelech had not come near her: and he said, Lord, wilt thou slay also a righteous nation?
Genesis 20:5 Said he not unto me, She [is] my sister? and she, even she herself said, He [is] my brother: in the integrity of my heart and innocency of my hands have I done this.
Genesis 20:6 And God said unto him in a dream, Yea, I know that thou didst this in the integrity of thy heart; for I also withheld thee from sinning against me: therefore suffered I thee not to touch her.
Genesis 20:7 Now therefore restore the man [his] wife; for he [is] a prophet, and he shall pray for thee, and thou shalt live: and if thou restore [her] not, know thou that thou shalt surely die, thou, and all that [are] thine.
Genesis 20:8 Therefore Abimelech rose early in the morning, and called all his servants, and told all these things in their ears: and the men were sore afraid.
Genesis 20:9 Then Abimelech called Abraham, and said unto him, What hast thou done unto us? and what have I offended thee, that thou hast brought on me and on my kingdom a great sin? thou hast done deeds unto me that ought not to be done.
Genesis 20:10 And Abimelech said unto Abraham, What sawest thou, that thou hast done this thing?
Genesis 20:11 And Abraham said, Because I thought, Surely the fear of God [is] not in this place; and they will slay me for my wife’s sake.
Genesis 20:12 And yet indeed [she is] my sister; she [is] the daughter of my father, but not the daughter of my mother; and she became my wife.
Genesis 20:13 And it came to pass, when God caused me to wander from my father’s house, that I said unto her, This [is] thy kindness which thou shalt shew unto me; at every place whither we shall come, say of me, He [is] my brother.
Genesis 20:14 And Abimelech took sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and womenservants, and gave [them] unto Abraham, and restored him Sarah his wife.
Genesis 20:15 And Abimelech said, Behold, my land [is] before thee: dwell where it pleaseth thee.
Genesis 20:16 And unto Sarah he said, Behold, I have given thy brother a thousand [pieces] of silver: behold, he [is] to thee a covering of the eyes, unto all that [are] with thee, and with all [other]: thus she was reproved.
Genesis 20:17 So Abraham prayed unto God: and God healed Abimelech, and his wife, and his maidservants; and they bare [children].
Genesis 20:18 For the LORD had fast closed up all the wombs of the house of Abimelech, because of Sarah Abraham’s wife.
Genesis 21:1 And the LORD visited Sarah as he had said, and the LORD did unto Sarah as he had spoken.
Genesis 21:2 For Sarah conceived, and bare Abraham a son in his old age, at the set time of which God had spoken to him.
Genesis 21:3 And Abraham called the name of his son that was born unto him, whom Sarah bare to him, Isaac.
Genesis 21:4 And Abraham circumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.
Genesis 21:5 And Abraham was an hundred years old, when his son Isaac was born unto him.
Genesis 21:6 And Sarah said, God hath made me to laugh, [so that] all that hear will laugh with me.
Genesis 21:7 And she said, Who would have said unto Abraham, that Sarah should have given children suck? for I have born [him] a son in his old age.
Genesis 21:8 And the child grew, and was weaned: and Abraham made a great feast the [same] day that Isaac was weaned.
Genesis 21:9 And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, which she had born unto Abraham, mocking.
Genesis 21:10 Wherefore she said unto Abraham, Cast out this bondwoman and her son: for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, [even] with Isaac.
Genesis 21:11 And the thing was very grievous in Abraham’s sight because of his son.
Genesis 21:12 And God said unto Abraham, Let it not be grievous in thy sight because of the lad, and because of thy bondwoman; in all that Sarah hath said unto thee, hearken unto her voice; for in Isaac shall thy seed be called.
Genesis 21:13 And also of the son of the bondwoman will I make a nation, because he [is] thy seed.
Genesis 21:14 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread, and a bottle of water, and gave [it] unto Hagar, putting [it] on her shoulder, and the child, and sent her away: and she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba.
Genesis 21:15 And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the child under one of the shrubs.
Genesis 21:16 And she went, and sat her down over against [him] a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against [him], and lift up her voice, and wept.
Genesis 21:17 And God heard the voice of the lad; and the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he [is].
Genesis 21:18 Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand; for I will make him a great nation.
Genesis 21:19 And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink.
Genesis 21:20 And God was with the lad; and he grew, and dwelt in the wilderness, and became an archer.
Genesis 21:21 And he dwelt in the wilderness of Paran: and his mother took him a wife out of the land of Egypt.
Genesis 21:22 And it came to pass at that time, that Abimelech and Phichol the chief captain of his host spake unto Abraham, saying, God [is] with thee in all that thou doest:
Genesis 21:23 Now therefore swear unto me here by God that thou wilt not deal falsely with me, nor with my son, nor with my son’s son: [but] according to the kindness that I have done unto thee, thou shalt do unto me, and to the land wherein thou hast sojourned.
Genesis 21:24 And Abraham said, I will swear.
Genesis 21:25 And Abraham reproved Abimelech because of a well of water, which Abimelech’s servants had violently taken away.
Genesis 21:26 And Abimelech said, I wot not who hath done this thing: neither didst thou tell me, neither yet heard I [of it], but to day.
Genesis 21:27 And Abraham took sheep and oxen, and gave them unto Abimelech; and both of them made a covenant.
Genesis 21:28 And Abraham set seven ewe lambs of the flock by themselves.
Genesis 21:29 And Abimelech said unto Abraham, What [mean] these seven ewe lambs which thou hast set by themselves?
Genesis 21:30 And he said, For [these] seven ewe lambs shalt thou take of my hand, that they may be a witness unto me, that I have digged this well.
Genesis 21:31 Wherefore he called that place Beersheba; because there they sware both of them.
Genesis 21:32 Thus they made a covenant at Beersheba: then Abimelech rose up, and Phichol the chief captain of his host, and they returned into the land of the Philistines.
Genesis 21:33 And [Abraham] planted a grove in Beersheba, and called there on the name of the LORD, the everlasting God.
Genesis 21:34 And Abraham sojourned in the Philistines’ land many days.
Genesis 22:1 And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, [here] I [am].
Genesis 22:2 And he said, Take now thy son, thine only [son] Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.
Genesis 22:3 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.
Genesis 22:4 Then on the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off.
Genesis 22:5 And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass; and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come again to you.
Genesis 22:6 And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering, and laid [it] upon Isaac his son; and he took the fire in his hand, and a knife; and they went both of them together.
Genesis 22:7 And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here [am] I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where [is] the lamb for a burnt offering?
Genesis 22:8 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.
Genesis 22:9 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.
Genesis 22:10 And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.
Genesis 22:11 And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here [am] I.
Genesis 22:12 And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only [son] from me.
Genesis 22:13 And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind [him] a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son.
Genesis 22:14 And Abraham called the name of that place Jehovahjireh: as it is said [to] this day, In the mount of the LORD it shall be seen.
Genesis 22:15 And the angel of the LORD called unto Abraham out of heaven the second time,
Genesis 22:16 And said, By myself have I sworn, saith the LORD, for because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only [son]:
Genesis 22:17 That in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which [is] upon the sea shore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies;
Genesis 22:18 And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice.
Genesis 22:19 So Abraham returned unto his young men, and they rose up and went together to Beersheba; and Abraham dwelt at Beersheba.
Genesis 22:20 And it came to pass after these things, that it was told Abraham, saying, Behold, Milcah, she hath also born children unto thy brother Nahor;
Genesis 22:21 Huz his firstborn, and Buz his brother, and Kemuel the father of Aram,
Genesis 22:22 And Chesed, and Hazo, and Pildash, and Jidlaph, and Bethuel.
Genesis 22:23 And Bethuel begat Rebekah: these eight Milcah did bear to Nahor, Abraham’s brother.
Genesis 22:24 And his concubine, whose name [was] Reumah, she bare also Tebah, and Gaham, and Thahash, and Maachah.
Genesis 23:1 And Sarah was an hundred and seven and twenty years old: [these were] the years of the life of Sarah.
Genesis 23:2 And Sarah died in Kirjatharba; the same [is] Hebron in the land of Canaan: and Abraham came to mourn for Sarah, and to weep for her.
Genesis 23:3 And Abraham stood up from before his dead, and spake unto the sons of Heth, saying,
Genesis 23:4 I [am] a stranger and a sojourner with you: give me a possession of a buryingplace with you, that I may bury my dead out of my sight.
Genesis 23:5 And the children of Heth answered Abraham, saying unto him,
Genesis 23:6 Hear us, my lord: thou [art] a mighty prince among us: in the choice of our sepulchres bury thy dead; none of us shall withhold from thee his sepulchre, but that thou mayest bury thy dead.
Genesis 23:7 And Abraham stood up, and bowed himself to the people of the land, [even] to the children of Heth.
Genesis 23:8 And he communed with them, saying, If it be your mind that I should bury my dead out of my sight; hear me, and intreat for me to Ephron the son of Zohar,
Genesis 23:9 That he may give me the cave of Machpelah, which he hath, which [is] in the end of his field; for as much money as it is worth he shall give it me for a possession of a buryingplace amongst you.
Genesis 23:10 And Ephron dwelt among the children of Heth: and Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham in the audience of the children of Heth, [even] of all that went in at the gate of his city, saying,
Genesis 23:11 Nay, my lord, hear me: the field give I thee, and the cave that [is] therein, I give it thee; in the presence of the sons of my people give I it thee: bury thy dead.
Genesis 23:12 And Abraham bowed down himself before the people of the land.
Genesis 23:13 And he spake unto Ephron in the audience of the people of the land, saying, But if thou [wilt give it], I pray thee, hear me: I will give thee money for the field; take [it] of me, and I will bury my dead there.
Genesis 23:14 And Ephron answered Abraham, saying unto him,
Genesis 23:15 My lord, hearken unto me: the land [is worth] four hundred shekels of silver; what [is] that betwixt me and thee? bury therefore thy dead.
Genesis 23:16 And Abraham hearkened unto Ephron; and Abraham weighed to Ephron the silver, which he had named in the audience of the sons of Heth, four hundred shekels of silver, current [money] with the merchant.
Genesis 23:17 And the field of Ephron, which [was] in Machpelah, which [was] before Mamre, the field, and the cave which [was] therein, and all the trees that [were] in the field, that [were] in all the borders round about, were made sure
Genesis 23:18 Unto Abraham for a possession in the presence of the children of Heth, before all that went in at the gate of his city.
Genesis 23:19 And after this, Abraham buried Sarah his wife in the cave of the field of Machpelah before Mamre: the same [is] Hebron in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 23:20 And the field, and the cave that [is] therein, were made sure unto Abraham for a possession of a buryingplace by the sons of Heth.
Genesis 24:1 And Abraham was old, [and] well stricken in age: and the LORD had blessed Abraham in all things.
Genesis 24:2 And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh:
Genesis 24:3 And I will make thee swear by the LORD, the God of heaven, and the God of the earth, that thou shalt not take a wife unto my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, among whom I dwell:
Genesis 24:4 But thou shalt go unto my country, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son Isaac.
Genesis 24:5 And the servant said unto him, Peradventure the woman will not be willing to follow me unto this land: must I needs bring thy son again unto the land from whence thou camest?
Genesis 24:6 And Abraham said unto him, Beware thou that thou bring not my son thither again.
Genesis 24:7 The LORD God of heaven, which took me from my father’s house, and from the land of my kindred, and which spake unto me, and that sware unto me, saying, Unto thy seed will I give this land; he shall send his angel before thee, and thou shalt take a wife unto my son from thence.
Genesis 24:8 And if the woman will not be willing to follow thee, then thou shalt be clear from this my oath: only bring not my son thither again.
Genesis 24:9 And the servant put his hand under the thigh of Abraham his master, and sware to him concerning that matter.
Genesis 24:10 And the servant took ten camels of the camels of his master, and departed; for all the goods of his master [were] in his hand: and he arose, and went to Mesopotamia, unto the city of Nahor.
Genesis 24:11 And he made his camels to kneel down without the city by a well of water at the time of the evening, [even] the time that women go out to draw [water].
Genesis 24:12 And he said, O LORD God of my master Abraham, I pray thee, send me good speed this day, and shew kindness unto my master Abraham.
Genesis 24:13 Behold, I stand [here] by the well of water; and the daughters of the men of the city come out to draw water:
Genesis 24:14 And let it come to pass, that the damsel to whom I shall say, Let down thy pitcher, I pray thee, that I may drink; and she shall say, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: [let the same be] she [that] thou hast appointed for thy servant Isaac; and thereby shall I know that thou hast shewed kindness unto my master.
Genesis 24:15 And it came to pass, before he had done speaking, that, behold, Rebekah came out, who was born to Bethuel, son of Milcah, the wife of Nahor, Abraham’s brother, with her pitcher upon her shoulder.
Genesis 24:16 And the damsel [was] very fair to look upon, a virgin, neither had any man known her: and she went down to the well, and filled her pitcher, and came up.
Genesis 24:17 And the servant ran to meet her, and said, Let me, I pray thee, drink a little water of thy pitcher.
Genesis 24:18 And she said, Drink, my lord: and she hasted, and let down her pitcher upon her hand, and gave him drink.
Genesis 24:19 And when she had done giving him drink, she said, I will draw [water] for thy camels also, until they have done drinking.
Genesis 24:20 And she hasted, and emptied her pitcher into the trough, and ran again unto the well to draw [water], and drew for all his camels.
Genesis 24:21 And the man wondering at her held his peace, to wit whether the LORD had made his journey prosperous or not.
Genesis 24:22 And it came to pass, as the camels had done drinking, that the man took a golden earring of half a shekel weight, and two bracelets for her hands of ten [shekels] weight of gold;
Genesis 24:23 And said, Whose daughter [art] thou? tell me, I pray thee: is there room [in] thy father’s house for us to lodge in?
Genesis 24:24 And she said unto him, I [am] the daughter of Bethuel the son of Milcah, which she bare unto Nahor.
Genesis 24:25 She said moreover unto him, We have both straw and provender enough, and room to lodge in.
Genesis 24:26 And the man bowed down his head, and worshipped the LORD.
Genesis 24:27 And he said, Blessed [be] the LORD God of my master Abraham, who hath not left destitute my master of his mercy and his truth: I [being] in the way, the LORD led me to the house of my master’s brethren.
Genesis 24:28 And the damsel ran, and told [them of] her mother’s house these things.
Genesis 24:29 And Rebekah had a brother, and his name [was] Laban: and Laban ran out unto the man, unto the well.
Genesis 24:30 And it came to pass, when he saw the earring and bracelets upon his sister’s hands, and when he heard the words of Rebekah his sister, saying, Thus spake the man unto me; that he came unto the man; and, behold, he stood by the camels at the well.
Genesis 24:31 And he said, Come in, thou blessed of the LORD; wherefore standest thou without? for I have prepared the house, and room for the camels.
Genesis 24:32 And the man came into the house: and he ungirded his camels, and gave straw and provender for the camels, and water to wash his feet, and the men’s feet that [were] with him.
Genesis 24:33 And there was set [meat] before him to eat: but he said, I will not eat, until I have told mine errand. And he said, Speak on.
Genesis 24:34 And he said, I [am] Abraham’s servant.
Genesis 24:35 And the LORD hath blessed my master greatly; and he is become great: and he hath given him flocks, and herds, and silver, and gold, and menservants, and maidservants, and camels, and asses.
Genesis 24:36 And Sarah my master’s wife bare a son to my master when she was old: and unto him hath he given all that he hath.
Genesis 24:37 And my master made me swear, saying, Thou shalt not take a wife to my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, in whose land I dwell:
Genesis 24:38 But thou shalt go unto my father’s house, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son.
Genesis 24:39 And I said unto my master, Peradventure the woman will not follow me.
Genesis 24:40 And he said unto me, The LORD, before whom I walk, will send his angel with thee, and prosper thy way; and thou shalt take a wife for my son of my kindred, and of my father’s house:
Genesis 24:41 Then shalt thou be clear from [this] my oath, when thou comest to my kindred; and if they give not thee [one], thou shalt be clear from my oath.
Genesis 24:42 And I came this day unto the well, and said, O LORD God of my master Abraham, if now thou do prosper my way which I go:
Genesis 24:43 Behold, I stand by the well of water; and it shall come to pass, that when the virgin cometh forth to draw [water], and I say to her, Give me, I pray thee, a little water of thy pitcher to drink;
Genesis 24:44 And she say to me, Both drink thou, and I will also draw for thy camels: [let] the same [be] the woman whom the LORD hath appointed out for my master’s son.
