Is he not wonderful?
Is it always like this?
"Nina, this is Carmen," Felipa introduced her.
It is a simple premise and yet, at the same time, an article of faith—a faith that the future would be better than the past.
This isn't easy for you, is it?
"The Princess is lovely to look at," continued Dorothy, thoughtfully; "but I don't care much for her, after all.
Even if we should come to unpleasant places on our way it is necessary, in order to reach the earth's surface, to keep moving on toward it.
This famous Prussian neutrality is just a trap.
This is our planting-ground.
"Oh, Edward, there is Mr. Harris!" whispered the little girl.
Boston is now a great city, but at that time it was only a little town.
It is a beautiful day, but yesterday it was cold.
The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland.
Mommy, is it Cwismas?
We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking.
Our national character is centered on optimism.
Why should they eat their sixty acres, when man is condemned to eat only his peck of dirt?
She is the best seamstress in Houston!
The present is better than the past.
Thinking that turn and turn about is fair play, she seized the scissors and cut off one of my curls, and would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely interference.
Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one.
That is the least we can do!
I think it is so cute the way you two flirt with each other.
Then he called his wisest men together and asked them, "Is it really true that the first people in the world were Egyptians?"
But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind.
They have no friend Iolaus to burn with a hot iron the root of the hydra's head, but as soon as one head is crushed, two spring up.
There it is again, do you hear? said he, pointing in the direction whence came the sounds of firing.
Well, if my cooking is that bad...
What time is it?
Does that mean I'm supposed to change, or that what I'm wearing is considered casual?
It's almost as if it is a lifetime goal.
Whether you are rich or poor, live in the developed world or the developing world, life today is better and easier than it was a century ago by virtually any measure.
There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away.
It is hard to have a Southern overseer; it is worse to have a Northern one; but worst of all when you are the slave-driver of yourself.
Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion.
They say she is amazingly beautiful.
That is the only difference between them.
But to judge what is best--conscription or the militia--we can leave to the supreme authority....
If anything more is wanted I'll send after you.
I don't know if he is actually trying to hide things, or simply doesn't know how to initiate the subject.
I hope you accept this by the time the baby is born.
You'd better go wash up and tell your Dad supper is ready.
Do the Sanders know where everything is and what needs to be done with the animals?
I have a mare; and we have a five-year-old mare with a colt, a four year-old filly, and a two-year-old filly... oh, and my mare is going to foal again in January.
Is the gulf far from here?
What you have on is fine, but if you want to freshen up and wear something else, go ahead.
"Jonathan is in there," he said, unbuttoning his shirt.
This is a fine meal, do you think?
Carmen is a very good cook.
She will have the baby for us because I have no womb, but it is our baby.
Why is it good when you adopt a baby that isn't yours, but bad if it's yours and you don't give birth to it?
How long is this going to be your dirty little secret?
But he is right.
He is an excellent horseman, you know.
Ah, that is good.
Is it a Christmas party?
No, it is a welcome home party - for you and Alex.
This is not enough for Alex to support?
It is not for me to say how he spends his money.
It is not so good as a baby with your blood?
It is his money.
Since you arrived, she is not sure this is the way.
It is not easy.
How is the mare?
One of the men is staying up with her.
To me, a beautiful horse is one that looks friendly.
Where is baby howse?
It is nice to have so many people to take care of your children, yes?
Jonatan is my best fwiend.
Is it too far to go to Austin? she asked.
No, not too far, but the party is tonight, so we need to stay close.
It seems like you've become the resident veterinarian and the vacation is over.
That dress is really YOU!
She is such a good seamstress.
I guess because the only one who should be looking at it is my husband.
It is so slender and long.
You hide everything that is lovely.
"How is Uncle Henry?" she enquired, after a pause during which the horse continued to trot with long, regular strides.
"Is Mr. Hugson your uncle?" she asked.
"What is your name?" said Dorothy, thinking she liked the boy's manner and the cheery tone of his voice.
My whole name is Zebediah; but folks just call me 'Zeb.'
This is a nice scrape you've got me into, isn't it?
"Yes; but it's lots of fun, if it IS strange," remarked the small voice of the kitten, and Dorothy turned to find her pet walking in the air a foot or so away from the edge of the roof.
I'm as hungry as the horse is, and I want my milk.
What is an earthquake?
What is your sorcery good for if it cannot tell us the truth?
This child, who is from the crust of the earth, like yourself, called you a Wizard.
Is not a Wizard something like a Sorcerer?
One Wizard is worth three Sorcerers.
Here is another person descended from the air to prove you were wrong.
"My name is Gwig," said the Sorcerer, turning his heartless, cruel eyes upon his rival.
You see, there is nothing up my sleeve and nothing concealed about my person.
Also, my hat is quite empty.
He is really dead now, and will wither very quickly.
"A nice country this is," he grumbled, "where a respectable horse has to eat pink grass!"
I've been picked over six years, but our family is known to be especially long lived.
"This," said he, "is the Royal Bush of the Mangaboos.
"Who is this?" asked the Wizard, curiously.
She is the Ruler destined to be my successor, for she is a Royal Princess.
"I'm sure the Princess is ready to be picked," asserted Dorothy, gazing hard at the beautiful girl on the bush.
"That is a matter I have not quite decided upon," was the reply.
I think I shall keep this Wizard until a new Sorcerer is ready to pick, for he seems quite skillful and may be of use to us.
"That is no excuse," declared the Prince, coldly.
I wonder why it is that we can walk so easily in the air.
"Is this a fairy country?" asked the boy.
"Of course it is," returned Dorothy promptly.
"If that is so," said the boy, "how could he do that wonderful trick with the nine tiny piglets?"
"They are from the Island of Teenty-Weent," said the Wizard, "where everything is small because it's a small island.
There is no reason, that I can see, why they may not exist in the waters of this strange country.
That is, if Jim has had enough of the pink grass.
But it is a long time since I have had any sleep, and I'm tired.
I wish you would go and fetch my satchel, two lanterns, and a can of kerosene oil that is under the seat.
There is nothing else that I care about.
It is because there is no warm blood in them, remarked the Wizard.
"But IS there any other place?" asked the Wizard.
"This is dreadful!" groaned Jim.
"How big is this hole?" asked Dorothy.
"It is very strange," said he, soberly.
It is a beautiful place.
It is the Valley of Voe.
"That is the one evil of our country," answered the invisible man.
The dama-fruit is the most delicious thing that grows, and when it makes us invisible the bears cannot find us to eat us up.
But now, good wanderers, your luncheon is on the table, so please sit down and eat as much as you like.
"And mama can't tell whether my face is dirty or not!" added the other childish voice, gleefully.
"But I make you wash it, every time I think of it," said the mother; "for it stands to reason your face is dirty, Ianu, whether I can see it or not."
"Very well, I won't touch it," decided the kitten; "but you must keep it away from me, for the smell is very tempting."
As for reaching the top of the earth, I have never heard that it is possible to do that, and if you succeeded in getting there you would probably fall off.
"The Valley of Voe is certainly a charming place," resumed the Wizard; "but we cannot be contented in any other land than our own, for long."
Just now, my dear, there is not a single warrior in your company.
"What the Gargoyles most dread is a noise," said the man's voice.
"How CAN we 'scape?" asked Dorothy, nervously, for an unseen danger is always the hardest to face.
"Oh, there is no need of that," said the voice, which from its gentle tones seemed to belong to a young girl.
It is a secret the bears do not know, and we people of Voe usually walk upon the water when we travel, and so escape our enemies.
"That is true," agreed the Wizard, "and as the river seems to be flowing in the direction of the Pyramid Mountain it will be the easiest way for us to travel."
At such times they were all glad to wait for him, for continually climbing up stairs is sure to make one's legs ache.
What in the world is this?
"No place at all," answered the man with the braids; "that is, not recently.
They are invaluable to make flags flutter on a still day, when there is no wind.
"You may need them, some time," he said, "and there is really no use in my manufacturing these things unless somebody uses them."
It is a sad story, but if you will try to restrain your tears I will tell you about it.
Here, then, I made my home; and although it is a lonely place I amuse myself making rustles and flutters, and so get along very nicely.
"That is right, Eureka," remarked the Wizard, earnestly.
"The Country of the Gargoyles is all wooden!" exclaimed Zeb; and so it was.
"Each of their arms is a wooden club," answered the little man, "and I'm sure the creatures mean mischief, by the looks of their eyes.
"Those wooden things are impossible to hurt," he said, "and all the damage Jim has done to them is to knock a few splinters from their noses and ears.
"That is what I advise," said the Wizard.
They haven't defeated us yet, and Jim is worth a whole army.
"They are probably keeping us for some ceremony," the Wizard answered, reflectively; "but there is no doubt they intend to kill us as dead as possible in a short time."
Let us examine our prison and see what it is like.
All people need rest, even if they are made of wood, and as there is no night here they select a certain time of the day in which to sleep or doze.
"To 'climb down' is sometimes used as a figure of speech," remarked the Wizard.
"That," said Zeb, "explains why this house is used by them for a prison.
But come, my children; let us explore the mountain and discover which way we must go in order to escape from this cavern, which is getting to be almost as hot as a bake-oven.
"What sort of place is this?" asked the boy, trying to see more clearly through the gloom.
"Where is your mother?" asked the Wizard, anxiously looking around.
"How old is your mother?" asked the girl.
Oh, she is sometimes gone for several weeks on her hunting trips, and if we were not tied we would crawl all over the mountain and fight with each other and get into a lot of mischief.
Mother usually knows what she is about, but she made a mistake this time; for you are sure to escape us unless you come too near, and you probably won't do that.
"That is not a fair question to ask us," declared another dragonette.
"It is possible," agreed the Wizard, "if this proves to be the path she usually takes.
But there is another thing to consider.
"But we're ALMOST on earth again," cried Dorothy, "for there is the sun--the most BEAU'FUL sun that shines!" and she pointed eagerly at the crack in the distant roof.
"And there is no way to go back," added Zeb, with a low whistle of perplexity.
Our friend Oz is merely a humbug wizard, for he once proved it to me.
"Where is that Magic Belt?" enquired the Wizard, who had listened with great interest.
"Of course; when it is four o'clock," she replied, with a laugh at his startled expression.
All I need do is to wish you with me, and there you'll be--safe in the royal palace!
Is Billina a girl?
What time is it, Mr. Wizard?
"A sawhorse is a thing they saw boards on," remarked Jim, with a sniff.
"It is when it's not alive," acknowledged the girl.
"I believe we will soon follow her," announced the Wizard, in a tone of great relief; "for I know something about the magic of the fairyland that is called the Land of Oz.
"Where is Dorothy?" enquired Zeb, anxiously, as he left the buggy and stood beside his friend the little Wizard.
"She is with the Princess Ozma, in the private rooms of the palace," replied Jellia Jamb.
"That is quite a history," said Ozma; "but there is a little more history about the Land of Oz that you do not seem to understand--perhaps for the reason that no one ever told it you.
Many years before you came here this Land was united under one Ruler, as it is now, and the Ruler's name was always 'Oz,' which means in our language 'Great and Good'; or, if the Ruler happened to be a woman, her name was always 'Ozma.'
"And that is the safest kind of a Wizard to have," replied Ozma, promptly.
Is that the way to treat my friends?
"Seems to me the same way," said Billina, scornfully, "if that beastly cat is one of them."
Is there nothing that is decent to eat in this palace?
Is there nothing that is decent to eat in this palace?
"You are at least six feet high, and that is higher than any other animal in this country," said the Steward.
But there is any quantity of oatmeal, which we often cook for breakfast.
"Is it possible that you are a Real Horse?" he murmured.
It is proved by my fine points.
"It is not necessary for me to eat," observed the Sawhorse.
Your chief fault, my friend, is in being made of wood, and that I suppose you cannot help.
"What good is it?" asked the Sawhorse.
This, noble Horse, is my friend the Cowardly Lion, who is the valiant King of the Forest, but at the same time a faithful vassal of Princess Ozma.
And this is the Hungry Tiger, the terror of the jungle, who longs to devour fat babies but is prevented by his conscience from doing so.
"Is not the Real Horse a beautiful animal?" asked the Sawhorse admiringly.
"That is doubtless a matter of taste," returned the Lion.
In the forest he would be thought ungainly, because his face is stretched out and his neck is uselessly long.
His joints, I notice, are swollen and overgrown, and he lacks flesh and is old in years.
"That I have forgotten," replied the Gump's Head, "and I do not think it is of much importance.
"Breakfast is served, dear," she said, "and I am hungry.
They wore white uniforms with real diamond buttons and played "What is Oz without Ozma" very sweetly.
"That is what we are trying to find out," remarked the Scarecrow.
The object of a race is to see who can win it--or at least that is what my excellent brains think.
"I ought to be a fairy," grumbled Jim, as he slowly drew the buggy home; "for to be just an ordinary horse in a fairy country is to be of no account whatever.
"Where is she?" asked Dorothy.
The piglet is gone, and you ran out of the room when Jellia opened the door.
The fact is that I left my little pet in my dressing-room lying asleep upon the table; and you must have stolen in without my knowing it.
Carry this cat away to prison, and keep her in safe confinement until she is tried by law for the crime of murder.
"As many times as is necessary," was the reply.
And the Woggle-Bug shall be the Public Accuser, because he is so learned that no one can deceive him.
"Your Royal Highness and Fellow Citizens," he began; "the small cat you see a prisoner before you is accused of the crime of first murdering and then eating our esteemed Ruler's fat piglet--or else first eating and then murdering it.
"Is this a trial of thoughts, or of kittens?" demanded the Woggle-Bug.
"If you have, it is invisible," said the Princess.
And we know the thing is true, because since the time of that interview there is no piglet to be found anywhere.
If you can prove I'm guilty, I'll be willing to die nine times, but a mind's eye is no proof, because the Woggle-Bug has no mind to see with.
"Your Highness," said he, "see how easy it is for a jury to be mistaken.
As the Princess held the white piglet in her arms and stroked its soft hair she said: Let Eureka out of the cage, for she is no longer a prisoner, but our good friend.
"But justice prevailed at the last," said Ozma, "for here is my pet, and Eureka is once more free."