Genesis 24:45 And before I had done speaking in mine heart, behold, Rebekah came forth with her pitcher on her shoulder; and she went down unto the well, and drew [water]: and I said unto her, Let me drink, I pray thee.
Genesis 24:46 And she made haste, and let down her pitcher from her [shoulder], and said, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: so I drank, and she made the camels drink also.
Genesis 24:47 And I asked her, and said, Whose daughter [art] thou? And she said, The daughter of Bethuel, Nahor’s son, whom Milcah bare unto him: and I put the earring upon her face, and the bracelets upon her hands.
Genesis 24:48 And I bowed down my head, and worshipped the LORD, and blessed the LORD God of my master Abraham, which had led me in the right way to take my master’s brother’s daughter unto his son.
Genesis 24:49 And now if ye will deal kindly and truly with my master, tell me: and if not, tell me; that I may turn to the right hand, or to the left.
Genesis 24:50 Then Laban and Bethuel answered and said, The thing proceedeth from the LORD: we cannot speak unto thee bad or good.
Genesis 24:51 Behold, Rebekah [is] before thee, take [her], and go, and let her be thy master’s son’s wife, as the LORD hath spoken.
Genesis 24:52 And it came to pass, that, when Abraham’s servant heard their words, he worshipped the LORD, [bowing himself] to the earth.
Genesis 24:53 And the servant brought forth jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment, and gave [them] to Rebekah: he gave also to her brother and to her mother precious things.
Genesis 24:54 And they did eat and drink, he and the men that [were] with him, and tarried all night; and they rose up in the morning, and he said, Send me away unto my master.
Genesis 24:55 And her brother and her mother said, Let the damsel abide with us [a few] days, at the least ten; after that she shall go.
Genesis 24:56 And he said unto them, Hinder me not, seeing the LORD hath prospered my way; send me away that I may go to my master.
Genesis 24:57 And they said, We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth.
Genesis 24:58 And they called Rebekah, and said unto her, Wilt thou go with this man? And she said, I will go.
Genesis 24:59 And they sent away Rebekah their sister, and her nurse, and Abraham’s servant, and his men.
Genesis 24:60 And they blessed Rebekah, and said unto her, Thou [art] our sister, be thou [the mother] of thousands of millions, and let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them.
Genesis 24:61 And Rebekah arose, and her damsels, and they rode upon the camels, and followed the man: and the servant took Rebekah, and went his way.
Genesis 24:62 And Isaac came from the way of the well Lahairoi; for he dwelt in the south country.
Genesis 24:63 And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide: and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels [were] coming.
Genesis 24:64 And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when she saw Isaac, she lighted off the camel.
Genesis 24:65 For she [had] said unto the servant, What man [is] this that walketh in the field to meet us? And the servant [had] said, It [is] my master: therefore she took a vail, and covered herself.
Genesis 24:66 And the servant told Isaac all things that he had done.
Genesis 24:67 And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her: and Isaac was comforted after his mother’s [death].
Genesis 25:1 Then again Abraham took a wife, and her name [was] Keturah.
Genesis 25:2 And she bare him Zimran, and Jokshan, and Medan, and Midian, and Ishbak, and Shuah.
Genesis 25:3 And Jokshan begat Sheba, and Dedan. And the sons of Dedan were Asshurim, and Letushim, and Leummim.
Genesis 25:4 And the sons of Midian; Ephah, and Epher, and Hanoch, and Abida, and Eldaah. All these [were] the children of Keturah.
Genesis 25:5 And Abraham gave all that he had unto Isaac.
Genesis 25:6 But unto the sons of the concubines, which Abraham had, Abraham gave gifts, and sent them away from Isaac his son, while he yet lived, eastward, unto the east country.
Genesis 25:7 And these [are] the days of the years of Abraham’s life which he lived, an hundred threescore and fifteen years.
Genesis 25:8 Then Abraham gave up the ghost, and died in a good old age, an old man, and full [of years]; and was gathered to his people.
Genesis 25:9 And his sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron the son of Zohar the Hittite, which [is] before Mamre;
Genesis 25:10 The field which Abraham purchased of the sons of Heth: there was Abraham buried, and Sarah his wife.
Genesis 25:11 And it came to pass after the death of Abraham, that God blessed his son Isaac; and Isaac dwelt by the well Lahairoi.
Genesis 25:12 Now these [are] the generations of Ishmael, Abraham’s son, whom Hagar the Egyptian, Sarah’s handmaid, bare unto Abraham:
Genesis 25:13 And these [are] the names of the sons of Ishmael, by their names, according to their generations: the firstborn of Ishmael, Nebajoth; and Kedar, and Adbeel, and Mibsam,
Genesis 25:14 And Mishma, and Dumah, and Massa,
Genesis 25:15 Hadar, and Tema, Jetur, Naphish, and Kedemah:
Genesis 25:16 These [are] the sons of Ishmael, and these [are] their names, by their towns, and by their castles; twelve princes according to their nations.
Genesis 25:17 And these [are] the years of the life of Ishmael, an hundred and thirty and seven years: and he gave up the ghost and died; and was gathered unto his people.
Genesis 25:18 And they dwelt from Havilah unto Shur, that [is] before Egypt, as thou goest toward Assyria: [and] he died in the presence of all his brethren.
Genesis 25:19 And these [are] the generations of Isaac, Abraham’s son: Abraham begat Isaac:
Genesis 25:20 And Isaac was forty years old when he took Rebekah to wife, the daughter of Bethuel the Syrian of Padanaram, the sister to Laban the Syrian.
Genesis 25:21 And Isaac intreated the LORD for his wife, because she [was] barren: and the LORD was intreated of him, and Rebekah his wife conceived.
Genesis 25:22 And the children struggled together within her; and she said, If [it be] so, why [am] I thus? And she went to inquire of the LORD.
Genesis 25:23 And the LORD said unto her, Two nations [are] in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels; and [the one] people shall be stronger than [the other] people; and the elder shall serve the younger.
Genesis 25:24 And when her days to be delivered were fulfilled, behold, [there were] twins in her womb.
Genesis 25:25 And the first came out red, all over like an hairy garment; and they called his name Esau.
Genesis 25:26 And after that came his brother out, and his hand took hold on Esau’s heel; and his name was called Jacob: and Isaac [was] threescore years old when she bare them.
Genesis 25:27 And the boys grew: and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob [was] a plain man, dwelling in tents.
Genesis 25:28 And Isaac loved Esau, because he did eat of [his] venison: but Rebekah loved Jacob.
Genesis 25:29 And Jacob sod pottage: and Esau came from the field, and he [was] faint:
Genesis 25:30 And Esau said to Jacob, Feed me, I pray thee, with that same red [pottage]; for I [am] faint: therefore was his name called Edom.
Genesis 25:31 And Jacob said, Sell me this day thy birthright.
Genesis 25:32 And Esau said, Behold, I [am] at the point to die: and what profit shall this birthright do to me?
Genesis 25:33 And Jacob said, Swear to me this day; and he sware unto him: and he sold his birthright unto Jacob.
Genesis 25:34 Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentiles; and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised [his] birthright.
Genesis 26:1 And there was a famine in the land, beside the first famine that was in the days of Abraham. And Isaac went unto Abimelech king of the Philistines unto Gerar.
Genesis 26:2 And the LORD appeared unto him, and said, Go not down into Egypt; dwell in the land which I shall tell thee of:
Genesis 26:3 Sojourn in this land, and I will be with thee, and will bless thee; for unto thee, and unto thy seed, I will give all these countries, and I will perform the oath which I sware unto Abraham thy father;
Genesis 26:4 And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed;
Genesis 26:5 Because that Abraham obeyed my voice, and kept my charge, my commandments, my statutes, and my laws.
Genesis 26:6 And Isaac dwelt in Gerar:
Genesis 26:7 And the men of the place asked [him] of his wife; and he said, She [is] my sister: for he feared to say, [She is] my wife; lest, [said he], the men of the place should kill me for Rebekah; because she [was] fair to look upon.
Genesis 26:8 And it came to pass, when he had been there a long time, that Abimelech king of the Philistines looked out at a window, and saw, and, behold, Isaac [was] sporting with Rebekah his wife.
Genesis 26:9 And Abimelech called Isaac, and said, Behold, of a surety she [is] thy wife: and how saidst thou, She [is] my sister? And Isaac said unto him, Because I said, Lest I die for her.
Genesis 26:10 And Abimelech said, What [is] this thou hast done unto us? one of the people might lightly have lien with thy wife, and thou shouldest have brought guiltiness upon us.
Genesis 26:11 And Abimelech charged all [his] people, saying, He that toucheth this man or his wife shall surely be put to death.
Genesis 26:12 Then Isaac sowed in that land, and received in the same year an hundredfold: and the LORD blessed him.
Genesis 26:13 And the man waxed great, and went forward, and grew until he became very great:
Genesis 26:14 For he had possession of flocks, and possession of herds, and great store of servants: and the Philistines envied him.
Genesis 26:15 For all the wells which his father’s servants had digged in the days of Abraham his father, the Philistines had stopped them, and filled them with earth.
Genesis 26:16 And Abimelech said unto Isaac, Go from us; for thou art much mightier than we.
Genesis 26:17 And Isaac departed thence, and pitched his tent in the valley of Gerar, and dwelt there.
Genesis 26:18 And Isaac digged again the wells of water, which they had digged in the days of Abraham his father; for the Philistines had stopped them after the death of Abraham: and he called their names after the names by which his father had called them.
Genesis 26:19 And Isaac’s servants digged in the valley, and found there a well of springing water.
Genesis 26:20 And the herdmen of Gerar did strive with Isaac’s herdmen, saying, The water [is] ours: and he called the name of the well Esek; because they strove with him.
Genesis 26:21 And they digged another well, and strove for that also: and he called the name of it Sitnah.
Genesis 26:22 And he removed from thence, and digged another well; and for that they strove not: and he called the name of it Rehoboth; and he said, For now the LORD hath made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land.
Genesis 26:23 And he went up from thence to Beersheba.
Genesis 26:24 And the LORD appeared unto him the same night, and said, I [am] the God of Abraham thy father: fear not, for I [am] with thee, and will bless thee, and multiply thy seed for my servant Abraham’s sake.
Genesis 26:25 And he builded an altar there, and called upon the name of the LORD, and pitched his tent there: and there Isaac’s servants digged a well.
Genesis 26:26 Then Abimelech went to him from Gerar, and Ahuzzath one of his friends, and Phichol the chief captain of his army.
Genesis 26:27 And Isaac said unto them, Wherefore come ye to me, seeing ye hate me, and have sent me away from you?
Genesis 26:28 And they said, We saw certainly that the LORD was with thee: and we said, Let there be now an oath betwixt us, [even] betwixt us and thee, and let us make a covenant with thee;
Genesis 26:29 That thou wilt do us no hurt, as we have not touched thee, and as we have done unto thee nothing but good, and have sent thee away in peace: thou [art] now the blessed of the LORD.
Genesis 26:30 And he made them a feast, and they did eat and drink.
Genesis 26:31 And they rose up betimes in the morning, and sware one to another: and Isaac sent them away, and they departed from him in peace.
Genesis 26:32 And it came to pass the same day, that Isaac’s servants came, and told him concerning the well which they had digged, and said unto him, We have found water.
Genesis 26:33 And he called it Shebah: therefore the name of the city [is] Beersheba unto this day.
Genesis 26:34 And Esau was forty years old when he took to wife Judith the daughter of Beeri the Hittite, and Bashemath the daughter of Elon the Hittite:
Genesis 26:35 Which were a grief of mind unto Isaac and to Rebekah.
Genesis 27:1 And it came to pass, that when Isaac was old, and his eyes were dim, so that he could not see, he called Esau his eldest son, and said unto him, My son: and he said unto him, Behold, [here am] I.
Genesis 27:2 And he said, Behold now, I am old, I know not the day of my death:
Genesis 27:3 Now therefore take, I pray thee, thy weapons, thy quiver and thy bow, and go out to the field, and take me [some] venison;
Genesis 27:4 And make me savoury meat, such as I love, and bring [it] to me, that I may eat; that my soul may bless thee before I die.
Genesis 27:5 And Rebekah heard when Isaac spake to Esau his son. And Esau went to the field to hunt [for] venison, [and] to bring [it].
Genesis 27:6 And Rebekah spake unto Jacob her son, saying, Behold, I heard thy father speak unto Esau thy brother, saying,
Genesis 27:7 Bring me venison, and make me savoury meat, that I may eat, and bless thee before the LORD before my death.
Genesis 27:8 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice according to that which I command thee.
Genesis 27:9 Go now to the flock, and fetch me from thence two good kids of the goats; and I will make them savoury meat for thy father, such as he loveth:
Genesis 27:10 And thou shalt bring [it] to thy father, that he may eat, and that he may bless thee before his death.
Genesis 27:11 And Jacob said to Rebekah his mother, Behold, Esau my brother [is] a hairy man, and I [am] a smooth man:
Genesis 27:12 My father peradventure will feel me, and I shall seem to him as a deceiver; and I shall bring a curse upon me, and not a blessing.
Genesis 27:13 And his mother said unto him, Upon me [be] thy curse, my son: only obey my voice, and go fetch me [them].
Genesis 27:14 And he went, and fetched, and brought [them] to his mother: and his mother made savoury meat, such as his father loved.
Genesis 27:15 And Rebekah took goodly raiment of her eldest son Esau, which [were] with her in the house, and put them upon Jacob her younger son:
Genesis 27:16 And she put the skins of the kids of the goats upon his hands, and upon the smooth of his neck:
Genesis 27:17 And she gave the savoury meat and the bread, which she had prepared, into the hand of her son Jacob.
Genesis 27:18 And he came unto his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here [am] I; who [art] thou, my son?
Genesis 27:19 And Jacob said unto his father, I [am] Esau thy firstborn; I have done according as thou badest me: arise, I pray thee, sit and eat of my venison, that thy soul may bless me.
Genesis 27:20 And Isaac said unto his son, How [is it] that thou hast found [it] so quickly, my son? And he said, Because the LORD thy God brought [it] to me.
Genesis 27:21 And Isaac said unto Jacob, Come near, I pray thee, that I may feel thee, my son, whether thou [be] my very son Esau or not.
Genesis 27:22 And Jacob went near unto Isaac his father; and he felt him, and said, The voice [is] Jacob’s voice, but the hands [are] the hands of Esau.
Genesis 27:23 And he discerned him not, because his hands were hairy, as his brother Esau’s hands: so he blessed him.
Genesis 27:24 And he said, [Art] thou my very son Esau? And he said, I [am].
Genesis 27:25 And he said, Bring [it] near to me, and I will eat of my son’s venison, that my soul may bless thee. And he brought [it] near to him, and he did eat: and he brought him wine, and he drank.
Genesis 27:26 And his father Isaac said unto him, Come near now, and kiss me, my son.
Genesis 27:27 And he came near, and kissed him: and he smelled the smell of his raiment, and blessed him, and said, See, the smell of my son [is] as the smell of a field which the LORD hath blessed:
Genesis 27:28 Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine:
Genesis 27:29 Let people serve thee, and nations bow down to thee: be lord over thy brethren, and let thy mother’s sons bow down to thee: cursed [be] every one that curseth thee, and blessed [be] he that blesseth thee.
Genesis 27:30 And it came to pass, as soon as Isaac had made an end of blessing Jacob, and Jacob was yet scarce gone out from the presence of Isaac his father, that Esau his brother came in from his hunting.
Genesis 27:31 And he also had made savoury meat, and brought it unto his father, and said unto his father, Let my father arise, and eat of his son’s venison, that thy soul may bless me.
Genesis 27:32 And Isaac his father said unto him, Who [art] thou? And he said, I [am] thy son, thy firstborn Esau.
Genesis 27:33 And Isaac trembled very exceedingly, and said, Who? where [is] he that hath taken venison, and brought [it] me, and I have eaten of all before thou camest, and have blessed him? yea, [and] he shall be blessed.
Genesis 27:34 And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, [even] me also, O my father.
Genesis 27:35 And he said, Thy brother came with subtilty, and hath taken away thy blessing.
Genesis 27:36 And he said, Is not he rightly named Jacob? for he hath supplanted me these two times: he took away my birthright; and, behold, now he hath taken away my blessing. And he said, Hast thou not reserved a blessing for me?
Genesis 27:37 And Isaac answered and said unto Esau, Behold, I have made him thy lord, and all his brethren have I given to him for servants; and with corn and wine have I sustained him: and what shall I do now unto thee, my son?
Genesis 27:38 And Esau said unto his father, Hast thou but one blessing, my father? bless me, [even] me also, O my father. And Esau lifted up his voice, and wept.
Genesis 27:39 And Isaac his father answered and said unto him, Behold, thy dwelling shall be the fatness of the earth, and of the dew of heaven from above;
Genesis 27:40 And by thy sword shalt thou live, and shalt serve thy brother; and it shall come to pass when thou shalt have the dominion, that thou shalt break his yoke from off thy neck.
Genesis 27:41 And Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing wherewith his father blessed him: and Esau said in his heart, The days of mourning for my father are at hand; then will I slay my brother Jacob.
Genesis 27:42 And these words of Esau her elder son were told to Rebekah: and she sent and called Jacob her younger son, and said unto him, Behold, thy brother Esau, as touching thee, doth comfort himself, [purposing] to kill thee.
Genesis 27:43 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice; and arise, flee thou to Laban my brother to Haran;
Genesis 27:44 And tarry with him a few days, until thy brother’s fury turn away;
Genesis 27:45 Until thy brother’s anger turn away from thee, and he forget [that] which thou hast done to him: then I will send, and fetch thee from thence: why should I be deprived also of you both in one day?
Genesis 27:46 And Rebekah said to Isaac, I am weary of my life because of the daughters of Heth: if Jacob take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these [which are] of the daughters of the land, what good shall my life do me?
Genesis 28:1 And Isaac called Jacob, and blessed him, and charged him, and said unto him, Thou shalt not take a wife of the daughters of Canaan.
Genesis 28:2 Arise, go to Padanaram, to the house of Bethuel thy mother’s father; and take thee a wife from thence of the daughters of Laban thy mother’s brother.
Genesis 28:3 And God Almighty bless thee, and make thee fruitful, and multiply thee, that thou mayest be a multitude of people;
Genesis 28:4 And give thee the blessing of Abraham, to thee, and to thy seed with thee; that thou mayest inherit the land wherein thou art a stranger, which God gave unto Abraham.
Genesis 28:5 And Isaac sent away Jacob: and he went to Padanaram unto Laban, son of Bethuel the Syrian, the brother of Rebekah, Jacob’s and Esau’s mother.
Genesis 28:6 When Esau saw that Isaac had blessed Jacob, and sent him away to Padanaram, to take him a wife from thence; and that as he blessed him he gave him a charge, saying, Thou shalt not take a wife of the daughters of Canaan;
Genesis 28:7 And that Jacob obeyed his father and his mother, and was gone to Padanaram;
Genesis 28:8 And Esau seeing that the daughters of Canaan pleased not Isaac his father;
Genesis 28:9 Then went Esau unto Ishmael, and took unto the wives which he had Mahalath the daughter of Ishmael Abraham’s son, the sister of Nebajoth, to be his wife.
Genesis 28:10 And Jacob went out from Beersheba, and went toward Haran.
Genesis 28:11 And he lighted upon a certain place, and tarried there all night, because the sun was set; and he took of the stones of that place, and put [them for] his pillows, and lay down in that place to sleep.
Genesis 28:12 And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it.
Genesis 28:13 And, behold, the LORD stood above it, and said, I [am] the LORD God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac: the land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed;
Genesis 28:14 And thy seed shall be as the dust of the earth, and thou shalt spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the north, and to the south: and in thee and in thy seed shall all the families of the earth be blessed.
Genesis 28:15 And, behold, I [am] with thee, and will keep thee in all [places] whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done [that] which I have spoken to thee of.
Genesis 28:16 And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew [it] not.
Genesis 28:17 And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful [is] this place! this [is] none other but the house of God, and this [is] the gate of heaven.
Genesis 28:18 And Jacob rose up early in the morning, and took the stone that he had put [for] his pillows, and set it up [for] a pillar, and poured oil upon the top of it.
Genesis 28:19 And he called the name of that place Bethel: but the name of that city [was called] Luz at the first.
Genesis 28:20 And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and raiment to put on,
Genesis 28:21 So that I come again to my father’s house in peace; then shall the LORD be my God:
Genesis 28:22 And this stone, which I have set [for] a pillar, shall be God’s house: and of all that thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto thee.
Genesis 29:1 Then Jacob went on his journey, and came into the land of the people of the east.
Genesis 29:2 And he looked, and behold a well in the field, and, lo, there [were] three flocks of sheep lying by it; for out of that well they watered the flocks: and a great stone [was] upon the well’s mouth.
Genesis 29:3 And thither were all the flocks gathered: and they rolled the stone from the well’s mouth, and watered the sheep, and put the stone again upon the well’s mouth in his place.
Genesis 29:4 And Jacob said unto them, My brethren, whence [be] ye? And they said, Of Haran [are] we.
Genesis 29:5 And he said unto them, Know ye Laban the son of Nahor? And they said, We know [him].
Genesis 29:6 And he said unto them, [Is] he well? And they said, [He is] well: and, behold, Rachel his daughter cometh with the sheep.
Genesis 29:7 And he said, Lo, [it is] yet high day, neither [is it] time that the cattle should be gathered together: water ye the sheep, and go [and] feed [them].
Genesis 29:8 And they said, We cannot, until all the flocks be gathered together, and [till] they roll the stone from the well’s mouth; then we water the sheep.
Genesis 29:9 And while he yet spake with them, Rachel came with her father’s sheep: for she kept them.
Genesis 29:10 And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel the daughter of Laban his mother’s brother, and the sheep of Laban his mother’s brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well’s mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his mother’s brother.
Genesis 29:11 And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice, and wept.
Genesis 29:12 And Jacob told Rachel that he [was] her father’s brother, and that he [was] Rebekah’s son: and she ran and told her father.
Genesis 29:13 And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister’s son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house. And he told Laban all these things.
Genesis 29:14 And Laban said to him, Surely thou [art] my bone and my flesh. And he abode with him the space of a month.
Genesis 29:15 And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou [art] my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what [shall] thy wages [be]?
Genesis 29:16 And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder [was] Leah, and the name of the younger [was] Rachel.
Genesis 29:17 Leah [was] tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured.
Genesis 29:18 And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter.
Genesis 29:19 And Laban said, [It is] better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
Genesis 29:20 And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him [but] a few days, for the love he had to her.
Genesis 29:21 And Jacob said unto Laban, Give [me] my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her.
Genesis 29:22 And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast.
Genesis 29:23 And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
Genesis 29:24 And Laban gave unto his daughter Leah Zilpah his maid [for] an handmaid.
Genesis 29:25 And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it [was] Leah: and he said to Laban, What [is] this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
Genesis 29:26 And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn.
Genesis 29:27 Fulfil her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
Genesis 29:28 And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.
Genesis 29:29 And Laban gave to Rachel his daughter Bilhah his handmaid to be her maid.
Genesis 29:30 And he went in also unto Rachel, and he loved also Rachel more than Leah, and served with him yet seven other years.
Genesis 29:31 And when the LORD saw that Leah [was] hated, he opened her womb: but Rachel [was] barren.
Genesis 29:32 And Leah conceived, and bare a son, and she called his name Reuben: for she said, Surely the LORD hath looked upon my affliction; now therefore my husband will love me.
Genesis 29:33 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and said, Because the LORD hath heard that I [was] hated, he hath therefore given me this [son] also: and she called his name Simeon.
Genesis 29:34 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and said, Now this time will my husband be joined unto me, because I have born him three sons: therefore was his name called Levi.
Genesis 29:35 And she conceived again, and bare a son: and she said, Now will I praise the LORD: therefore she called his name Judah; and left bearing.
Genesis 30:1 And when Rachel saw that she bare Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I die.
Genesis 30:2 And Jacob’s anger was kindled against Rachel: and he said, [Am] I in God’s stead, who hath withheld from thee the fruit of the womb?
Genesis 30:3 And she said, Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; and she shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her.
Genesis 30:4 And she gave him Bilhah her handmaid to wife: and Jacob went in unto her.
Genesis 30:5 And Bilhah conceived, and bare Jacob a son.
Genesis 30:6 And Rachel said, God hath judged me, and hath also heard my voice, and hath given me a son: therefore called she his name Dan.
Genesis 30:7 And Bilhah Rachel’s maid conceived again, and bare Jacob a second son.
Genesis 30:8 And Rachel said, With great wrestlings have I wrestled with my sister, and I have prevailed: and she called his name Naphtali.
Genesis 30:9 When Leah saw that she had left bearing, she took Zilpah her maid, and gave her Jacob to wife.
Genesis 30:10 And Zilpah Leah’s maid bare Jacob a son.
Genesis 30:11 And Leah said, A troop cometh: and she called his name Gad.
Genesis 30:12 And Zilpah Leah’s maid bare Jacob a second son.
Genesis 30:13 And Leah said, Happy am I, for the daughters will call me blessed: and she called his name Asher.
Genesis 30:14 And Reuben went in the days of wheat harvest, and found mandrakes in the field, and brought them unto his mother Leah. Then Rachel said to Leah, Give me, I pray thee, of thy son’s mandrakes.
Genesis 30:15 And she said unto her, [Is it] a small matter that thou hast taken my husband? and wouldest thou take away my son’s mandrakes also? And Rachel said, Therefore he shall lie with thee to night for thy son’s mandrakes.
Genesis 30:16 And Jacob came out of the field in the evening, and Leah went out to meet him, and said, Thou must come in unto me; for surely I have hired thee with my son’s mandrakes. And he lay with her that night.
Genesis 30:17 And God hearkened unto Leah, and she conceived, and bare Jacob the fifth son.
Genesis 30:18 And Leah said, God hath given me my hire, because I have given my maiden to my husband: and she called his name Issachar.
Genesis 30:19 And Leah conceived again, and bare Jacob the sixth son.
Genesis 30:20 And Leah said, God hath endued me [with] a good dowry; now will my husband dwell with me, because I have born him six sons: and she called his name Zebulun.
Genesis 30:21 And afterwards she bare a daughter, and called her name Dinah.
Genesis 30:22 And God remembered Rachel, and God hearkened to her, and opened her womb.
Genesis 30:23 And she conceived, and bare a son; and said, God hath taken away my reproach:
Genesis 30:24 And she called his name Joseph; and said, The LORD shall add to me another son.
Genesis 30:25 And it came to pass, when Rachel had born Joseph, that Jacob said unto Laban, Send me away, that I may go unto mine own place, and to my country.
Genesis 30:26 Give [me] my wives and my children, for whom I have served thee, and let me go: for thou knowest my service which I have done thee.
Genesis 30:27 And Laban said unto him, I pray thee, if I have found favour in thine eyes, [tarry: for] I have learned by experience that the LORD hath blessed me for thy sake.
Genesis 30:28 And he said, Appoint me thy wages, and I will give [it].
Genesis 30:29 And he said unto him, Thou knowest how I have served thee, and how thy cattle was with me.
Genesis 30:30 For [it was] little which thou hadst before I [came], and it is [now] increased unto a multitude; and the LORD hath blessed thee since my coming: and now when shall I provide for mine own house also?
Genesis 30:31 And he said, What shall I give thee? And Jacob said, Thou shalt not give me any thing: if thou wilt do this thing for me, I will again feed [and] keep thy flock:
Genesis 30:32 I will pass through all thy flock to day, removing from thence all the speckled and spotted cattle, and all the brown cattle among the sheep, and the spotted and speckled among the goats: and [of such] shall be my hire.
Genesis 30:33 So shall my righteousness answer for me in time to come, when it shall come for my hire before thy face: every one that [is] not speckled and spotted among the goats, and brown among the sheep, that shall be counted stolen with me.
Genesis 30:34 And Laban said, Behold, I would it might be according to thy word.
Genesis 30:35 And he removed that day the he goats that were ringstraked and spotted, and all the she goats that were speckled and spotted, [and] every one that had [some] white in it, and all the brown among the sheep, and gave [them] into the hand of his sons.
Genesis 30:36 And he set three days’ journey betwixt himself and Jacob: and Jacob fed the rest of Laban’s flocks.
Genesis 30:37 And Jacob took him rods of green poplar, and of the hazel and chesnut tree; and pilled white strakes in them, and made the white appear which [was] in the rods.
Genesis 30:38 And he set the rods which he had pilled before the flocks in the gutters in the watering troughs when the flocks came to drink, that they should conceive when they came to drink.
Genesis 30:39 And the flocks conceived before the rods, and brought forth cattle ringstraked, speckled, and spotted.
Genesis 30:40 And Jacob did separate the lambs, and set the faces of the flocks toward the ringstraked, and all the brown in the flock of Laban; and he put his own flocks by themselves, and put them not unto Laban’s cattle.
Genesis 30:41 And it came to pass, whensoever the stronger cattle did conceive, that Jacob laid the rods before the eyes of the cattle in the gutters, that they might conceive among the rods.
Genesis 30:42 But when the cattle were feeble, he put [them] not in: so the feebler were Laban’s, and the stronger Jacob’s.
Genesis 30:43 And the man increased exceedingly, and had much cattle, and maidservants, and menservants, and camels, and asses.
Genesis 31:1 And he heard the words of Laban’s sons, saying, Jacob hath taken away all that [was] our father’s; and of [that] which [was] our father’s hath he gotten all this glory.
Genesis 31:2 And Jacob beheld the countenance of Laban, and, behold, it [was] not toward him as before.
Genesis 31:3 And the LORD said unto Jacob, Return unto the land of thy fathers, and to thy kindred; and I will be with thee.
Genesis 31:4 And Jacob sent and called Rachel and Leah to the field unto his flock,
Genesis 31:5 And said unto them, I see your father’s countenance, that it [is] not toward me as before; but the God of my father hath been with me.
Genesis 31:6 And ye know that with all my power I have served your father.
Genesis 31:7 And your father hath deceived me, and changed my wages ten times; but God suffered him not to hurt me.
Genesis 31:8 If he said thus, The speckled shall be thy wages; then all the cattle bare speckled: and if he said thus, The ringstraked shall be thy hire; then bare all the cattle ringstraked.
Genesis 31:9 Thus God hath taken away the cattle of your father, and given [them] to me.
Genesis 31:10 And it came to pass at the time that the cattle conceived, that I lifted up mine eyes, and saw in a dream, and, behold, the rams which leaped upon the cattle [were] ringstraked, speckled, and grisled.
Genesis 31:11 And the angel of God spake unto me in a dream, [saying], Jacob: And I said, Here [am] I.
Genesis 31:12 And he said, Lift up now thine eyes, and see, all the rams which leap upon the cattle [are] ringstraked, speckled, and grisled: for I have seen all that Laban doeth unto thee.
Genesis 31:13 I [am] the God of Bethel, where thou anointedst the pillar, [and] where thou vowedst a vow unto me: now arise, get thee out from this land, and return unto the land of thy kindred.
Genesis 31:14 And Rachel and Leah answered and said unto him, [Is there] yet any portion or inheritance for us in our father’s house?
Genesis 31:15 Are we not counted of him strangers? for he hath sold us, and hath quite devoured also our money.
Genesis 31:16 For all the riches which God hath taken from our father, that [is] ours, and our children’s: now then, whatsoever God hath said unto thee, do.
Genesis 31:17 Then Jacob rose up, and set his sons and his wives upon camels;
Genesis 31:18 And he carried away all his cattle, and all his goods which he had gotten, the cattle of his getting, which he had gotten in Padanaram, for to go to Isaac his father in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 31:19 And Laban went to shear his sheep: and Rachel had stolen the images that [were] her father’s.
Genesis 31:20 And Jacob stole away unawares to Laban the Syrian, in that he told him not that he fled.
Genesis 31:21 So he fled with all that he had; and he rose up, and passed over the river, and set his face [toward] the mount Gilead.
Genesis 31:22 And it was told Laban on the third day that Jacob was fled.
Genesis 31:23 And he took his brethren with him, and pursued after him seven days’ journey; and they overtook him in the mount Gilead.
Genesis 31:24 And God came to Laban the Syrian in a dream by night, and said unto him, Take heed that thou speak not to Jacob either good or bad.
Genesis 31:25 Then Laban overtook Jacob. Now Jacob had pitched his tent in the mount: and Laban with his brethren pitched in the mount of Gilead.