If he can produce but seven, then this is not the piglet that was lost, but another one.
"This is a fine country, and I like all the people that live in it," he told Dorothy.
"Where is she?" asked Zeb, rather bewildered by the suddenness of it.
I think this is the loveliest country in the world; but not being fairies Jim and I feel we ought to be where we belong--and that's at the ranch.
"What is the matter here?" asked the first lawyer, whose name was Speed.
Then try to tell what it is, what it is like, what it is good for, and what is done with it.
That is the way to write a composition.
The lesson you have learned to-day is never to pay too dear for a whistle.
At last James Hogg said, "It's of no use; all we can do is to go home and tell the master that we have lost his whole flock."
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.
"What is that word?" asked the king.
He has seen me in my blindness, and is trying to open my eyes.
Some of the king's soldiers are going to Concord to get the powder that is there.
"Ah! there it is!" he cried.
It is the alarm!
This, in history, is called the Battle of Lexington.
"This is just the place for that wolf," he thought.
You were very brave, and it is lucky that the wolf was not there.
His name is remembered in our country as that of a brave and noble man.
They say she has a family of young wolves up there; and that is why she kills so many lambs.
Every room is full.
A farmer is as good as any other man; and where there's no room for a farmer, there can be no room for me.
"See here," said the Dean in a stern voice, "that is not the way to deliver a message here.
And here is something for your trouble.
"What is your name, my boy?" he said.
"My name is Giotto," [Footnote: Giotto (_pro_. jot'to).] he answered.
What is your father's name?
Parrhasius laughed and answered, "The curtain is the picture."
"Ah! this picture is a failure," he said.
Men have told me that there is no riddle so cunning that you can not solve it.
"One of these wreaths." said the queen, "is made of flowers plucked from your garden.
The other is made of artificial flowers, shaped and colored by a skillful artist.
"Which is the true?" the queen again asked.
Does thee suppose that it is very wrong for Benjamin to do such a thing?
It may be that the hand of the Lord is in this.
"What is your name, young rebel?" said the British captain.
He is a brave boy.
It is still a famous school.
"Who is going to ride that nag?" asked Daniel.
But our neighbor, Johnson, is sending the nag to Exeter for the use of a lady who is to ride back with me.
And so we will keep the game going till it is time for school to be dismissed.
"But the best part of it is the story which it tells," said their mother.
But I am a prince, and it is foolish for princes to waste their time with such things.
"The prize is yours, Alfred," she said.
In history he is called Alfred the Great.
Why is the sky so blue?
No book is worth reading that does not make you better or wiser.
It is said that he could speak and write forty languages.
"How is this, my dear boy?" asked the king.
The feast is ready, but no one has come to partake of it.
He is proud and overbearing.
It is the rule and custom of the cupbearer to pour out a little of the wine and taste it before handing the cup to me.
He drinks to quench his thirst, and that is all.
In history he is commonly called Cyrus the Great.
When the caliph heard of this he sent for Al Farra and asked him, "Who is the most honored of men?"
The teacher answered, "I know of no man who is more honored than yourself."
It is the man who rose to go out, and two young princes contended for the honor of giving him his shoes but at last agreed that each should offer him one.
Love that which is beautiful.
Despise that which is base, said his mother.
"That is a good story" he said.
"It is in my hat, underneath the lining," answered Otanes.
"Well, it is this way," answered the man: "I bought a piece of ground from this neighbor of mine, and paid him a fair price for it.
The second man then spoke up and said, It is true that I sold him the ground, but I did not reserve anything he might find in it.
Well, then, this is my judgment.
"And is that what you call justice?" asked the shah.
But that is not likely.
Some days after this the Spartans heard strange news: "Aristomenes is again at the head of the Greek army."
"What is the matter?" asked the king.
When your country is in danger, you should forget your own safety.
"He is no true Roman," said some.
"The easiest way," said the captain, "is to throw him overboard.
"What is it?" asked the captain.
The name of Arion is still remembered as that of a most wonderful musician.
There is one for each of you.
"Aesop is a wise fellow," said his master.
"Because, since these other slaves do everything, there is nothing left for me to perform," said Aesop.
What is the matter?
"This is the last great day!" cried others; and they knelt down and waited.
"It is the day of the Lord." said one.
But I am sure that it is my duty to stand at my post as long as I live.
So, let us go on with the work that is before us.
"What is the name of this island?" asked Selkirk.
When Daniel Defoe heard how Selkirk had lived alone on the island of Juan Fernandez, he said to himself: Here is something worth telling about.
His mother said to him: A sailor's life is a hard life.
A sailor's life is indeed a hard life.
There is no time to play.
Every day there is much work to be done.
Sometimes there is great danger.
This is the story which Mr. Defoe wrote.
"What is the matter?" asked Frederick.
It is true that I have been asleep, but I know nothing about this money.
Some one is trying to ruin me.
"Who is that one?" asked the king.
"That is Robert the Bruce," said the woman.
He is the rightful lord of this country.
He is now being hunted with hounds, but I hope soon to see him king over all Scotland.
"My men have been scattered," said the king, "and therefore, no one is with me."
"That is not right," said the brave woman.
"That is my brother Edward's voice," said the king.
"Ah! that is just what I want," said the old man.
"Yes, here is your money," answered the young gentleman; "and send it to my house at once."
My errand boy is sick to- day, and there is no one else to send.
Besides, it is not our custom to deliver goods.
It is not heavy.
"I live at Number 39, Blank Street," answered the young gentleman; "and my name is Johnson."
"Well, that is lucky," said the old man, smiling.
"Who is that polite old gentleman who carried my turkey for me?" he asked of the market man.
That is John Marshall, Chief Justice of the United States.
He is one of the greatest men in our country, was the answer.
That is his way.
When they wanted to move the boat from one place to another they had to pole it; that is, they pushed against a long pole, the lower end of which reached the bottom of the stream.
"This is slow work, Robert," said the older of the boys as they were poling up the river to a new fishing place.
"Yes, Christopher; and it is hard work, too," answered Robert.
"Yes, there is a better way, and that is by rowing," said Christopher.
"It is better than poling the boat," said Christopher.
"It is better than rowing, too," said Robert.
It looks easy enough, now that Bob has shown how it is done.
He is now remembered and honored as the inventor of the steamboat.
"Here it is, my lord," he said.
"Take the bag and count the money that is in it," he said.
If anything is lacking, I will pay it to you.
"There is nothing lacking," he said, "but the ten pieces he has told you about; and I will give him these as a reward."
"No," said Al Mansour, "it is for me to reward the man as he deserves."
Your debt is paid.
My voice is harsh and I cannot sing.
"Who is next?" asked the woodman.
I do not know any song; and my voice is harsh and unpleasant.
"Surely," said the abbess, "this is a poem, most sweet, most true, most beautiful.
"Yes, it is a beautiful place," was the answer.
"Who is that man?" asked Gautama, "and why is his face so pinched and his hair so white?
Is he some new kind of man?
Is this the condition to which I must come?
"Why is that man lying there at this time of day?" asked the prince.
His face is white, and he seems very weak.
He is sick, answered the coachman.
"And is this the great, beautiful, happy world that I have been told about?" cried the prince.