Genesis 31:26 And Laban said to Jacob, What hast thou done, that thou hast stolen away unawares to me, and carried away my daughters, as captives [taken] with the sword?
Genesis 31:27 Wherefore didst thou flee away secretly, and steal away from me; and didst not tell me, that I might have sent thee away with mirth, and with songs, with tabret, and with harp?
Genesis 31:28 And hast not suffered me to kiss my sons and my daughters? thou hast now done foolishly in [so] doing.
Genesis 31:29 It is in the power of my hand to do you hurt: but the God of your father spake unto me yesternight, saying, Take thou heed that thou speak not to Jacob either good or bad.
Genesis 31:30 And now, [though] thou wouldest needs be gone, because thou sore longedst after thy father’s house, [yet] wherefore hast thou stolen my gods?
Genesis 31:31 And Jacob answered and said to Laban, Because I was afraid: for I said, Peradventure thou wouldest take by force thy daughters from me.
Genesis 31:32 With whomsoever thou findest thy gods, let him not live: before our brethren discern thou what [is] thine with me, and take [it] to thee. For Jacob knew not that Rachel had stolen them.
Genesis 31:33 And Laban went into Jacob’s tent, and into Leah’s tent, and into the two maidservants’ tents; but he found [them] not. Then went he out of Leah’s tent, and entered into Rachel’s tent.
Genesis 31:34 Now Rachel had taken the images, and put them in the camel’s furniture, and sat upon them. And Laban searched all the tent, but found [them] not.
Genesis 31:35 And she said to her father, Let it not displease my lord that I cannot rise up before thee; for the custom of women [is] upon me. And he searched, but found not the images.
Genesis 31:36 And Jacob was wroth, and chode with Laban: and Jacob answered and said to Laban, What [is] my trespass? what [is] my sin, that thou hast so hotly pursued after me?
Genesis 31:37 Whereas thou hast searched all my stuff, what hast thou found of all thy household stuff? set [it] here before my brethren and thy brethren, that they may judge betwixt us both.
Genesis 31:38 This twenty years [have] I [been] with thee; thy ewes and thy she goats have not cast their young, and the rams of thy flock have I not eaten.
Genesis 31:39 That which was torn [of beasts] I brought not unto thee; I bare the loss of it; of my hand didst thou require it, [whether] stolen by day, or stolen by night.
Genesis 31:40 [Thus] I was; in the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night; and my sleep departed from mine eyes.
Genesis 31:41 Thus have I been twenty years in thy house; I served thee fourteen years for thy two daughters, and six years for thy cattle: and thou hast changed my wages ten times.
Genesis 31:42 Except the God of my father, the God of Abraham, and the fear of Isaac, had been with me, surely thou hadst sent me away now empty. God hath seen mine affliction and the labour of my hands, and rebuked [thee] yesternight.
Genesis 31:43 And Laban answered and said unto Jacob, [These] daughters [are] my daughters, and [these] children [are] my children, and [these] cattle [are] my cattle, and all that thou seest [is] mine: and what can I do this day unto these my daughters, or unto their children which they have born?
Genesis 31:44 Now therefore come thou, let us make a covenant, I and thou; and let it be for a witness between me and thee.
Genesis 31:45 And Jacob took a stone, and set it up [for] a pillar.
Genesis 31:46 And Jacob said unto his brethren, Gather stones; and they took stones, and made an heap: and they did eat there upon the heap.
Genesis 31:47 And Laban called it Jegarsahadutha: but Jacob called it Galeed.
Genesis 31:48 And Laban said, This heap [is] a witness between me and thee this day. Therefore was the name of it called Galeed;
Genesis 31:49 And Mizpah; for he said, The LORD watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.
Genesis 31:50 If thou shalt afflict my daughters, or if thou shalt take [other] wives beside my daughters, no man [is] with us; see, God [is] witness betwixt me and thee.
Genesis 31:51 And Laban said to Jacob, Behold this heap, and behold [this] pillar, which I have cast betwixt me and thee;
Genesis 31:52 This heap [be] witness, and [this] pillar [be] witness, that I will not pass over this heap to thee, and that thou shalt not pass over this heap and this pillar unto me, for harm.
Genesis 31:53 The God of Abraham, and the God of Nahor, the God of their father, judge betwixt us. And Jacob sware by the fear of his father Isaac.
Genesis 31:54 Then Jacob offered sacrifice upon the mount, and called his brethren to eat bread: and they did eat bread, and tarried all night in the mount.
Genesis 31:55 And early in the morning Laban rose up, and kissed his sons and his daughters, and blessed them: and Laban departed, and returned unto his place.
Genesis 32:1 And Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God met him.
Genesis 32:2 And when Jacob saw them, he said, This [is] God’s host: and he called the name of that place Mahanaim.
Genesis 32:3 And Jacob sent messengers before him to Esau his brother unto the land of Seir, the country of Edom.
Genesis 32:4 And he commanded them, saying, Thus shall ye speak unto my lord Esau; Thy servant Jacob saith thus, I have sojourned with Laban, and stayed there until now:
Genesis 32:5 And I have oxen, and asses, flocks, and menservants, and womenservants: and I have sent to tell my lord, that I may find grace in thy sight.
Genesis 32:6 And the messengers returned to Jacob, saying, We came to thy brother Esau, and also he cometh to meet thee, and four hundred men with him.
Genesis 32:7 Then Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed: and he divided the people that [was] with him, and the flocks, and herds, and the camels, into two bands;
Genesis 32:8 And said, If Esau come to the one company, and smite it, then the other company which is left shall escape.
Genesis 32:9 And Jacob said, O God of my father Abraham, and God of my father Isaac, the LORD which saidst unto me, Return unto thy country, and to thy kindred, and I will deal well with thee:
Genesis 32:10 I am not worthy of the least of all the mercies, and of all the truth, which thou hast shewed unto thy servant; for with my staff I passed over this Jordan; and now I am become two bands.
Genesis 32:11 Deliver me, I pray thee, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau: for I fear him, lest he will come and smite me, [and] the mother with the children.
Genesis 32:12 And thou saidst, I will surely do thee good, and make thy seed as the sand of the sea, which cannot be numbered for multitude.
Genesis 32:13 And he lodged there that same night; and took of that which came to his hand a present for Esau his brother;
Genesis 32:14 Two hundred she goats, and twenty he goats, two hundred ewes, and twenty rams,
Genesis 32:15 Thirty milch camels with their colts, forty kine, and ten bulls, twenty she asses, and ten foals.
Genesis 32:16 And he delivered [them] into the hand of his servants, every drove by themselves; and said unto his servants, Pass over before me, and put a space betwixt drove and drove.
Genesis 32:17 And he commanded the foremost, saying, When Esau my brother meeteth thee, and asketh thee, saying, Whose [art] thou? and whither goest thou? and whose [are] these before thee?
Genesis 32:18 Then thou shalt say, [They be] thy servant Jacob’s; it [is] a present sent unto my lord Esau: and, behold, also he [is] behind us.
Genesis 32:19 And so commanded he the second, and the third, and all that followed the droves, saying, On this manner shall ye speak unto Esau, when ye find him.
Genesis 32:20 And say ye moreover, Behold, thy servant Jacob [is] behind us. For he said, I will appease him with the present that goeth before me, and afterward I will see his face; peradventure he will accept of me.
Genesis 32:21 So went the present over before him: and himself lodged that night in the company.
Genesis 32:22 And he rose up that night, and took his two wives, and his two womenservants, and his eleven sons, and passed over the ford Jabbok.
Genesis 32:23 And he took them, and sent them over the brook, and sent over that he had.
Genesis 32:24 And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.
Genesis 32:25 And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him.
Genesis 32:26 And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.
Genesis 32:27 And he said unto him, What [is] thy name? And he said, Jacob.
Genesis 32:28 And he said, Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.
Genesis 32:29 And Jacob asked [him], and said, Tell [me], I pray thee, thy name. And he said, Wherefore [is] it [that] thou dost ask after my name? And he blessed him there.
Genesis 32:30 And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.
Genesis 32:31 And as he passed over Penuel the sun rose upon him, and he halted upon his thigh.
Genesis 32:32 Therefore the children of Israel eat not [of] the sinew which shrank, which [is] upon the hollow of the thigh, unto this day: because he touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh in the sinew that shrank.
Genesis 33:1 And Jacob lifted up his eyes, and looked, and, behold, Esau came, and with him four hundred men. And he divided the children unto Leah, and unto Rachel, and unto the two handmaids.
Genesis 33:2 And he put the handmaids and their children foremost, and Leah and her children after, and Rachel and Joseph hindermost.
Genesis 33:3 And he passed over before them, and bowed himself to the ground seven times, until he came near to his brother.
Genesis 33:4 And Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him: and they wept.
Genesis 33:5 And he lifted up his eyes, and saw the women and the children; and said, Who [are] those with thee? And he said, The children which God hath graciously given thy servant.
Genesis 33:6 Then the handmaidens came near, they and their children, and they bowed themselves.
Genesis 33:7 And Leah also with her children came near, and bowed themselves: and after came Joseph near and Rachel, and they bowed themselves.
Genesis 33:8 And he said, What [meanest] thou by all this drove which I met? And he said, [These are] to find grace in the sight of my lord.
Genesis 33:9 And Esau said, I have enough, my brother; keep that thou hast unto thyself.
Genesis 33:10 And Jacob said, Nay, I pray thee, if now I have found grace in thy sight, then receive my present at my hand: for therefore I have seen thy face, as though I had seen the face of God, and thou wast pleased with me.
Genesis 33:11 Take, I pray thee, my blessing that is brought to thee; because God hath dealt graciously with me, and because I have enough. And he urged him, and he took [it].
Genesis 33:12 And he said, Let us take our journey, and let us go, and I will go before thee.
Genesis 33:13 And he said unto him, My lord knoweth that the children [are] tender, and the flocks and herds with young [are] with me: and if men should overdrive them one day, all the flock will die.
Genesis 33:14 Let my lord, I pray thee, pass over before his servant: and I will lead on softly, according as the cattle that goeth before me and the children be able to endure, until I come unto my lord unto Seir.
Genesis 33:15 And Esau said, Let me now leave with thee [some] of the folk that [are] with me. And he said, What needeth it? let me find grace in the sight of my lord.
Genesis 33:16 So Esau returned that day on his way unto Seir.
Genesis 33:17 And Jacob journeyed to Succoth, and built him an house, and made booths for his cattle: therefore the name of the place is called Succoth.
Genesis 33:18 And Jacob came to Shalem, a city of Shechem, which [is] in the land of Canaan, when he came from Padanaram; and pitched his tent before the city.
Genesis 33:19 And he bought a parcel of a field, where he had spread his tent, at the hand of the children of Hamor, Shechem’s father, for an hundred pieces of money.
Genesis 33:20 And he erected there an altar, and called it EleloheIsrael.
Genesis 34:1 And Dinah the daughter of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob, went out to see the daughters of the land.
Genesis 34:2 And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite, prince of the country, saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her.
Genesis 34:3 And his soul clave unto Dinah the daughter of Jacob, and he loved the damsel, and spake kindly unto the damsel.
Genesis 34:4 And Shechem spake unto his father Hamor, saying, Get me this damsel to wife.
Genesis 34:5 And Jacob heard that he had defiled Dinah his daughter: now his sons were with his cattle in the field: and Jacob held his peace until they were come.
Genesis 34:6 And Hamor the father of Shechem went out unto Jacob to commune with him.
Genesis 34:7 And the sons of Jacob came out of the field when they heard [it]: and the men were grieved, and they were very wroth, because he had wrought folly in Israel in lying with Jacob’s daughter; which thing ought not to be done.
Genesis 34:8 And Hamor communed with them, saying, The soul of my son Shechem longeth for your daughter: I pray you give her him to wife.
Genesis 34:9 And make ye marriages with us, [and] give your daughters unto us, and take our daughters unto you.
Genesis 34:10 And ye shall dwell with us: and the land shall be before you; dwell and trade ye therein, and get you possessions therein.
Genesis 34:11 And Shechem said unto her father and unto her brethren, Let me find grace in your eyes, and what ye shall say unto me I will give.
Genesis 34:12 Ask me never so much dowry and gift, and I will give according as ye shall say unto me: but give me the damsel to wife.
Genesis 34:13 And the sons of Jacob answered Shechem and Hamor his father deceitfully, and said, because he had defiled Dinah their sister:
Genesis 34:14 And they said unto them, We cannot do this thing, to give our sister to one that is uncircumcised; for that [were] a reproach unto us:
Genesis 34:15 But in this will we consent unto you: If ye will be as we [be], that every male of you be circumcised;
Genesis 34:16 Then will we give our daughters unto you, and we will take your daughters to us, and we will dwell with you, and we will become one people.
Genesis 34:17 But if ye will not hearken unto us, to be circumcised; then will we take our daughter, and we will be gone.
Genesis 34:18 And their words pleased Hamor, and Shechem Hamor’s son.
Genesis 34:19 And the young man deferred not to do the thing, because he had delight in Jacob’s daughter: and he [was] more honourable than all the house of his father.
Genesis 34:20 And Hamor and Shechem his son came unto the gate of their city, and communed with the men of their city, saying,
Genesis 34:21 These men [are] peaceable with us; therefore let them dwell in the land, and trade therein; for the land, behold, [it is] large enough for them; let us take their daughters to us for wives, and let us give them our daughters.
Genesis 34:22 Only herein will the men consent unto us for to dwell with us, to be one people, if every male among us be circumcised, as they [are] circumcised.
Genesis 34:23 [Shall] not their cattle and their substance and every beast of theirs [be] ours? only let us consent unto them, and they will dwell with us.
Genesis 34:24 And unto Hamor and unto Shechem his son hearkened all that went out of the gate of his city; and every male was circumcised, all that went out of the gate of his city.
Genesis 34:25 And it came to pass on the third day, when they were sore, that two of the sons of Jacob, Simeon and Levi, Dinah’s brethren, took each man his sword, and came upon the city boldly, and slew all the males.
Genesis 34:26 And they slew Hamor and Shechem his son with the edge of the sword, and took Dinah out of Shechem’s house, and went out.
Genesis 34:27 The sons of Jacob came upon the slain, and spoiled the city, because they had defiled their sister.
Genesis 34:28 They took their sheep, and their oxen, and their asses, and that which [was] in the city, and that which [was] in the field,
Genesis 34:29 And all their wealth, and all their little ones, and their wives took they captive, and spoiled even all that [was] in the house.
Genesis 34:30 And Jacob said to Simeon and Levi, Ye have troubled me to make me to stink among the inhabitants of the land, among the Canaanites and the Perizzites: and I [being] few in number, they shall gather themselves together against me, and slay me; and I shall be destroyed, I and my house.
Genesis 34:31 And they said, Should he deal with our sister as with an harlot?
Genesis 35:1 And God said unto Jacob, Arise, go up to Bethel, and dwell there: and make there an altar unto God, that appeared unto thee when thou fleddest from the face of Esau thy brother.
Genesis 35:2 Then Jacob said unto his household, and to all that [were] with him, Put away the strange gods that [are] among you, and be clean, and change your garments:
Genesis 35:3 And let us arise, and go up to Bethel; and I will make there an altar unto God, who answered me in the day of my distress, and was with me in the way which I went.
Genesis 35:4 And they gave unto Jacob all the strange gods which [were] in their hand, and [all their] earrings which [were] in their ears; and Jacob hid them under the oak which [was] by Shechem.
Genesis 35:5 And they journeyed: and the terror of God was upon the cities that [were] round about them, and they did not pursue after the sons of Jacob.
Genesis 35:6 So Jacob came to Luz, which [is] in the land of Canaan, that [is], Bethel, he and all the people that [were] with him.
Genesis 35:7 And he built there an altar, and called the place Elbethel: because there God appeared unto him, when he fled from the face of his brother.
Genesis 35:8 But Deborah Rebekah’s nurse died, and she was buried beneath Bethel under an oak: and the name of it was called Allonbachuth.
Genesis 35:9 And God appeared unto Jacob again, when he came out of Padanaram, and blessed him.
Genesis 35:10 And God said unto him, Thy name [is] Jacob: thy name shall not be called any more Jacob, but Israel shall be thy name: and he called his name Israel.
Genesis 35:11 And God said unto him, I [am] God Almighty: be fruitful and multiply; a nation and a company of nations shall be of thee, and kings shall come out of thy loins;
Genesis 35:12 And the land which I gave Abraham and Isaac, to thee I will give it, and to thy seed after thee will I give the land.
Genesis 35:13 And God went up from him in the place where he talked with him.
Genesis 35:14 And Jacob set up a pillar in the place where he talked with him, [even] a pillar of stone: and he poured a drink offering thereon, and he poured oil thereon.
Genesis 35:15 And Jacob called the name of the place where God spake with him, Bethel.
Genesis 35:16 And they journeyed from Bethel; and there was but a little way to come to Ephrath: and Rachel travailed, and she had hard labour.
Genesis 35:17 And it came to pass, when she was in hard labour, that the midwife said unto her, Fear not; thou shalt have this son also.
Genesis 35:18 And it came to pass, as her soul was in departing, (for she died) that she called his name Benoni: but his father called him Benjamin.
Genesis 35:19 And Rachel died, and was buried in the way to Ephrath, which [is] Bethlehem.
Genesis 35:20 And Jacob set a pillar upon her grave: that [is] the pillar of Rachel’s grave unto this day.
Genesis 35:21 And Israel journeyed, and spread his tent beyond the tower of Edar.
Genesis 35:22 And it came to pass, when Israel dwelt in that land, that Reuben went and lay with Bilhah his father’s concubine: and Israel heard [it]. Now the sons of Jacob were twelve:
Genesis 35:23 The sons of Leah; Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn, and Simeon, and Levi, and Judah, and Issachar, and Zebulun:
Genesis 35:24 The sons of Rachel; Joseph, and Benjamin:
Genesis 35:25 And the sons of Bilhah, Rachel’s handmaid; Dan, and Naphtali:
Genesis 35:26 And the sons of Zilpah, Leah’s handmaid; Gad, and Asher: these [are] the sons of Jacob, which were born to him in Padanaram.
Genesis 35:27 And Jacob came unto Isaac his father unto Mamre, unto the city of Arbah, which [is] Hebron, where Abraham and Isaac sojourned.
Genesis 35:28 And the days of Isaac were an hundred and fourscore years.
Genesis 35:29 And Isaac gave up the ghost, and died, and was gathered unto his people, [being] old and full of days: and his sons Esau and Jacob buried him.
Genesis 36:1 Now these [are] the generations of Esau, who [is] Edom.
Genesis 36:2 Esau took his wives of the daughters of Canaan; Adah the daughter of Elon the Hittite, and Aholibamah the daughter of Anah the daughter of Zibeon the Hivite;
Genesis 36:3 And Bashemath Ishmael’s daughter, sister of Nebajoth.
Genesis 36:4 And Adah bare to Esau Eliphaz; and Bashemath bare Reuel;
Genesis 36:5 And Aholibamah bare Jeush, and Jaalam, and Korah: these [are] the sons of Esau, which were born unto him in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 36:6 And Esau took his wives, and his sons, and his daughters, and all the persons of his house, and his cattle, and all his beasts, and all his substance, which he had got in the land of Canaan; and went into the country from the face of his brother Jacob.
Genesis 36:7 For their riches were more than that they might dwell together; and the land wherein they were strangers could not bear them because of their cattle.
Genesis 36:8 Thus dwelt Esau in mount Seir: Esau [is] Edom.
Genesis 36:9 And these [are] the generations of Esau the father of the Edomites in mount Seir:
Genesis 36:10 These [are] the names of Esau’s sons; Eliphaz the son of Adah the wife of Esau, Reuel the son of Bashemath the wife of Esau.
Genesis 36:11 And the sons of Eliphaz were Teman, Omar, Zepho, and Gatam, and Kenaz.
Genesis 36:12 And Timna was concubine to Eliphaz Esau’s son; and she bare to Eliphaz Amalek: these [were] the sons of Adah Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:13 And these [are] the sons of Reuel; Nahath, and Zerah, Shammah, and Mizzah: these were the sons of Bashemath Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:14 And these were the sons of Aholibamah, the daughter of Anah the daughter of Zibeon, Esau’s wife: and she bare to Esau Jeush, and Jaalam, and Korah.
Genesis 36:15 These [were] dukes of the sons of Esau: the sons of Eliphaz the firstborn [son] of Esau; duke Teman, duke Omar, duke Zepho, duke Kenaz,
Genesis 36:16 Duke Korah, duke Gatam, [and] duke Amalek: these [are] the dukes [that came] of Eliphaz in the land of Edom; these [were] the sons of Adah.
Genesis 36:17 And these [are] the sons of Reuel Esau’s son; duke Nahath, duke Zerah, duke Shammah, duke Mizzah: these [are] the dukes [that came] of Reuel in the land of Edom; these [are] the sons of Bashemath Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:18 And these [are] the sons of Aholibamah Esau’s wife; duke Jeush, duke Jaalam, duke Korah: these [were] the dukes [that came] of Aholibamah the daughter of Anah, Esau’s wife.
Genesis 36:19 These [are] the sons of Esau, who [is] Edom, and these [are] their dukes.
Genesis 36:20 These [are] the sons of Seir the Horite, who inhabited the land; Lotan, and Shobal, and Zibeon, and Anah,
Genesis 36:21 And Dishon, and Ezer, and Dishan: these [are] the dukes of the Horites, the children of Seir in the land of Edom.
Genesis 36:22 And the children of Lotan were Hori and Hemam; and Lotan’s sister [was] Timna.
Genesis 36:23 And the children of Shobal [were] these; Alvan, and Manahath, and Ebal, Shepho, and Onam.
Genesis 36:24 And these [are] the children of Zibeon; both Ajah, and Anah: this [was that] Anah that found the mules in the wilderness, as he fed the asses of Zibeon his father.
Genesis 36:25 And the children of Anah [were] these; Dishon, and Aholibamah the daughter of Anah.
Genesis 36:26 And these [are] the children of Dishon; Hemdan, and Eshban, and Ithran, and Cheran.
Genesis 36:27 The children of Ezer [are] these; Bilhan, and Zaavan, and Akan.
Genesis 36:28 The children of Dishan [are] these; Uz, and Aran.
Genesis 36:29 These [are] the dukes [that came] of the Horites; duke Lotan, duke Shobal, duke Zibeon, duke Anah,
Genesis 36:30 Duke Dishon, duke Ezer, duke Dishan: these [are] the dukes [that came] of Hori, among their dukes in the land of Seir.
Genesis 36:31 And these [are] the kings that reigned in the land of Edom, before there reigned any king over the children of Israel.
Genesis 36:32 And Bela the son of Beor reigned in Edom: and the name of his city [was] Dinhabah.
Genesis 36:33 And Bela died, and Jobab the son of Zerah of Bozrah reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:34 And Jobab died, and Husham of the land of Temani reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:35 And Husham died, and Hadad the son of Bedad, who smote Midian in the field of Moab, reigned in his stead: and the name of his city [was] Avith.
Genesis 36:36 And Hadad died, and Samlah of Masrekah reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:37 And Samlah died, and Saul of Rehoboth [by] the river reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:38 And Saul died, and Baalhanan the son of Achbor reigned in his stead.
Genesis 36:39 And Baalhanan the son of Achbor died, and Hadar reigned in his stead: and the name of his city [was] Pau; and his wife’s name [was] Mehetabel, the daughter of Matred, the daughter of Mezahab.
Genesis 36:40 And these [are] the names of the dukes [that came] of Esau, according to their families, after their places, by their names; duke Timnah, duke Alvah, duke Jetheth,
Genesis 36:41 Duke Aholibamah, duke Elah, duke Pinon,
Genesis 36:42 Duke Kenaz, duke Teman, duke Mibzar,
Genesis 36:43 Duke Magdiel, duke Iram: these [be] the dukes of Edom, according to their habitations in the land of their possession: he [is] Esau the father of the Edomites.
Genesis 37:1 And Jacob dwelt in the land wherein his father was a stranger, in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 37:2 These [are] the generations of Jacob. Joseph, [being] seventeen years old, was feeding the flock with his brethren; and the lad [was] with the sons of Bilhah, and with the sons of Zilpah, his father’s wives: and Joseph brought unto his father their evil report.
Genesis 37:3 Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his children, because he [was] the son of his old age: and he made him a coat of [many] colours.
Genesis 37:4 And when his brethren saw that their father loved him more than all his brethren, they hated him, and could not speak peaceably unto him.
Genesis 37:5 And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told [it] his brethren: and they hated him yet the more.
Genesis 37:6 And he said unto them, Hear, I pray you, this dream which I have dreamed:
Genesis 37:7 For, behold, we [were] binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and also stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves stood round about, and made obeisance to my sheaf.
Genesis 37:8 And his brethren said to him, Shalt thou indeed reign over us? or shalt thou indeed have dominion over us? And they hated him yet the more for his dreams, and for his words.
Genesis 37:9 And he dreamed yet another dream, and told it his brethren, and said, Behold, I have dreamed a dream more; and, behold, the sun and the moon and the eleven stars made obeisance to me.
Genesis 37:10 And he told [it] to his father, and to his brethren: and his father rebuked him, and said unto him, What [is] this dream that thou hast dreamed? Shall I and thy mother and thy brethren indeed come to bow down ourselves to thee to the earth?
Genesis 37:11 And his brethren envied him; but his father observed the saying.
Genesis 37:12 And his brethren went to feed their father’s flock in Shechem.
Genesis 37:13 And Israel said unto Joseph, Do not thy brethren feed [the flock] in Shechem? come, and I will send thee unto them. And he said to him, Here [am I].
Genesis 37:14 And he said to him, Go, I pray thee, see whether it be well with thy brethren, and well with the flocks; and bring me word again. So he sent him out of the vale of Hebron, and he came to Shechem.
Genesis 37:15 And a certain man found him, and, behold, [he was] wandering in the field: and the man asked him, saying, What seekest thou?
Genesis 37:16 And he said, I seek my brethren: tell me, I pray thee, where they feed [their flocks].
Genesis 37:17 And the man said, They are departed hence; for I heard them say, Let us go to Dothan. And Joseph went after his brethren, and found them in Dothan.
Genesis 37:18 And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him.
Genesis 37:19 And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh.
Genesis 37:20 Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.
Genesis 37:21 And Reuben heard [it], and he delivered him out of their hands; and said, Let us not kill him.
Genesis 37:22 And Reuben said unto them, Shed no blood, [but] cast him into this pit that [is] in the wilderness, and lay no hand upon him; that he might rid him out of their hands, to deliver him to his father again.
Genesis 37:23 And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, [his] coat of [many] colours that [was] on him;
Genesis 37:24 And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit [was] empty, [there was] no water in it.
Genesis 37:25 And they sat down to eat bread: and they lifted up their eyes and looked, and, behold, a company of Ishmeelites came from Gilead with their camels bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going to carry [it] down to Egypt.
Genesis 37:26 And Judah said unto his brethren, What profit [is it] if we slay our brother, and conceal his blood?
Genesis 37:27 Come, and let us sell him to the Ishmeelites, and let not our hand be upon him; for he [is] our brother [and] our flesh. And his brethren were content.
Genesis 37:28 Then there passed by Midianites merchantmen; and they drew and lifted up Joseph out of the pit, and sold Joseph to the Ishmeelites for twenty [pieces] of silver: and they brought Joseph into Egypt.
Genesis 37:29 And Reuben returned unto the pit; and, behold, Joseph [was] not in the pit; and he rent his clothes.
Genesis 37:30 And he returned unto his brethren, and said, The child [is] not; and I, whither shall I go?
Genesis 37:31 And they took Joseph’s coat, and killed a kid of the goats, and dipped the coat in the blood;
Genesis 37:32 And they sent the coat of [many] colours, and they brought [it] to their father; and said, This have we found: know now whether it [be] thy son’s coat or no.
Genesis 37:33 And he knew it, and said, [It is] my son’s coat; an evil beast hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces.
Genesis 37:34 And Jacob rent his clothes, and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days.
Genesis 37:35 And all his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him; but he refused to be comforted; and he said, For I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning. Thus his father wept for him.
Genesis 37:36 And the Midianites sold him into Egypt unto Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh’s, [and] captain of the guard.
Genesis 38:1 And it came to pass at that time, that Judah went down from his brethren, and turned in to a certain Adullamite, whose name [was] Hirah.
Genesis 38:2 And Judah saw there a daughter of a certain Canaanite, whose name [was] Shuah; and he took her, and went in unto her.
Genesis 38:3 And she conceived, and bare a son; and he called his name Er.
Genesis 38:4 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and she called his name Onan.
Genesis 38:5 And she yet again conceived, and bare a son; and called his name Shelah: and he was at Chezib, when she bare him.
Genesis 38:6 And Judah took a wife for Er his firstborn, whose name [was] Tamar.
Genesis 38:7 And Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the LORD; and the LORD slew him.
Genesis 38:8 And Judah said unto Onan, Go in unto thy brother’s wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother.
Genesis 38:9 And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went in unto his brother’s wife, that he spilled [it] on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother.
Genesis 38:10 And the thing which he did displeased the LORD: wherefore he slew him also.
Genesis 38:11 Then said Judah to Tamar his daughter in law, Remain a widow at thy father’s house, till Shelah my son be grown: for he said, Lest peradventure he die also, as his brethren [did]. And Tamar went and dwelt in her father’s house.
Genesis 38:12 And in process of time the daughter of Shuah Judah’s wife died; and Judah was comforted, and went up unto his sheepshearers to Timnath, he and his friend Hirah the Adullamite.
Genesis 38:13 And it was told Tamar, saying, Behold thy father in law goeth up to Timnath to shear his sheep.
Genesis 38:14 And she put her widow’s garments off from her, and covered her with a vail, and wrapped herself, and sat in an open place, which [is] by the way to Timnath; for she saw that Shelah was grown, and she was not given unto him to wife.
Genesis 38:15 When Judah saw her, he thought her [to be] an harlot; because she had covered her face.
Genesis 38:16 And he turned unto her by the way, and said, Go to, I pray thee, let me come in unto thee; (for he knew not that she [was] his daughter in law.) And she said, What wilt thou give me, that thou mayest come in unto me?
Genesis 38:17 And he said, I will send [thee] a kid from the flock. And she said, Wilt thou give [me] a pledge, till thou send [it]?
Genesis 38:18 And he said, What pledge shall I give thee? And she said, Thy signet, and thy bracelets, and thy staff that [is] in thine hand. And he gave [it] her, and came in unto her, and she conceived by him.
Genesis 38:19 And she arose, and went away, and laid by her vail from her, and put on the garments of her widowhood.
Genesis 38:20 And Judah sent the kid by the hand of his friend the Adullamite, to receive [his] pledge from the woman’s hand: but he found her not.
Genesis 38:21 Then he asked the men of that place, saying, Where [is] the harlot, that [was] openly by the way side? And they said, There was no harlot in this [place].
Genesis 38:22 And he returned to Judah, and said, I cannot find her; and also the men of the place said, [that] there was no harlot in this [place].
Genesis 38:23 And Judah said, Let her take [it] to her, lest we be shamed: behold, I sent this kid, and thou hast not found her.
Genesis 38:24 And it came to pass about three months after, that it was told Judah, saying, Tamar thy daughter in law hath played the harlot; and also, behold, she [is] with child by whoredom. And Judah said, Bring her forth, and let her be burnt.
Genesis 38:25 When she [was] brought forth, she sent to her father in law, saying, By the man, whose these [are, am] I with child: and she said, Discern, I pray thee, whose [are] these, the signet, and bracelets, and staff.
Genesis 38:26 And Judah acknowledged [them], and said, She hath been more righteous than I; because that I gave her not to Shelah my son. And he knew her again no more.
Genesis 38:27 And it came to pass in the time of her travail, that, behold, twins [were] in her womb.
Genesis 38:28 And it came to pass, when she travailed, that [the one] put out [his] hand: and the midwife took and bound upon his hand a scarlet thread, saying, This came out first.
Genesis 38:29 And it came to pass, as he drew back his hand, that, behold, his brother came out: and she said, How hast thou broken forth? [this] breach [be] upon thee: therefore his name was called Pharez.
Genesis 38:30 And afterward came out his brother, that had the scarlet thread upon his hand: and his name was called Zarah.
Genesis 39:1 And Joseph was brought down to Egypt; and Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh, captain of the guard, an Egyptian, bought him of the hands of the Ishmeelites, which had brought him down thither.
Genesis 39:2 And the LORD was with Joseph, and he was a prosperous man; and he was in the house of his master the Egyptian.
Genesis 39:3 And his master saw that the LORD [was] with him, and that the LORD made all that he did to prosper in his hand.