"There is to be a great feast at the queen's palace to-night," said the mother."
Perhaps your father is waiting to help in the kitchen.
Who is that child?
That on the children's bed is best.
"Here it is, mother." said Charlot.
Then he said, "Your house is a very poor place, I think."
It is quite near the park gate.
Tell us who she is, and we will carry you to her.
"There is no hurry about that," said the child.
"You must tell us who your mother is," said Mrs. Jacquot.
"Is she like our mother?" asked Chariot.
But ours is better.
She is always doing something for us, said Blondel.
Before Mrs. Jacquot could open it, some one called out, "Is this the house of Jacquot, the charcoal man?"
"That is my tutor," whispered the little stranger.
Now, you charcoal man, where is that child?
Your mother is very anxious.
Oh, yes, I know she is anxious, and I will go.
My name is Louis the Fourteenth.
Here is my hand to kiss.
In history he is often called the Grand Monarch.
They say he is hunting in the woods, and perhaps will ride out this way.
"They say that King Henry always has a number of men with him," said the boy; "how shall I know which is he?"
"Well, my boy," said King Henry, "which do you think is the king?"
"Here is your money," he said.
"This is a very important question," he said.
And this is what the oracle said:--
Give not the merchant nor the fishermen the prize; But give it to that one who is wisest of the wise.
He is famous all over the world.
He taught, also, that a friend is the greatest blessing that any one can have.
"It is better to be wise than wealthy," he said.
He is the man whom the oracle meant.
"How beautiful it is!" he said.
Give not the merchant nor the fishermen the prize; But give it to that one who is wisest of the wise.
"It is well," said he, "that neither a merchant nor a fisherman shall have it; for such men think only of their business and care really nothing for beauty."
He is the handsomest and strongest of men, and I believe he is the wisest also.
"Educate the children," he said; and for that reason his name is remembered to this day.
What is the price?
He lives in Corinth, [Footnote: Cor'inth.] and his name is Periander. [Footnote: Per i an'der.] Carry the precious gift to him.
He is my worst enemy, and yet, I admire him as the wisest man in the world.
It is to him that you should have taken the tripod.
"Then there is only one other thing to be done," said Solon.
Carry it to Delphi and leave it there in the Temple of Apollo; for Apollo is the fountain of wisdom, the wisest of the wise.
After reading my arguments, you may or may not believe the future I describe is inevitable, as I say it is.
If you have an unwavering commitment to an idea that all things will be good all the time, then that is irrational.
Obviously, that is rational.
There is no hieroglyph for the word "progress" because the very idea of progress didn't exist.
This book is about that future and what it is going to look like—how it will be a place glorious and spectacular beyond our wildest hopes.
Consider this: None of them is necessary or inevitable.
There is no reason any of them have to be.
But that is changing.
In the end, our fundamental challenge is to become better individuals, and technology offers little help on that front; it is up to each one of us to solve that for ourselves.
Well, the Internet is bigger than air conditioning.
It is bigger than movable type.
This book is unusual for two reasons.
The first error is to assert that history unfolds in a basically linear fashion, that there is a fundamental continuity between the past, present, and future.
This viewpoint seems reasonable because it is largely consistent with our everyday experience of life.
I include them to point out that history is discontinuous.
The second methodology error that futurists often commit is the exact opposite of the first.
This approach is even more flawed than the first.
A third way to predict the future that I believe is reliable rejects both the slavish following of the straight line and the purely speculative approach.
History is full of radical breaks with the past that only seem to have come out of nowhere but were, in fact, predictable.
Discontinuity happens, but it is not unpredictable.
This is because history repeats itself—at least, as the great historian Will Durant says, "in outline form."
Why is it that history repeats itself?
It repeats itself because it is the record of the choices of people.
Examining history is not like gazing into some fantasy crystal ball, where what we see is prophetic in detail.
Why is the Internet so sterilely defined?
Why is it only described as a mechanical device divorced from any purpose?
I submit that the Internet is not defined in that way because it is a technology without an implicit purpose.
The Internet is whatever we make it to be.
This is not a shortcoming of our imaginations but rather a simple reality.
When contemplating the future, our only point of reference is present reality.
The list is long.
This tendency to only be able to see new technology as an extension of the old is exactly the phenomena we have seen with the Internet.
So when we say, "The Internet is an electronic library," this is true.
And when we say, "The Internet is an electronic store," this is true.
But it is the biggest, best store ever, where you can buy anything from anywhere, based on reviews by other buyers, at a discount, and have it gift wrapped, engraved, altered, drop-shipped, and probably delivered by tomorrow.
My point is: While the Internet does all those things, it is not accurate to say the Internet is only any one of them.
This is not merely a linguistic distinction.
It is like my car.
But my car is not a CD player, GPS navigation system, or air conditioner.
The essence of my car is that it takes me places I want to go.
The mark of these technologies is that they are greeted with universal skepticism at first.
That is because they seem so far out of the daily experience of most people that they cannot conceive of how or why they would use them.
But sometimes it is hard to tell them apart when we don't have an offline frame of reference.
When you hear about a new company and your response is, "Why in the world would anyone want to do that?" it will be because there is no offline corollary.
That is the basic unit—me.
I may be connected to other people, but still it is all about me.
A friend of hers who is a florist asks if she can advertise on the site.
Today, success still requires good execution, but the larger question is: "Can you discover and fulfill a hitherto-unknown, latent desire in people that the Internet enables?"
It is expected to continue into the foreseeable future.
What is the significance of this?
It means progress at an ever increasing pace is inevitable.
It is just as engineer and communication technology pioneer John Pierce said, in the quote I offered above: "After growing wildly for years, the field of computing appears to be reaching its infancy."
This is going to have profound effects.
But at a certain point, you don't need any more, and the technology is mature.
And what seems clear is that, sooner or later, we will get there.
It is thought to have had its apex in Italy—in Venice, Florence, and Rome.
It was, however—and this is sure to earn me the wrath of many humanities professors—a time of surprisingly little originality.
In these early days of the Internet Renaissance, the number of great masters is in the tens of thousands, not the hundreds.
The amount of writing we are talking about is staggering.
This begs the question, "Is any of it any good, really?"
Yes, there is art on YouTube.
Calvin and Hobbes is art.
Now, of course, much of what is on YouTube is not art.
But the truth is that almost all furniture back in the day was cheaply made junk and only a very few high-quality pieces survived.
Today, that is vastly more true and widespread.
I think it is bigger by "twenty hundred thousand times" (my favorite number used by Shakespeare.)
This is not to the sixteenth-century Europeans' discredit or even to our credit.
Today, there are modern-day Da Vincis living in parts of the world where just surviving is a full-time occupation, powerless to develop the gifts they could offer the wider world.
But all that is about to change.
The Internet is not unique in solving for this access to information.
Lydian time, they were to ask their respective oracle a question: "What is King Croesus doing right now?"
She said, "At this very moment King Croesus is making turtle and goat soup."
It is wisdom that King Solomon asked God for, not intelligence.
The reason for this is what I call "The You Don't Know What to Ask Problem."
But even that is not enough.
So really, wisdom is power.
And I think that is what the Internet will deliver.