Genesis 39:4 And Joseph found grace in his sight, and he served him: and he made him overseer over his house, and all [that] he had he put into his hand.
Genesis 39:5 And it came to pass from the time [that] he had made him overseer in his house, and over all that he had, that the LORD blessed the Egyptian’s house for Joseph’s sake; and the blessing of the LORD was upon all that he had in the house, and in the field.
Genesis 39:6 And he left all that he had in Joseph’s hand; and he knew not ought he had, save the bread which he did eat. And Joseph was [a] goodly [person], and well favoured.
Genesis 39:7 And it came to pass after these things, that his master’s wife cast her eyes upon Joseph; and she said, Lie with me.
Genesis 39:8 But he refused, and said unto his master’s wife, Behold, my master wotteth not what [is] with me in the house, and he hath committed all that he hath to my hand;
Genesis 39:9 [There is] none greater in this house than I; neither hath he kept back any thing from me but thee, because thou [art] his wife: how then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?
Genesis 39:10 And it came to pass, as she spake to Joseph day by day, that he hearkened not unto her, to lie by her, [or] to be with her.
Genesis 39:11 And it came to pass about this time, that [Joseph] went into the house to do his business; and [there was] none of the men of the house there within.
Genesis 39:12 And she caught him by his garment, saying, Lie with me: and he left his garment in her hand, and fled, and got him out.
Genesis 39:13 And it came to pass, when she saw that he had left his garment in her hand, and was fled forth,
Genesis 39:14 That she called unto the men of her house, and spake unto them, saying, See, he hath brought in an Hebrew unto us to mock us; he came in unto me to lie with me, and I cried with a loud voice:
Genesis 39:15 And it came to pass, when he heard that I lifted up my voice and cried, that he left his garment with me, and fled, and got him out.
Genesis 39:16 And she laid up his garment by her, until his lord came home.
Genesis 39:17 And she spake unto him according to these words, saying, The Hebrew servant, which thou hast brought unto us, came in unto me to mock me:
Genesis 39:18 And it came to pass, as I lifted up my voice and cried, that he left his garment with me, and fled out.
Genesis 39:19 And it came to pass, when his master heard the words of his wife, which she spake unto him, saying, After this manner did thy servant to me; that his wrath was kindled.
Genesis 39:20 And Joseph’s master took him, and put him into the prison, a place where the king’s prisoners [were] bound: and he was there in the prison.
Genesis 39:21 But the LORD was with Joseph, and shewed him mercy, and gave him favour in the sight of the keeper of the prison.
Genesis 39:22 And the keeper of the prison committed to Joseph’s hand all the prisoners that [were] in the prison; and whatsoever they did there, he was the doer [of it].
Genesis 39:23 The keeper of the prison looked not to any thing [that was] under his hand; because the LORD was with him, and [that] which he did, the LORD made [it] to prosper.
Genesis 40:1 And it came to pass after these things, [that] the butler of the king of Egypt and [his] baker had offended their lord the king of Egypt.
Genesis 40:2 And Pharaoh was wroth against two [of] his officers, against the chief of the butlers, and against the chief of the bakers.
Genesis 40:3 And he put them in ward in the house of the captain of the guard, into the prison, the place where Joseph [was] bound.
Genesis 40:4 And the captain of the guard charged Joseph with them, and he served them: and they continued a season in ward.
Genesis 40:5 And they dreamed a dream both of them, each man his dream in one night, each man according to the interpretation of his dream, the butler and the baker of the king of Egypt, which [were] bound in the prison.
Genesis 40:6 And Joseph came in unto them in the morning, and looked upon them, and, behold, they [were] sad.
Genesis 40:7 And he asked Pharaoh’s officers that [were] with him in the ward of his lord’s house, saying, Wherefore look ye [so] sadly to day?
Genesis 40:8 And they said unto him, We have dreamed a dream, and [there is] no interpreter of it. And Joseph said unto them, [Do] not interpretations [belong] to God? tell me [them], I pray you.
Genesis 40:9 And the chief butler told his dream to Joseph, and said to him, In my dream, behold, a vine [was] before me;
Genesis 40:10 And in the vine [were] three branches: and it [was] as though it budded, [and] her blossoms shot forth; and the clusters thereof brought forth ripe grapes:
Genesis 40:11 And Pharaoh’s cup [was] in my hand: and I took the grapes, and pressed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and I gave the cup into Pharaoh’s hand.
Genesis 40:12 And Joseph said unto him, This [is] the interpretation of it: The three branches [are] three days:
Genesis 40:13 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thine head, and restore thee unto thy place: and thou shalt deliver Pharaoh’s cup into his hand, after the former manner when thou wast his butler.
Genesis 40:14 But think on me when it shall be well with thee, and shew kindness, I pray thee, unto me, and make mention of me unto Pharaoh, and bring me out of this house:
Genesis 40:15 For indeed I was stolen away out of the land of the Hebrews: and here also have I done nothing that they should put me into the dungeon.
Genesis 40:16 When the chief baker saw that the interpretation was good, he said unto Joseph, I also [was] in my dream, and, behold, [I had] three white baskets on my head:
Genesis 40:17 And in the uppermost basket [there was] of all manner of bakemeats for Pharaoh; and the birds did eat them out of the basket upon my head.
Genesis 40:18 And Joseph answered and said, This [is] the interpretation thereof: The three baskets [are] three days:
Genesis 40:19 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thy head from off thee, and shall hang thee on a tree; and the birds shall eat thy flesh from off thee.
Genesis 40:20 And it came to pass the third day, [which was] Pharaoh’s birthday, that he made a feast unto all his servants: and he lifted up the head of the chief butler and of the chief baker among his servants.
Genesis 40:21 And he restored the chief butler unto his butlership again; and he gave the cup into Pharaoh’s hand:
Genesis 40:22 But he hanged the chief baker: as Joseph had interpreted to them.
Genesis 40:23 Yet did not the chief butler remember Joseph, but forgat him.
Genesis 41:1 And it came to pass at the end of two full years, that Pharaoh dreamed: and, behold, he stood by the river.
Genesis 41:2 And, behold, there came up out of the river seven well favoured kine and fatfleshed; and they fed in a meadow.
Genesis 41:3 And, behold, seven other kine came up after them out of the river, ill favoured and leanfleshed; and stood by the [other] kine upon the brink of the river.
Genesis 41:4 And the ill favoured and leanfleshed kine did eat up the seven well favoured and fat kine. So Pharaoh awoke.
Genesis 41:5 And he slept and dreamed the second time: and, behold, seven ears of corn came up upon one stalk, rank and good.
Genesis 41:6 And, behold, seven thin ears and blasted with the east wind sprung up after them.
Genesis 41:7 And the seven thin ears devoured the seven rank and full ears. And Pharaoh awoke, and, behold, [it was] a dream.
Genesis 41:8 And it came to pass in the morning that his spirit was troubled; and he sent and called for all the magicians of Egypt, and all the wise men thereof: and Pharaoh told them his dream; but [there was] none that could interpret them unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:9 Then spake the chief butler unto Pharaoh, saying, I do remember my faults this day:
Genesis 41:10 Pharaoh was wroth with his servants, and put me in ward in the captain of the guard’s house, [both] me and the chief baker:
Genesis 41:11 And we dreamed a dream in one night, I and he; we dreamed each man according to the interpretation of his dream.
Genesis 41:12 And [there was] there with us a young man, an Hebrew, servant to the captain of the guard; and we told him, and he interpreted to us our dreams; to each man according to his dream he did interpret.
Genesis 41:13 And it came to pass, as he interpreted to us, so it was; me he restored unto mine office, and him he hanged.
Genesis 41:14 Then Pharaoh sent and called Joseph, and they brought him hastily out of the dungeon: and he shaved [himself], and changed his raiment, and came in unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:15 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have dreamed a dream, and [there is] none that can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, [that] thou canst understand a dream to interpret it.
Genesis 41:16 And Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, [It is] not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace.
Genesis 41:17 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, In my dream, behold, I stood upon the bank of the river:
Genesis 41:18 And, behold, there came up out of the river seven kine, fatfleshed and well favoured; and they fed in a meadow:
Genesis 41:19 And, behold, seven other kine came up after them, poor and very ill favoured and leanfleshed, such as I never saw in all the land of Egypt for badness:
Genesis 41:20 And the lean and the ill favoured kine did eat up the first seven fat kine:
Genesis 41:21 And when they had eaten them up, it could not be known that they had eaten them; but they [were] still ill favoured, as at the beginning. So I awoke.
Genesis 41:22 And I saw in my dream, and, behold, seven ears came up in one stalk, full and good:
Genesis 41:23 And, behold, seven ears, withered, thin, [and] blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them:
Genesis 41:24 And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears: and I told [this] unto the magicians; but [there was] none that could declare [it] to me.
Genesis 41:25 And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, The dream of Pharaoh [is] one: God hath shewed Pharaoh what he [is] about to do.
Genesis 41:26 The seven good kine [are] seven years; and the seven good ears [are] seven years: the dream [is] one.
Genesis 41:27 And the seven thin and ill favoured kine that came up after them [are] seven years; and the seven empty ears blasted with the east wind shall be seven years of famine.
Genesis 41:28 This [is] the thing which I have spoken unto Pharaoh: What God [is] about to do he sheweth unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:29 Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt:
Genesis 41:30 And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land;
Genesis 41:31 And the plenty shall not be known in the land by reason of that famine following; for it [shall be] very grievous.
Genesis 41:32 And for that the dream was doubled unto Pharaoh twice; [it is] because the thing [is] established by God, and God will shortly bring it to pass.
Genesis 41:33 Now therefore let Pharaoh look out a man discreet and wise, and set him over the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:34 Let Pharaoh do [this], and let him appoint officers over the land, and take up the fifth part of the land of Egypt in the seven plenteous years.
Genesis 41:35 And let them gather all the food of those good years that come, and lay up corn under the hand of Pharaoh, and let them keep food in the cities.
Genesis 41:36 And that food shall be for store to the land against the seven years of famine, which shall be in the land of Egypt; that the land perish not through the famine.
Genesis 41:37 And the thing was good in the eyes of Pharaoh, and in the eyes of all his servants.
Genesis 41:38 And Pharaoh said unto his servants, Can we find [such a one] as this [is], a man in whom the Spirit of God [is]?
Genesis 41:39 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, Forasmuch as God hath shewed thee all this, [there is] none so discreet and wise as thou [art]:
Genesis 41:40 Thou shalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne will I be greater than thou.
Genesis 41:41 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, See, I have set thee over all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:42 And Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it upon Joseph’s hand, and arrayed him in vestures of fine linen, and put a gold chain about his neck;
Genesis 41:43 And he made him to ride in the second chariot which he had; and they cried before him, Bow the knee: and he made him [ruler] over all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:44 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I [am] Pharaoh, and without thee shall no man lift up his hand or foot in all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:45 And Pharaoh called Joseph’s name Zaphnathpaaneah; and he gave him to wife Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On. And Joseph went out over [all] the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:46 And Joseph [was] thirty years old when he stood before Pharaoh king of Egypt. And Joseph went out from the presence of Pharaoh, and went throughout all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:47 And in the seven plenteous years the earth brought forth by handfuls.
Genesis 41:48 And he gathered up all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in the cities: the food of the field, which [was] round about every city, laid he up in the same.
Genesis 41:49 And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, very much, until he left numbering; for [it was] without number.
Genesis 41:50 And unto Joseph were born two sons before the years of famine came, which Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On bare unto him.
Genesis 41:51 And Joseph called the name of the firstborn Manasseh: For God, [said he], hath made me forget all my toil, and all my father’s house.
Genesis 41:52 And the name of the second called he Ephraim: For God hath caused me to be fruitful in the land of my affliction.
Genesis 41:53 And the seven years of plenteousness, that was in the land of Egypt, were ended.
Genesis 41:54 And the seven years of dearth began to come, according as Joseph had said: and the dearth was in all lands; but in all the land of Egypt there was bread.
Genesis 41:55 And when all the land of Egypt was famished, the people cried to Pharaoh for bread: and Pharaoh said unto all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph; what he saith to you, do.
Genesis 41:56 And the famine was over all the face of the earth: And Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the Egyptians; and the famine waxed sore in the land of Egypt.
Genesis 41:57 And all countries came into Egypt to Joseph for to buy [corn]; because that the famine was [so] sore in all lands.
Genesis 42:1 Now when Jacob saw that there was corn in Egypt, Jacob said unto his sons, Why do ye look one upon another?
Genesis 42:2 And he said, Behold, I have heard that there is corn in Egypt: get you down thither, and buy for us from thence; that we may live, and not die.
Genesis 42:3 And Joseph’s ten brethren went down to buy corn in Egypt.
Genesis 42:4 But Benjamin, Joseph’s brother, Jacob sent not with his brethren; for he said, Lest peradventure mischief befall him.
Genesis 42:5 And the sons of Israel came to buy [corn] among those that came: for the famine was in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 42:6 And Joseph [was] the governor over the land, [and] he [it was] that sold to all the people of the land: and Joseph’s brethren came, and bowed down themselves before him [with] their faces to the earth.
Genesis 42:7 And Joseph saw his brethren, and he knew them, but made himself strange unto them, and spake roughly unto them; and he said unto them, Whence come ye? And they said, From the land of Canaan to buy food.
Genesis 42:8 And Joseph knew his brethren, but they knew not him.
Genesis 42:9 And Joseph remembered the dreams which he dreamed of them, and said unto them, Ye [are] spies; to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.
Genesis 42:10 And they said unto him, Nay, my lord, but to buy food are thy servants come.
Genesis 42:11 We [are] all one man’s sons; we [are] true [men], thy servants are no spies.
Genesis 42:12 And he said unto them, Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.
Genesis 42:13 And they said, Thy servants [are] twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the land of Canaan; and, behold, the youngest [is] this day with our father, and one [is] not.
Genesis 42:14 And Joseph said unto them, That [is it] that I spake unto you, saying, Ye [are] spies:
Genesis 42:15 Hereby ye shall be proved: By the life of Pharaoh ye shall not go forth hence, except your youngest brother come hither.
Genesis 42:16 Send one of you, and let him fetch your brother, and ye shall be kept in prison, that your words may be proved, whether [there be any] truth in you: or else by the life of Pharaoh surely ye [are] spies.
Genesis 42:17 And he put them all together into ward three days.
Genesis 42:18 And Joseph said unto them the third day, This do, and live; [for] I fear God:
Genesis 42:19 If ye [be] true [men], let one of your brethren be bound in the house of your prison: go ye, carry corn for the famine of your houses:
Genesis 42:20 But bring your youngest brother unto me; so shall your words be verified, and ye shall not die. And they did so.
Genesis 42:21 And they said one to another, We [are] verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we saw the anguish of his soul, when he besought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this distress come upon us.
Genesis 42:22 And Reuben answered them, saying, Spake I not unto you, saying, Do not sin against the child; and ye would not hear? therefore, behold, also his blood is required.
Genesis 42:23 And they knew not that Joseph understood [them]; for he spake unto them by an interpreter.
Genesis 42:24 And he turned himself about from them, and wept; and returned to them again, and communed with them, and took from them Simeon, and bound him before their eyes.
Genesis 42:25 Then Joseph commanded to fill their sacks with corn, and to restore every man’s money into his sack, and to give them provision for the way: and thus did he unto them.
Genesis 42:26 And they laded their asses with the corn, and departed thence.
Genesis 42:27 And as one of them opened his sack to give his ass provender in the inn, he espied his money; for, behold, it [was] in his sack’s mouth.
Genesis 42:28 And he said unto his brethren, My money is restored; and, lo, [it is] even in my sack: and their heart failed [them], and they were afraid, saying one to another, What [is] this [that] God hath done unto us?
Genesis 42:29 And they came unto Jacob their father unto the land of Canaan, and told him all that befell unto them; saying,
Genesis 42:30 The man, [who is] the lord of the land, spake roughly to us, and took us for spies of the country.
Genesis 42:31 And we said unto him, We [are] true [men]; we are no spies:
Genesis 42:32 We [be] twelve brethren, sons of our father; one [is] not, and the youngest [is] this day with our father in the land of Canaan.
Genesis 42:33 And the man, the lord of the country, said unto us, Hereby shall I know that ye [are] true [men]; leave one of your brethren [here] with me, and take [food for] the famine of your households, and be gone:
Genesis 42:34 And bring your youngest brother unto me: then shall I know that ye [are] no spies, but [that] ye [are] true [men: so] will I deliver you your brother, and ye shall traffick in the land.
Genesis 42:35 And it came to pass as they emptied their sacks, that, behold, every man’s bundle of money [was] in his sack: and when [both] they and their father saw the bundles of money, they were afraid.
Genesis 42:36 And Jacob their father said unto them, Me have ye bereaved [of my children]: Joseph [is] not, and Simeon [is] not, and ye will take Benjamin [away]: all these things are against me.
Genesis 42:37 And Reuben spake unto his father, saying, Slay my two sons, if I bring him not to thee: deliver him into my hand, and I will bring him to thee again.
Genesis 42:38 And he said, My son shall not go down with you; for his brother is dead, and he is left alone: if mischief befall him by the way in the which ye go, then shall ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Genesis 43:1 And the famine [was] sore in the land.
Genesis 43:2 And it came to pass, when they had eaten up the corn which they had brought out of Egypt, their father said unto them, Go again, buy us a little food.
Genesis 43:3 And Judah spake unto him, saying, The man did solemnly protest unto us, saying, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother [be] with you.
Genesis 43:4 If thou wilt send our brother with us, we will go down and buy thee food:
Genesis 43:5 But if thou wilt not send [him], we will not go down: for the man said unto us, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother [be] with you.
Genesis 43:6 And Israel said, Wherefore dealt ye [so] ill with me, [as] to tell the man whether ye had yet a brother?
Genesis 43:7 And they said, The man asked us straitly of our state, and of our kindred, saying, [Is] your father yet alive? have ye [another] brother? and we told him according to the tenor of these words: could we certainly know that he would say, Bring your brother down?
Genesis 43:8 And Judah said unto Israel his father, Send the lad with me, and we will arise and go; that we may live, and not die, both we, and thou, [and] also our little ones.
Genesis 43:9 I will be surety for him; of my hand shalt thou require him: if I bring him not unto thee, and set him before thee, then let me bear the blame for ever:
Genesis 43:10 For except we had lingered, surely now we had returned this second time.
Genesis 43:11 And their father Israel said unto them, If [it must be] so now, do this; take of the best fruits in the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present, a little balm, and a little honey, spices, and myrrh, nuts, and almonds:
Genesis 43:12 And take double money in your hand; and the money that was brought again in the mouth of your sacks, carry [it] again in your hand; peradventure it [was] an oversight:
Genesis 43:13 Take also your brother, and arise, go again unto the man:
Genesis 43:14 And God Almighty give you mercy before the man, that he may send away your other brother, and Benjamin. If I be bereaved [of my children], I am bereaved.
Genesis 43:15 And the men took that present, and they took double money in their hand, and Benjamin; and rose up, and went down to Egypt, and stood before Joseph.
Genesis 43:16 And when Joseph saw Benjamin with them, he said to the ruler of his house, Bring [these] men home, and slay, and make ready; for [these] men shall dine with me at noon.
Genesis 43:17 And the man did as Joseph bade; and the man brought the men into Joseph’s house.
Genesis 43:18 And the men were afraid, because they were brought into Joseph’s house; and they said, Because of the money that was returned in our sacks at the first time are we brought in; that he may seek occasion against us, and fall upon us, and take us for bondmen, and our asses.
Genesis 43:19 And they came near to the steward of Joseph’s house, and they communed with him at the door of the house,
Genesis 43:20 And said, O sir, we came indeed down at the first time to buy food:
Genesis 43:21 And it came to pass, when we came to the inn, that we opened our sacks, and, behold, [every] man’s money [was] in the mouth of his sack, our money in full weight: and we have brought it again in our hand.
Genesis 43:22 And other money have we brought down in our hands to buy food: we cannot tell who put our money in our sacks.
Genesis 43:23 And he said, Peace [be] to you, fear not: your God, and the God of your father, hath given you treasure in your sacks: I had your money. And he brought Simeon out unto them.
Genesis 43:24 And the man brought the men into Joseph’s house, and gave [them] water, and they washed their feet; and he gave their asses provender.
Genesis 43:25 And they made ready the present against Joseph came at noon: for they heard that they should eat bread there.
Genesis 43:26 And when Joseph came home, they brought him the present which [was] in their hand into the house, and bowed themselves to him to the earth.
Genesis 43:27 And he asked them of [their] welfare, and said, [Is] your father well, the old man of whom ye spake? [Is] he yet alive?
Genesis 43:28 And they answered, Thy servant our father [is] in good health, he [is] yet alive. And they bowed down their heads, and made obeisance.
Genesis 43:29 And he lifted up his eyes, and saw his brother Benjamin, his mother’s son, and said, [Is] this your younger brother, of whom ye spake unto me? And he said, God be gracious unto thee, my son.
Genesis 43:30 And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother: and he sought [where] to weep; and he entered into [his] chamber, and wept there.
Genesis 43:31 And he washed his face, and went out, and refrained himself, and said, Set on bread.
Genesis 43:32 And they set on for him by himself, and for them by themselves, and for the Egyptians, which did eat with him, by themselves: because the Egyptians might not eat bread with the Hebrews; for that [is] an abomination unto the Egyptians.
Genesis 43:33 And they sat before him, the firstborn according to his birthright, and the youngest according to his youth: and the men marvelled one at another.
Genesis 43:34 And he took [and sent] messes unto them from before him: but Benjamin’s mess was five times so much as any of theirs. And they drank, and were merry with him.
Genesis 44:1 And he commanded the steward of his house, saying, Fill the men’s sacks [with] food, as much as they can carry, and put every man’s money in his sack’s mouth.
Genesis 44:2 And put my cup, the silver cup, in the sack’s mouth of the youngest, and his corn money. And he did according to the word that Joseph had spoken.
Genesis 44:3 As soon as the morning was light, the men were sent away, they and their asses.
Genesis 44:4 [And] when they were gone out of the city, [and] not [yet] far off, Joseph said unto his steward, Up, follow after the men; and when thou dost overtake them, say unto them, Wherefore have ye rewarded evil for good?
Genesis 44:5 [Is] not this [it] in which my lord drinketh, and whereby indeed he divineth? ye have done evil in so doing.
Genesis 44:6 And he overtook them, and he spake unto them these same words.
Genesis 44:7 And they said unto him, Wherefore saith my lord these words? God forbid that thy servants should do according to this thing:
Genesis 44:8 Behold, the money, which we found in our sacks’ mouths, we brought again unto thee out of the land of Canaan: how then should we steal out of thy lord’s house silver or gold?
Genesis 44:9 With whomsoever of thy servants it be found, both let him die, and we also will be my lord’s bondmen.
Genesis 44:10 And he said, Now also [let] it [be] according unto your words: he with whom it is found shall be my servant; and ye shall be blameless.
Genesis 44:11 Then they speedily took down every man his sack to the ground, and opened every man his sack.
Genesis 44:12 And he searched, [and] began at the eldest, and left at the youngest: and the cup was found in Benjamin’s sack.
Genesis 44:13 Then they rent their clothes, and laded every man his ass, and returned to the city.
Genesis 44:14 And Judah and his brethren came to Joseph’s house; for he [was] yet there: and they fell before him on the ground.
Genesis 44:15 And Joseph said unto them, What deed [is] this that ye have done? wot ye not that such a man as I can certainly divine?
Genesis 44:16 And Judah said, What shall we say unto my lord? what shall we speak? or how shall we clear ourselves? God hath found out the iniquity of thy servants: behold, we [are] my lord’s servants, both we, and [he] also with whom the cup is found.
Genesis 44:17 And he said, God forbid that I should do so: [but] the man in whose hand the cup is found, he shall be my servant; and as for you, get you up in peace unto your father.
Genesis 44:18 Then Judah came near unto him, and said, Oh my lord, let thy servant, I pray thee, speak a word in my lord’s ears, and let not thine anger burn against thy servant: for thou [art] even as Pharaoh.
Genesis 44:19 My lord asked his servants, saying, Have ye a father, or a brother?
Genesis 44:20 And we said unto my lord, We have a father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little one; and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of his mother, and his father loveth him.
Genesis 44:21 And thou saidst unto thy servants, Bring him down unto me, that I may set mine eyes upon him.
Genesis 44:22 And we said unto my lord, The lad cannot leave his father: for [if] he should leave his father, [his father] would die.
Genesis 44:23 And thou saidst unto thy servants, Except your youngest brother come down with you, ye shall see my face no more.
Genesis 44:24 And it came to pass when we came up unto thy servant my father, we told him the words of my lord.
Genesis 44:25 And our father said, Go again, [and] buy us a little food.
Genesis 44:26 And we said, We cannot go down: if our youngest brother be with us, then will we go down: for we may not see the man’s face, except our youngest brother [be] with us.
Genesis 44:27 And thy servant my father said unto us, Ye know that my wife bare me two [sons]:
Genesis 44:28 And the one went out from me, and I said, Surely he is torn in pieces; and I saw him not since:
Genesis 44:29 And if ye take this also from me, and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Genesis 44:30 Now therefore when I come to thy servant my father, and the lad [be] not with us; seeing that his life is bound up in the lad’s life;
Genesis 44:31 It shall come to pass, when he seeth that the lad [is] not [with us], that he will die: and thy servants shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant our father with sorrow to the grave.
Genesis 44:32 For thy servant became surety for the lad unto my father, saying, If I bring him not unto thee, then I shall bear the blame to my father for ever.
Genesis 44:33 Now therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant abide instead of the lad a bondman to my lord; and let the lad go up with his brethren.
Genesis 44:34 For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad [be] not with me? lest peradventure I see the evil that shall come on my father.
Genesis 45:1 Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him; and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.
Genesis 45:2 And he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard.
Genesis 45:3 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I [am] Joseph; doth my father yet live? And his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his presence.
Genesis 45:4 And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray you. And they came near. And he said, I [am] Joseph your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt.
Genesis 45:5 Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me hither: for God did send me before you to preserve life.
Genesis 45:6 For these two years [hath] the famine [been] in the land: and yet [there are] five years, in the which [there shall] neither [be] earing nor harvest.
Genesis 45:7 And God sent me before you to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance.
Genesis 45:8 So now [it was] not you [that] sent me hither, but God: and he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house, and a ruler throughout all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 45:9 Haste ye, and go up to my father, and say unto him, Thus saith thy son Joseph, God hath made me lord of all Egypt: come down unto me, tarry not:
Genesis 45:10 And thou shalt dwell in the land of Goshen, and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy children, and thy children’s children, and thy flocks, and thy herds, and all that thou hast:
Genesis 45:11 And there will I nourish thee; for yet [there are] five years of famine; lest thou, and thy household, and all that thou hast, come to poverty.
Genesis 45:12 And, behold, your eyes see, and the eyes of my brother Benjamin, that [it is] my mouth that speaketh unto you.
Genesis 45:13 And ye shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye have seen; and ye shall haste and bring down my father hither.
Genesis 45:14 And he fell upon his brother Benjamin’s neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon his neck.
Genesis 45:15 Moreover he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them: and after that his brethren talked with him.
Genesis 45:16 And the fame thereof was heard in Pharaoh’s house, saying, Joseph’s brethren are come: and it pleased Pharaoh well, and his servants.
Genesis 45:17 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, Say unto thy brethren, This do ye; lade your beasts, and go, get you unto the land of Canaan;
Genesis 45:18 And take your father and your households, and come unto me: and I will give you the good of the land of Egypt, and ye shall eat the fat of the land.
Genesis 45:19 Now thou art commanded, this do ye; take you wagons out of the land of Egypt for your little ones, and for your wives, and bring your father, and come.
Genesis 45:20 Also regard not your stuff; for the good of all the land of Egypt [is] yours.
Genesis 45:21 And the children of Israel did so: and Joseph gave them wagons, according to the commandment of Pharaoh, and gave them provision for the way.
Genesis 45:22 To all of them he gave each man changes of raiment; but to Benjamin he gave three hundred [pieces] of silver, and five changes of raiment.
Genesis 45:23 And to his father he sent after this [manner]; ten asses laden with the good things of Egypt, and ten she asses laden with corn and bread and meat for his father by the way.
Genesis 45:24 So he sent his brethren away, and they departed: and he said unto them, See that ye fall not out by the way.
Genesis 45:25 And they went up out of Egypt, and came into the land of Canaan unto Jacob their father,
Genesis 45:26 And told him, saying, Joseph [is] yet alive, and he [is] governor over all the land of Egypt. And Jacob’s heart fainted, for he believed them not.
Genesis 45:27 And they told him all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived:
Genesis 45:28 And Israel said, [It is] enough; Joseph my son [is] yet alive: I will go and see him before I die.
Genesis 46:1 And Israel took his journey with all that he had, and came to Beersheba, and offered sacrifices unto the God of his father Isaac.
Genesis 46:2 And God spake unto Israel in the visions of the night, and said, Jacob, Jacob. And he said, Here [am] I.
Genesis 46:3 And he said, I [am] God, the God of thy father: fear not to go down into Egypt; for I will there make of thee a great nation:
Genesis 46:4 I will go down with thee into Egypt; and I will also surely bring thee up [again]: and Joseph shall put his hand upon thine eyes.
Genesis 46:5 And Jacob rose up from Beersheba: and the sons of Israel carried Jacob their father, and their little ones, and their wives, in the wagons which Pharaoh had sent to carry him.
Genesis 46:6 And they took their cattle, and their goods, which they had gotten in the land of Canaan, and came into Egypt, Jacob, and all his seed with him:
Genesis 46:7 His sons, and his sons’ sons with him, his daughters, and his sons’ daughters, and all his seed brought he with him into Egypt.
Genesis 46:8 And these [are] the names of the children of Israel, which came into Egypt, Jacob and his sons: Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn.
Genesis 46:9 And the sons of Reuben; Hanoch, and Phallu, and Hezron, and Carmi.
Genesis 46:10 And the sons of Simeon; Jemuel, and Jamin, and Ohad, and Jachin, and Zohar, and Shaul the son of a Canaanitish woman.
Genesis 46:11 And the sons of Levi; Gershon, Kohath, and Merari.
Genesis 46:12 And the sons of Judah; Er, and Onan, and Shelah, and Pharez, and Zerah: but Er and Onan died in the land of Canaan. And the sons of Pharez were Hezron and Hamul.
Genesis 46:13 And the sons of Issachar; Tola, and Phuvah, and Job, and Shimron.
Genesis 46:14 And the sons of Zebulun; Sered, and Elon, and Jahleel.
Genesis 46:15 These [be] the sons of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob in Padanaram, with his daughter Dinah: all the souls of his sons and his daughters [were] thirty and three.
Genesis 46:16 And the sons of Gad; Ziphion, and Haggi, Shuni, and Ezbon, Eri, and Arodi, and Areli.
Genesis 46:17 And the sons of Asher; Jimnah, and Ishuah, and Isui, and Beriah, and Serah their sister: and the sons of Beriah; Heber, and Malchiel.
Genesis 46:18 These [are] the sons of Zilpah, whom Laban gave to Leah his daughter, and these she bare unto Jacob, [even] sixteen souls.
Genesis 46:19 The sons of Rachel Jacob’s wife; Joseph, and Benjamin.
Genesis 46:20 And unto Joseph in the land of Egypt were born Manasseh and Ephraim, which Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On bare unto him.
Genesis 46:21 And the sons of Benjamin [were] Belah, and Becher, and Ashbel, Gera, and Naaman, Ehi, and Rosh, Muppim, and Huppim, and Ard.
Genesis 46:22 These [are] the sons of Rachel, which were born to Jacob: all the souls [were] fourteen.
Genesis 46:23 And the sons of Dan; Hushim.
Genesis 46:24 And the sons of Naphtali; Jahzeel, and Guni, and Jezer, and Shillem.
Genesis 46:25 These [are] the sons of Bilhah, which Laban gave unto Rachel his daughter, and she bare these unto Jacob: all the souls [were] seven.
Genesis 46:26 All the souls that came with Jacob into Egypt, which came out of his loins, besides Jacob’s sons’ wives, all the souls [were] threescore and six;
Genesis 46:27 And the sons of Joseph, which were born him in Egypt, [were] two souls: all the souls of the house of Jacob, which came into Egypt, [were] threescore and ten.
Genesis 46:28 And he sent Judah before him unto Joseph, to direct his face unto Goshen; and they came into the land of Goshen.
Genesis 46:29 And Joseph made ready his chariot, and went up to meet Israel his father, to Goshen, and presented himself unto him; and he fell on his neck, and wept on his neck a good while.