Or at least they will know the wise choice to make; whether they will choose it is another matter.
To avoid privacy issues at this point, let's stipulate that everything is recorded only for your future reference.
Then imagine GPS is layered in—very accurate GPS that tracks your every move, even in your own home.
Next, imagine everything you do is remembered in detail.
Imagine it is all recorded.
Isn't this the direction technology inevitably is heading?
The statement is not there because you want the log per se but because the logging of the actions is what documents how much you need to pay.
Remember the notion that the Internet wouldn't turn out to be only for one purpose—that while my car is clearly for taking me places, the Internet won't be for doing one single task, but many?
That said, if I had to pick one function I think the Internet will turn out to "be," it is this: The Internet will become a repository and a set of applications for storing the sum total of all life experiences of all people on earth.
The Internet is full of sites that offer good to humanity and yield no profit for the people working on them.
Of course, Wikipedia is another textbook example where people toil for no payment, and anonymously as well.
All they gain is a sense of contributing.
I think to the extent the data is not identifiable to a person and is only used to make suggestions to others, people will participate.
People will only contribute to the extent that their most personal information is protected.
Remember Eric Schmidt's statement that more information is created every two days than in all of human history prior to 2003?
So we've reached an unprecedented situation in the course of human learning, which is this: The amount of data we have available has outstripped our ability to process it and turn it into knowledge.
These are all knowable things, and yet there is not universal agreement on them.
A website called Wolfram Alpha is amazing to me, especially in its aspirations.
It is an answer engine, but one that attempts to answer questions that have never before been asked.
You could ask it, "What is the number of presidents of the United States born on Friday who have older sisters, multiplied by the number of wars lost by Bolivia?" and it could instantly give you an answer.
It is a safe bet that no one has ever asked that question before, and yet this system is designed to answer it.
Or, through serendipity, scientists stumbled into things—with those "your chocolate is in my peanut butter" moments.
The ability of science and technology to improve human life is known to us.
Additionally, right below that is a section called, "What Do Customers Ultimately Buy After Viewing This Item?"
Well, obviously, Amazon is able to collect this data as they make sales.
And every day, their product gets better because it is being fed more data.
It's wool and is a bit scratchy.
In general, when you have such a salesperson, the information is useful.
But give credit where credit is due: For certain tasks, machines perform vastly better than humans.
So now that the task of remembering past purchases and using that information to suggest future purchases is completely transitioned to machines, it operates on a whole different scale.
For instance, they will learn subtleties such as suggesting beach gear if a person buys a cooler in July and tailgating gear if the same purchase is made in October.
Once that is achieved, the sort of event that will happen is: You will be online to order, say, a replacement water filter, and the suggestion engine will propose that along with the filter, you might like to buy ... a pogo stick.
They might balk at getting on an airline flight flown by a computer and prefer having a pilot on board to take over if he "feels in his gut" that something is wrong (even if that feeling is the airport burrito he had for lunch).
Any task a computer can do better than a person is, by definition, a task requiring no human creativity or ingenuity.
That is what we humans do.
And that is why, if we are to use the Internet and technology to end ignorance, we still need people like Jim Haynes.
He is well known because of an extraordinary practice.
He is also from Austin, and he's in Internet publishing, too.
To him that is what seeing the world is about.
And not just where do they go, but where is it that people drive the farthest to get to?
The system has data from all their GPS records and infers that to drive across town several times for a place is a stronger vote than eating at the corner restaurant.
The traffic to get there is not bad.
"Where should I go to college?" is a much bigger choice that people face.
And no one is concerned or even notices much, because your association with that data is so removed from you.
These will be waters to navigate carefully, in order to make sure that the right to privacy, a cornerstone of a free society, is not destroyed.
What will change is the amount of data that will be recorded, the speed of the processors, and the cost of storage and computation.
As we move toward that future, it is a great tragedy that the experiences of all the people of the past are lost to us.
In the world of the future, the collective experience of everyone on the planet is recorded.
The amount of data stored is so vast that even if we put a number on it, it would be beyond our comprehension.
Obviously, knowing the wise course is one thing, and following it is another.
But in a world where great wisdom is available to everyone, the end of ignorance will be within our grasp.
Bubonic plague, to be sure, is a disease.
Is it a disease?
And then there is aging.
Is it possible to tweak our genome to remove aging?
Is it possible to replace all our organs with freshly grown new ones created from our own cells?
So how about this instead: What if I can show you a future where everyone on the planet will live in good health as long as it is possible for their body to live?
Of all the celebrated accomplishments of science, I think none is more significant than the end of certain diseases, especially the scourge of polio.
Today, it is hard for us to imagine what that time was like.
There is no patent.
This goal is within our grasp—and with the vaccine presently priced at about thirty cents a child, shame on us for not ending polio once and for all.
If 500,000,000 is still an inconceivably large number: Imagine a football stadium packed with spectators.
That is the dreadful history of the final, and deadliest, century of smallpox.
Now the disease is eradicated.
The Latin word for "cow" is vacca.
First: It is possible to eliminate diseases.
I think that is the case with polio and smallpox, which means they weren't eliminated because they were easy, but because they were awful.
Third: It is always the case that diseases are eliminated first in the healthy, well-developed, rich countries, then gradually around the world.
If my reasoning elsewhere in this book is correct, we are moving toward a future where there will be nothing but healthy, well-developed, rich countries with modern infrastructure.
And today's primary method for treating cancer is, in a way, very tenth century: Essentially, chemotherapy is a medical way of saying, Let's fill you so full of poison either you or the cancer dies.
The pace of innovation and accomplishment is already fast but will grow even faster.
So they repackaged the drug under the name Zyban, and it is now prescribed to smokers wanting to shake the habit.
I think it is likely that the answers to almost all our medical problems could be found in the data we may already be collecting.
The data shows pockets where radish efficacy is substantially higher and others where it is nonexistent.
Our brains weren't designed for that, which is completely fine—that's why we build computers.
It is not to our discredit that machines can perform calculations so wondrously fast; rather it is to our credit that we conceived of and built such machines.
So you make sure that if your population of redheads had a million people with a certain distribution of age, the distribution in your non-redhead sample is exactly the same.
Is it actually that blue-eyed redheads have the same number of accidents as non-redheads, but brown-eyed redheads are even more clumsy, accident prone, and traffic hazards?
You can see where this is headed.
Is it because winning the award gives them more confidence?
Or is it something about them that predates their Oscar triumph and helped them win?
It is said that tall people live shorter lives than short people.
My guess is we won't have to absorb all this information.
My body would be kept in perfect condition, constantly monitored and optimized—all safely because the system is built on collective memory and experience of the entire planet.
What is it about them and their lives that made them live so long or so well?
Is it all genetic?
In the future, we'll not only know if that is so, but why: Perhaps mental agility is a result of their extensive exposure to a chemical in pencil lead and newsprint that they got by doing all those puzzles.
Or maybe smart old people just direct that energy to crosswords and it is not the crosswords doing the job at all ...
When the cost of recording all the data is zero, the cost of processing it is zero, and the cost of accessing it zero, then the many sciences, especially human health, will be democratized.
How much potential is there in millions of discoveries like that?
Our challenge is to learn how to choose the plowshares, not to abandon metallurgy.
In every cell of your body except your red blood cells exists a copy of your DNA.
That three-billion-letter recipe for making you is what was sequenced—deciphered and written down—in the human genome project.
That is what we mean by "decoding."
TP53 makes a protein called p53 that is one of these quality control mechanisms.
This is all very critical.
Some of it is known, but the function of each of the thirty thousand genes has to be figured out one at a time.
Once we have identified it, we can understand how it is going about doing its damage.
For instance, have you ever seen one of those people on TV who is turning one hundred and says he ate bacon every day of his life?
My guess is that such people have some genetic factor protecting them against the adverse effects of bacon.
But my guess is that we will be able to do this and even make existing "good" genes perform better.
And as we have seen, understanding how we are made is certainly a huge advantage in our battle with disease.
Even smallpox has been sequenced and is available for download.
Understanding the recipes that make our pathogenic enemies is a huge advantage.
It boggles the mind, especially when you consider that this science is in its infancy.
This is powerful; it allows the best and brightest to collaborate easily.
Third, pretty much everything we know is published on the Internet and can be found in moments, if not seconds.
All scientific material from the past is making its way online.
Computer software is constantly being created to allow scientists to model, visualize, prototype, and diagram.
When "human testing" is done almost immediately, but within the safe confines of a CPU.
This will likely not ever be perfect, but any insight it can offer us is a gain.
It is said that in ancient China, doctors were paid when their patients were well.
A disease-free future for everyone is within our grasp.
Biomedical gerontologist Aubrey de Grey maintains that aging is caused by seven underlying factors, each of which can, in theory, be countered.
In any event, this much is certain: We will see medical advances in the future that seem impossible today.
The first mechanism is the creation of things, an old and familiar approach.
The second way to create wealth is through the division of labor and trade.
And it really is composed of two separate components that need to be understood in their own right.
Trading is not a "zero-sum game."
Trading is able to create value for two reasons.
The first is that we all value things differently, such as in our jelly bean example.
This is a good thing because it means that high degrees of utility (the economists' word for "happiness") can be achieved with a wide variety of goods.
It is safe to say that the man with seventeen puppies is creating more happiness by giving one each to sixteen friends than he is forgoing by his loss of puppies.
That is why money was invented.
If more trading can occur, more wealth is created.
Trade is not like this at all.
To the extent that the Internet is able to increase trade, it increases utility.
One form of trade is to exchange your labor for money.
The ability to instantly and, for a very low cost, reliably transfer money to anyone on the planet is a key ingredient in increasing the amount of trade that occurs online.
If I get my credit card bill and call up and dispute a charge, the benefit of the doubt is given to me, that I am telling the truth.
The vendor is usually made to "eat" the charge.
And yet they do, because fraud is a small part of the overall picture.
They offer millions of products at good prices, delivered tomorrow if that is what I want.
Such a thing is not possible without the Internet. 4.
This has no offline corollary and is economically empowering to so many people. 5. eBay and reallocating existing goods. eBay is actually a little like direct trade.
This works toward maximizing the utility that item can bring to someone. eBay is not alone in this regard.
This is not possible without the Internet. 6.
One failure of the marketplace is the misattribution of the amount of utility an item will bring a person.
Often, a buying decision hinges on a piece of arcane information about a product that is difficult to locate.
This is unprecedented in the history of commerce and could not be done without the Internet. 9.
The pay per click (PPC) business is a way to advertise online to people who did a specific search in a search engine like Google or who are viewing content on a certain topic.
But today, trade is encouraged by specialization.
The other is division of labor, worth discussing in some detail as it is an almost miraculous process.
It is because of the division of labor.
And in this efficiency that is generated by specialization, wealth is created.
It doesn't matter that the person selling pencils doesn't know how the pencil is made; he only needs to know how to sell them.
And it doesn't matter that the person who paints the pencils doesn't know how the paint is made, for his job is to paint them.
Returning to the three ways wealth is created: The first is by making things.
The second is through the division of labor and free trade.
And the third way wealth is created is through technological advance.
Technology is simply the combining of other economic products in new ways.
These new methods are considered advances if what they produce is worth more than the cost of their parts.
Your widget is now more technologically advanced.
This increase in utility is the same as generating wealth.
For the foreseeable future, technological advance will drive the world of wealth creation—and it is capable of producing more wealth than everything that has come before it.
There is an optimal distribution that can be achieved.
Technological advance, however, is not limited in that way.
It may have some limit in theory, because there is an optimal arrangement of atoms in the universe; but for practical purposes, it has no limit.
This is because technology is cumulative.
As my professors told me the first day I started studying economics in college (and never tired of repeating), scarcity is the central underlying assumption of all economic theory.
There is a finite number of baseballs, beanbags, and balloons.
The notion of scarcity is so ingrained in us and so permeates the world today, it is difficult to imagine a world without it.
And yet we do have some experience with situations where scarcity is nonexistent.
But in many areas, scarcity is so profound it has huge societal impact.
It is as if each person has one hundred assistants working for him.
An ongoing debate is whether a high amount of energy raises a nation or region's gross national product (GNP) or whether rising GNP increases the consumption of energy.
I suspect it is both; GNP rises, so we buy more energy, allowing GNP to rise so we can buy more energy.
The labor to build it is now robotic and powered by free energy.
The point is that the cost of making almost everything is mostly energy and intellect, not raw materials.
As my economics professors insisted, cost is determined by scarcity and demand.
But is energy really scarce—or is it like air?
Is it finite, or is it for all practical purposes infinite?
Is it finite, or is it for all practical purposes infinite?
It is essentially infinite.
Think about this: Nearly four million exajoules of energy is absorbed by the earth's atmosphere, oceans, and land each year.
(An exajoule is roughly equivalent to a quadrillion BTUs or 174 million barrels of oil.)
That is serious money!
A genetically engineered tree that converts sunlight into fuel and then pumps the fuel through its roots to where it is needed.
So is energy scarce?
It is abundant beyond imagination.
What we don't know is how to capture it.
But these are questions of technology, not of scarcity, and technology is about to rocket forward.
One breakthrough is all it will take to change the world.
That is what we expect to be able to do, because it is theoretically possible in a hundred different ways.
He had died by the time I read that passage in one of his books, so I couldn't write him, as is my normal practice when an author's words puzzle me.
Here is what I think he meant: If you could see a theoretical possibility for something in physics—"something that might be true"—then given enough time, you eventually could achieve it in reality.
I believe this is the case with energy.
So gold isn't scarce—only the gold we know how to recover is scarce.
True scarcity is uncommon.
Well, scarcity is just another word for "we don't know how to get it."
We compute the maximum amount of food the world can produce by beginning with total acres of land considered arable, but that is based on assumptions about the future of technology and agriculture.
When we talk about it in terms of scarcity, we usually mean clean water in a certain location is scarce.
But that, too, is a function of present technology.
This displacement is in no way finished; in fact, it has hardly begun.
Both of these have political implications, and so it is with some hesitation I bring them up.
My purpose is to explain the net effect of free trade, technological advance, and outsourcing on the overall economic system of the planet.
If prices for an item fall, this is a net good.