Genesis 46:30 And Israel said unto Joseph, Now let me die, since I have seen thy face, because thou [art] yet alive.
Genesis 46:31 And Joseph said unto his brethren, and unto his father’s house, I will go up, and shew Pharaoh, and say unto him, My brethren, and my father’s house, which [were] in the land of Canaan, are come unto me;
Genesis 46:32 And the men [are] shepherds, for their trade hath been to feed cattle; and they have brought their flocks, and their herds, and all that they have.
Genesis 46:33 And it shall come to pass, when Pharaoh shall call you, and shall say, What [is] your occupation?
Genesis 46:34 That ye shall say, Thy servants’ trade hath been about cattle from our youth even until now, both we, [and] also our fathers: that ye may dwell in the land of Goshen; for every shepherd [is] an abomination unto the Egyptians.
Genesis 47:1 Then Joseph came and told Pharaoh, and said, My father and my brethren, and their flocks, and their herds, and all that they have, are come out of the land of Canaan; and, behold, they [are] in the land of Goshen.
Genesis 47:2 And he took some of his brethren, [even] five men, and presented them unto Pharaoh.
Genesis 47:3 And Pharaoh said unto his brethren, What [is] your occupation? And they said unto Pharaoh, Thy servants [are] shepherds, both we, [and] also our fathers.
Genesis 47:4 They said moreover unto Pharaoh, For to sojourn in the land are we come; for thy servants have no pasture for their flocks; for the famine [is] sore in the land of Canaan: now therefore, we pray thee, let thy servants dwell in the land of Goshen.
Genesis 47:5 And Pharaoh spake unto Joseph, saying, Thy father and thy brethren are come unto thee:
Genesis 47:6 The land of Egypt [is] before thee; in the best of the land make thy father and brethren to dwell; in the land of Goshen let them dwell: and if thou knowest [any] men of activity among them, then make them rulers over my cattle.
Genesis 47:7 And Joseph brought in Jacob his father, and set him before Pharaoh: and Jacob blessed Pharaoh.
Genesis 47:8 And Pharaoh said unto Jacob, How old [art] thou?
Genesis 47:9 And Jacob said unto Pharaoh, The days of the years of my pilgrimage [are] an hundred and thirty years: few and evil have the days of the years of my life been, and have not attained unto the days of the years of the life of my fathers in the days of their pilgrimage.
Genesis 47:10 And Jacob blessed Pharaoh, and went out from before Pharaoh.
Genesis 47:11 And Joseph placed his father and his brethren, and gave them a possession in the land of Egypt, in the best of the land, in the land of Rameses, as Pharaoh had commanded.
Genesis 47:12 And Joseph nourished his father, and his brethren, and all his father’s household, with bread, according to [their] families.
Genesis 47:13 And [there was] no bread in all the land; for the famine [was] very sore, so that the land of Egypt and [all] the land of Canaan fainted by reason of the famine.
Genesis 47:14 And Joseph gathered up all the money that was found in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, for the corn which they bought: and Joseph brought the money into Pharaoh’s house.
Genesis 47:15 And when money failed in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, all the Egyptians came unto Joseph, and said, Give us bread: for why should we die in thy presence? for the money faileth.
Genesis 47:16 And Joseph said, Give your cattle; and I will give you for your cattle, if money fail.
Genesis 47:17 And they brought their cattle unto Joseph: and Joseph gave them bread [in exchange] for horses, and for the flocks, and for the cattle of the herds, and for the asses: and he fed them with bread for all their cattle for that year.
Genesis 47:18 When that year was ended, they came unto him the second year, and said unto him, We will not hide [it] from my lord, how that our money is spent; my lord also hath our herds of cattle; there is not ought left in the sight of my lord, but our bodies, and our lands:
Genesis 47:19 Wherefore shall we die before thine eyes, both we and our land? buy us and our land for bread, and we and our land will be servants unto Pharaoh: and give [us] seed, that we may live, and not die, that the land be not desolate.
Genesis 47:20 And Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pharaoh; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, because the famine prevailed over them: so the land became Pharaoh’s.
Genesis 47:21 And as for the people, he removed them to cities from [one] end of the borders of Egypt even to the [other] end thereof.
Genesis 47:22 Only the land of the priests bought he not; for the priests had a portion [assigned them] of Pharaoh, and did eat their portion which Pharaoh gave them: wherefore they sold not their lands.
Genesis 47:23 Then Joseph said unto the people, Behold, I have bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh: lo, [here is] seed for you, and ye shall sow the land.
Genesis 47:24 And it shall come to pass in the increase, that ye shall give the fifth [part] unto Pharaoh, and four parts shall be your own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and for them of your households, and for food for your little ones.
Genesis 47:25 And they said, Thou hast saved our lives: let us find grace in the sight of my lord, and we will be Pharaoh’s servants.
Genesis 47:26 And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt unto this day, [that] Pharaoh should have the fifth [part]; except the land of the priests only, [which] became not Pharaoh’s.
Genesis 47:27 And Israel dwelt in the land of Egypt, in the country of Goshen; and they had possessions therein, and grew, and multiplied exceedingly.
Genesis 47:28 And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years: so the whole age of Jacob was an hundred forty and seven years.
Genesis 47:29 And the time drew nigh that Israel must die: and he called his son Joseph, and said unto him, If now I have found grace in thy sight, put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh, and deal kindly and truly with me; bury me not, I pray thee, in Egypt:
Genesis 47:30 But I will lie with my fathers, and thou shalt carry me out of Egypt, and bury me in their buryingplace. And he said, I will do as thou hast said.
Genesis 47:31 And he said, Swear unto me. And he sware unto him. And Israel bowed himself upon the bed’s head.
Genesis 48:1 And it came to pass after these things, that [one] told Joseph, Behold, thy father [is] sick: and he took with him his two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim.
Genesis 48:2 And [one] told Jacob, and said, Behold, thy son Joseph cometh unto thee: and Israel strengthened himself, and sat upon the bed.
Genesis 48:3 And Jacob said unto Joseph, God Almighty appeared unto me at Luz in the land of Canaan, and blessed me,
Genesis 48:4 And said unto me, Behold, I will make thee fruitful, and multiply thee, and I will make of thee a multitude of people; and will give this land to thy seed after thee [for] an everlasting possession.
Genesis 48:5 And now thy two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, which were born unto thee in the land of Egypt before I came unto thee into Egypt, [are] mine; as Reuben and Simeon, they shall be mine.
Genesis 48:6 And thy issue, which thou begettest after them, shall be thine, [and] shall be called after the name of their brethren in their inheritance.
Genesis 48:7 And as for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan in the way, when yet [there was] but a little way to come unto Ephrath: and I buried her there in the way of Ephrath; the same [is] Bethlehem.
Genesis 48:8 And Israel beheld Joseph’s sons, and said, Who [are] these?
Genesis 48:9 And Joseph said unto his father, They [are] my sons, whom God hath given me in this [place]. And he said, Bring them, I pray thee, unto me, and I will bless them.
Genesis 48:10 Now the eyes of Israel were dim for age, [so that] he could not see. And he brought them near unto him; and he kissed them, and embraced them.
Genesis 48:11 And Israel said unto Joseph, I had not thought to see thy face: and, lo, God hath shewed me also thy seed.
Genesis 48:12 And Joseph brought them out from between his knees, and he bowed himself with his face to the earth.
Genesis 48:13 And Joseph took them both, Ephraim in his right hand toward Israel’s left hand, and Manasseh in his left hand toward Israel’s right hand, and brought [them] near unto him.
Genesis 48:14 And Israel stretched out his right hand, and laid [it] upon Ephraim’s head, who [was] the younger, and his left hand upon Manasseh’s head, guiding his hands wittingly; for Manasseh [was] the firstborn.
Genesis 48:15 And he blessed Joseph, and said, God, before whom my fathers Abraham and Isaac did walk, the God which fed me all my life long unto this day,
Genesis 48:16 The Angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads; and let my name be named on them, and the name of my fathers Abraham and Isaac; and let them grow into a multitude in the midst of the earth.
Genesis 48:17 And when Joseph saw that his father laid his right hand upon the head of Ephraim, it displeased him: and he held up his father’s hand, to remove it from Ephraim’s head unto Manasseh’s head.
Genesis 48:18 And Joseph said unto his father, Not so, my father: for this [is] the firstborn; put thy right hand upon his head.
Genesis 48:19 And his father refused, and said, I know [it], my son, I know [it]: he also shall become a people, and he also shall be great: but truly his younger brother shall be greater than he, and his seed shall become a multitude of nations.
Genesis 48:20 And he blessed them that day, saying, In thee shall Israel bless, saying, God make thee as Ephraim and as Manasseh: and he set Ephraim before Manasseh.
Genesis 48:21 And Israel said unto Joseph, Behold, I die: but God shall be with you, and bring you again unto the land of your fathers.
Genesis 48:22 Moreover I have given to thee one portion above thy brethren, which I took out of the hand of the Amorite with my sword and with my bow.
Genesis 49:1 And Jacob called unto his sons, and said, Gather yourselves together, that I may tell you [that] which shall befall you in the last days.
Genesis 49:2 Gather yourselves together, and hear, ye sons of Jacob; and hearken unto Israel your father.
Genesis 49:3 Reuben, thou [art] my firstborn, my might, and the beginning of my strength, the excellency of dignity, and the excellency of power:
Genesis 49:4 Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel; because thou wentest up to thy father’s bed; then defiledst thou [it]: he went up to my couch.
Genesis 49:5 Simeon and Levi [are] brethren; instruments of cruelty [are in] their habitations.
Genesis 49:6 O my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united: for in their anger they slew a man, and in their selfwill they digged down a wall.
Genesis 49:7 Cursed [be] their anger, for [it was] fierce; and their wrath, for it was cruel: I will divide them in Jacob, and scatter them in Israel.
Genesis 49:8 Judah, thou [art he] whom thy brethren shall praise: thy hand [shall be] in the neck of thine enemies; thy father’s children shall bow down before thee.
Genesis 49:9 Judah [is] a lion’s whelp: from the prey, my son, thou art gone up: he stooped down, he couched as a lion, and as an old lion; who shall rouse him up?
Genesis 49:10 The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come; and unto him [shall] the gathering of the people [be].
Genesis 49:11 Binding his foal unto the vine, and his ass’s colt unto the choice vine; he washed his garments in wine, and his clothes in the blood of grapes:
Genesis 49:12 His eyes [shall be] red with wine, and his teeth white with milk.
Genesis 49:13 Zebulun shall dwell at the haven of the sea; and he [shall be] for an haven of ships; and his border [shall be] unto Zidon.
Genesis 49:14 Issachar [is] a strong ass couching down between two burdens:
Genesis 49:15 And he saw that rest [was] good, and the land that [it was] pleasant; and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a servant unto tribute.
Genesis 49:16 Dan shall judge his people, as one of the tribes of Israel.
Genesis 49:17 Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the path, that biteth the horse heels, so that his rider shall fall backward.
Genesis 49:18 I have waited for thy salvation, O LORD.
Genesis 49:19 Gad, a troop shall overcome him: but he shall overcome at the last.
Genesis 49:20 Out of Asher his bread [shall be] fat, and he shall yield royal dainties.
Genesis 49:21 Naphtali [is] a hind let loose: he giveth goodly words.
Genesis 49:22 Joseph [is] a fruitful bough, [even] a fruitful bough by a well; [whose] branches run over the wall:
Genesis 49:23 The archers have sorely grieved him, and shot [at him], and hated him:
Genesis 49:24 But his bow abode in strength, and the arms of his hands were made strong by the hands of the mighty [God] of Jacob; (from thence [is] the shepherd, the stone of Israel:)
Genesis 49:25 [Even] by the God of thy father, who shall help thee; and by the Almighty, who shall bless thee with blessings of heaven above, blessings of the deep that lieth under, blessings of the breasts, and of the womb:
Genesis 49:26 The blessings of thy father have prevailed above the blessings of my progenitors unto the utmost bound of the everlasting hills: they shall be on the head of Joseph, and on the crown of the head of him that was separate from his brethren.
Genesis 49:27 Benjamin shall ravin [as] a wolf: in the morning he shall devour the prey, and at night he shall divide the spoil.
Genesis 49:28 All these [are] the twelve tribes of Israel: and this [is it] that their father spake unto them, and blessed them; every one according to his blessing he blessed them.
Genesis 49:29 And he charged them, and said unto them, I am to be gathered unto my people: bury me with my fathers in the cave that [is] in the field of Ephron the Hittite,
Genesis 49:30 In the cave that [is] in the field of Machpelah, which [is] before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, which Abraham bought with the field of Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a buryingplace.
Genesis 49:31 There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah.
Genesis 49:32 The purchase of the field and of the cave that [is] therein [was] from the children of Heth.
Genesis 49:33 And when Jacob had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his feet into the bed, and yielded up the ghost, and was gathered unto his people.
Genesis 50:1 And Joseph fell upon his father’s face, and wept upon him, and kissed him.
Genesis 50:2 And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father: and the physicians embalmed Israel.
Genesis 50:3 And forty days were fulfilled for him; for so are fulfilled the days of those which are embalmed: and the Egyptians mourned for him threescore and ten days.
Genesis 50:4 And when the days of his mourning were past, Joseph spake unto the house of Pharaoh, saying, If now I have found grace in your eyes, speak, I pray you, in the ears of Pharaoh, saying,
Genesis 50:5 My father made me swear, saying, Lo, I die: in my grave which I have digged for me in the land of Canaan, there shalt thou bury me. Now therefore let me go up, I pray thee, and bury my father, and I will come again.
Genesis 50:6 And Pharaoh said, Go up, and bury thy father, according as he made thee swear.
Genesis 50:7 And Joseph went up to bury his father: and with him went up all the servants of Pharaoh, the elders of his house, and all the elders of the land of Egypt,
Genesis 50:8 And all the house of Joseph, and his brethren, and his father’s house: only their little ones, and their flocks, and their herds, they left in the land of Goshen.
Genesis 50:9 And there went up with him both chariots and horsemen: and it was a very great company.
Genesis 50:10 And they came to the threshingfloor of Atad, which [is] beyond Jordan, and there they mourned with a great and very sore lamentation: and he made a mourning for his father seven days.
Genesis 50:11 And when the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites, saw the mourning in the floor of Atad, they said, This [is] a grievous mourning to the Egyptians: wherefore the name of it was called Abelmizraim, which [is] beyond Jordan.
Genesis 50:12 And his sons did unto him according as he commanded them:
Genesis 50:13 For his sons carried him into the land of Canaan, and buried him in the cave of the field of Machpelah, which Abraham bought with the field for a possession of a buryingplace of Ephron the Hittite, before Mamre.
Genesis 50:14 And Joseph returned into Egypt, he, and his brethren, and all that went up with him to bury his father, after he had buried his father.
Genesis 50:15 And when Joseph’s brethren saw that their father was dead, they said, Joseph will peradventure hate us, and will certainly requite us all the evil which we did unto him.
Genesis 50:16 And they sent a messenger unto Joseph, saying, Thy father did command before he died, saying,
Genesis 50:17 So shall ye say unto Joseph, Forgive, I pray thee now, the trespass of thy brethren, and their sin; for they did unto thee evil: and now, we pray thee, forgive the trespass of the servants of the God of thy father. And Joseph wept when they spake unto him.
Genesis 50:18 And his brethren also went and fell down before his face; and they said, Behold, we [be] thy servants.
Genesis 50:19 And Joseph said unto them, Fear not: for [am] I in the place of God?
Genesis 50:20 But as for you, ye thought evil against me; [but] God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as [it is] this day, to save much people alive.
Genesis 50:21 Now therefore fear ye not: I will nourish you, and your little ones. And he comforted them, and spake kindly unto them.
Genesis 50:22 And Joseph dwelt in Egypt, he, and his father’s house: and Joseph lived an hundred and ten years.
Genesis 50:23 And Joseph saw Ephraim’s children of the third [generation]: the children also of Machir the son of Manasseh were brought up upon Joseph’s knees.
Genesis 50:24 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I die: and God will surely visit you, and bring you out of this land unto the land which he sware to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.
Genesis 50:25 And Joseph took an oath of the children of Israel, saying, God will surely visit you, and ye shall carry up my bones from hence.
Genesis 50:26 So Joseph died, [being] an hundred and ten years old: and they embalmed him, and he was put in a coffin in Egypt.#18,936,514text