Let's consider examples of how the effect is positive for some, negative for some, but the net is a gain in the overall wealth of the system.
But it is quite likely you will need fewer workers.
The net effect is positive, but the laid-off workers will probably have a hard time appreciating it.
A textbook example of this is Eli Whitney and the cotton gin.
Lowering the cost of something is an increase in efficiency and an increase in the wealth of the overall system.
His job is to push a button if he sees anything suspicious.
Worker Chang, located in China, is willing to do the same job, remotely, for a dollar an hour.
The cotton gin example is the same as if Chad were replaced by a gin.
It is tempting to say that but entirely wrong.
That is completely real.
The employer gained $9 an hour, Chang got a job, and no one is worse off.
You might argue that since there is now a surplus of labor in Chad's neighborhood, the price of labor is lowered and Chad will only find work paying $9.75 an hour.
But even in this case, the result is still a massive overall gain in efficiency.
But that is not what will happen.
This is all hypothetical.
This is seldom discussed but very real.
The concept is known as "internalizing externalities."
So here is the situation: You are at the store deciding which ones to buy.
However, the company likely won't choose this outcome because the $10 cost of cleanup is not paid by the company but by society.
This is known as "internalizing externalities."
This is one of the few areas in which government taxation actually leads to a more efficient outcome.
If jump ropes or board games or ice cream turn out to have positive externalities—that is, if they help society—a subsidy could lower the prices of these items.
To some extent, we have this in the form of high taxes on cigarettes, which are seen to have negative externalities, and a home interest deduction on income taxes, as home ownership is viewed as having positive social good.
Outsourcing a job to get it done more cheaply or building a machine to do it more cheaply is really the same.
But change is inevitable.
The minimum is either set by a minimum wage law or determined by the demand and supply of that labor.
The maximum wage you can earn, though, is defined by supply and demand for labor, and by your negotiating ability, but it also has a cap.
It is capped at the value your labor adds to the goods or services you create.
No matter how good she is, how dedicated she is, the assembly line worker's wage is capped.
Any task that could be done a machine is, by definition, dehumanizing to a human being.
The number of people who feel challenged by their work is depressingly low.
The number of people who want to be challenged by their work is encouragingly high.
And that brings me to my final italicized point: The most underutilized resource in the universe is human potential.
Frankly, no one wants to do them, so the only way to get people to do them is to pay them.
He is freed from being a stand-in for a machine.
And he will find he is capable of adding far more value than as a set of eyes watching a screen.
It is a profound thought and, I believe, an irrefutable one.
The history of the world is a history of rising prosperity.
If this is not the case, people will not trade their labor for things that can easily or capriciously be taken away. 3.
The fact that an unprecedented number of earth's inhabitants today live in poverty is an indictment of governments, not a reflection of some underlying natural limit.
"Robot" is a term almost one hundred years old, created in fiction before becoming a reality.
The word is broad in its meaning and I use it in its broadest sense, as a mechanical device built to independently perform a task.
To that extent, the contraption that automatically metes out the daily allotment of cat food for your pet is a robot.
What we should not try to do, in my opinion, is give them human traits.
It is a machine.
It is altogether possible that many people would want to have conversations with their dogs mainly because they regard their dogs as sentient.
No matter how convincing the machine is, once I know it is a machine, I won't care about it anymore.
They still have the hand-operated machine from the 1940s that was used to make the first Legos, but it is of course now a museum piece.
Generally defined, nanotechnology is the field concerned with creating machines along the scale of a nanometer, a billionth of a meter.
I hesitate to start talking about nanotechnology for fear I will not be able to stop—the entire field is amazing to me!
To "go nano" is to directly manipulate reality at the atomic level.
Clearly, what nanites will do inside our bodies in the future is almost limitless and will change medicine forever.
What I describe above is using a new technology to solve an existing problem.
This is almost the definition of wealth creation.
Robots can work without ceasing in environments where the temperature is a thousand degrees.
Everything we have talked about relating to the Internet and technology is coming to bear on robotics and nanotechnology.
Now, less than twenty years later, a drive one thousand times larger is $70.
So a thousandfold increase in capacity at one-fortieth the cost is like the $50,000 Mercedes dropping to a buck and a quarter.
Again, the materials to build the car are abundant; their cost is high because of technology deficiencies around retrieving and refining them, not an underlying rarity.
Each of these wonders is coming, and a million more.
There is a chili I love called Wolf Brand chili.
This is not Enron-esque accounting chicanery.
This is basic economics.
It is worth $50 to you.
It alerts you when the food is about to start burning and needs stirring.
But surely a pan that warns you if your house is burning down or your food will kill you has to be worth $200 to you.
So, let's say on average the pan is worth $2,000 to everyone who uses it—all the way from the people who just think it is "cool" to the people who it saves from food poisoning to the people whose lives and houses it saves.
Its social good, on average, is $2,000 a pan.
This is a form of wealth.
Housing is a huge industry that will reward innovative products.
It will know everyone who is supposed to be in the house and alert you when someone else is in the house (replacing the family dog of old in whom we never fully placed our trust).
The house will know where everything in it is; you will never again lose your keys or your child's favorite stuffed animal.
We just want it all to work, to do what it is programmed to do.
Try to think of the advances we have seen so far in history as the very tip of the iceberg, a hint of what is possible, not even being within sight of what is possible.
It is only a whisper of the wonders we will build and the prosperity we will create.
This will create a cascading effect; once energy, for instance, is free, it will make precious metals free.
My guess of the thousandfold increase in wealth is just that, a guess.
It is an attempt to capture the essence of the change, not the nominal value of the multiplier.
This is because, as noted before, technology amplifies the productive effort of people.
An exception worth noting is that the poor who get better products at cheaper prices will see their wealth rise accordingly.
A poor person with free access to the Internet at the library is wealthier than a poor person with free access to just a library.
But this is merely a footnote, an asterisk in the record book of humanity.
In Beverly Hills, your poor neighbor might be one who had to buy the 14K-gold back scratcher instead of the diamond-encrusted platinum one everyone else is buying.
My relative definition of poverty is "the state of being unable to reliably purchase a bundle of goods that allow one to participate in the economic norms of one's society."
This per-person threshold actually exceeds the average income of three-quarters of the countries on the planet, including Mexico, Russia, and Brazil, and is about 20 percent higher than the average income of the entire planet.
Think about that: Poverty in the United States is defined as higher than the average income of the planet.
One is to hyperinflate currency, which is a massive transfer of wealth from creditors to debtors.
As currency is inflated, prices rise.
When that happens, refusal to accept the currency is swiftly outlawed and punished harshly.
I referred to it as a dance, but it is a dance to economic death.
A second method of radical redistribution is to increase marginal tax rates to a point that is confiscatory.
A third radical method of redistribution is called land reform, which is actually a polite term for taking land from one person and giving it to another.
Sometimes countries simply nationalize industries, so that an enterprise once owned by a private company, often a foreign-based one, is taken over by the government or "the people."
Where I come from the term is "thievery," but believe it or not, they don't call it that.
Expropriation is an act that simultaneously violates two of the three ingredients for prosperity that I have enumerated: private property and rule of law.
Expropriation often is accompanied by infringements of the third ingredient, individual liberty, as well.
This is a straight shot to economic poverty for any country desperate enough to try it.
One way that society keeps a lid on the powder keg of tension between the rich and poor is through the welfare state.
In its most basic form (which I'll discuss here for simplification's sake), it is a guarantee of a minimum income above the poverty line for every citizen.
Although the poor may not believe that wealth is attainable for them, they do not want to rock the boat and risk disrupting the system that guarantees them at least some income.
So far we have looked at poverty and how it is redefined as societies grow richer.
The most pressing concern is securing their own survival.
Some believe this is the beginning and end of the role of government.
They would say, If government is obligated to protect its citizens from a foreign invader, then it is obligated to protect them from a criminal.
Government is the servant of the people, not the master.
In a heated moment the phrase "jack-booted thug" slips out, and it is all downhill from there.
Civility is the second casualty of political debate.
The first is empathy.
Instead, forget which is "right" for the moment and simply consider the flow of history, for better or worse.
Then, as a nation grows wealthier, tax rates could fall in terms of percentages because the nation is making so much more money.
But this is not the case historically.
Whether you look at a single country over a span of time, or a group of countries at a specific point in history, the result is the same.
So you might suspect the tax rate is only 1 percent.
That is all the government needs to tax to bring in the $300 per person per year.
The tax rate is actually much higher.
It is safe to say that more than a majority of people in rich nations feel this way.
It is a tale that history repeats with surprising consistency.
The very well documented corn dole of ancient Rome is one of many cases.
Once a benefit is established, it creates a constituency fiercely dedicated to defending it.
All is well and good until things turn down for a nation.
Like a TV star that doesn't scale back his expenses after his show is cancelled, these benefits expand, not contract, during periods of economic decline, for two main reasons.
But the big question is whether these same economics would apply in a world one hundred times richer than we are right now.
Countries whose average income is $1,500 tax at 20 percent.
Countries where it is $33,000 tax at 40 percent.
That is something like what I expect will happen, but on a worldwide scale.
Is there anything wrong with you collecting this dividend check for which you did no work at all?
Now, consider the Alaska Permanent Fund, a fund established in 1976 where a portion of the revenue from the sale of oil from Alaska's public lands is deposited.
Each year a payment is made to each resident of Alaska.
Now, is this welfare?
This is simply returning to the people a portion of income from land that is publicly owned.
Because human ability is distributed unevenly and technology multiplies ability of the talented, the spread between the rich and poor will rise more and more.
In a world where only one tool is invented, a hoe, there will be no billionaires.
It will be seen as a distribution like the Alaska Permanent Fund is perceived: your fair share of the extreme abundance that civilization created.
But it really is no different than me thinking it is my birthright to be able to have freedom of speech.
When all the factories run themselves, when energy is free, when scarcity is ended, when material needs are all met, it will be a different world.
Is there a logical end to that—a physical or economic law of some kind that says only 10 percent or 20 percent or 30 percent of people can ever be this wealthy?
All it takes is so much wealth that it is self-sustaining—that the productivity of that wealth can support everyone.
This is not socialism.
In a world without scarcity, or that has scarcity at such a trivial level it is hardly noticeable, all the conventional theories and dogmas lose their meaning.
We will know it is coming when we see more and more jobs once filled by humans being filled by machines.
We will know it is coming when we see the prices of more products fall while their quality increases.
We will know it is coming when formerly scarce items, such as commodities, fall in price.
The implication is always that some people are simply unable to do any job that a machine cannot do.
It is a legitimate question that deserves a carefully reasoned answer.
First, I would contend that the size of this problem is substantially smaller than many people would guess.
We see with our eyes many people doing mind-numbingly boring jobs and assume that is all they are capable of doing.
As I've said earlier, the most underutilized resource in the universe is human potential.
Pretend there is a spectrum of jobs from the best in the world down to the worst and everyone agrees on the order.
Further, assume the best job pays the most and is the most fun, and the worst job pays the least and is the least fun.
To the extent this world is a meritocracy, the most talented will be the movie star and the least talented will be hauling manure.
But upon reflection, it is entirely inconsistent with our experience.
This list is unending.
However much value the labor can add to the thing is the amount of wage the person can earn.
But it is my belief that many more people will choose the first choice.
Like most stereotypes, it is an over-simplification.
Their work is literally dehumanizing.
In a few years, the money is gone and they are worse off than before.
People in these jobs know two states: working, which they do not enjoy, and relaxation, which is far better.
But sadly, other people don't think his work is any good.
Truthfully, it is pretty awful.
Thus, because Chad is not good at painting, he cannot paint for a living.
This is the state of much of humanity.
It goes something like this: If everyone is "rich," then doesn't everyone just become the idle rich?
Nobody is particularly snooty in this world, right?
Only their relative wealth is different.
Plus, we have powers formerly attributed to the ancient gods; we can fly, talk to people in other places, and see what is happening elsewhere.
But we take it largely for granted—and I think that is just fine.
It is their right—but it is my belief that these people will be few.
It is contagious and would be even in a uniformly wealthy world.
And in that world, no one is left behind.
Citizens in these countries are grateful for any job that pays anything at all, and their primary concern is simply survival.
There is no such period and never will be.
And if history is an accurate guide, that wealth will be partially redistributed to the poor—even the poorest of the poor, the bottom billion.
This simply is not the case.
By comparison, if a country has 99 percent of the people working in agriculture—if it is barely feeding itself, even with everyone working at that—then it is living at a subsistence level, the very definition of poverty.
Weaponized famine occurs when hunger itself is used to gain a political or military end.
Structural famine exists when enough food is technically on hand or able to be imported, but some portion of the population is economically separated from it.
In other words, food is present, but some cannot afford it.
This kind of hunger is common and generally is what has triggered food riots, now and in the past.
People riot when convinced that food is unjustly being kept from them.
It is fascinating reading to this day because the things he notes about the American character are still very much with us.
He writes how in Europe when there is a problem, people turn to the government to solve it, but in America, they form what he calls "voluntary associations"—what we might term charities and nonprofits.
No government is involved in these organizations, which are instead driven by a combination of religious and civic motives.
In the modern era, what we have seen around the world is a general increase in social services and the welfare state over time.
An important point to make here is this: Historically, the welfare state only emerges to solve problems that private charities either cannot or will not solve.
Governments create entitlements due to public demand for them, and public demand exists where the need is not filled.
But it is hard to deny the underlying need.
How is this need filled without government involvement?
It is a shame that de Tocqueville's voluntary associations aren't more prominent around the world today—but in the future, they may be.
That number is 30 percent higher than it was only ten years ago.
As the saying goes, we laugh because it is true.
In discussing nutrition, not only is there little agreement on the nature of the solutions, there is often disagreement on the nature of the problems.
This is the case on genetically modified crops and many other issues where passions run high.
Why is this the case?
Why is civility so lacking in discussions about food, nutrition, and food policy?
As we consider how the Internet and related technologies can end hunger, it is necessary to address the issues of food and nutrition—including why they are so divisive.
First, nutrition is a very primitive science.
There is undoubtedly a cause and effect between what we eat and our health, but I believe it is still poorly understood.
It is almost impossible to execute a pure controlled study of anything relating to nutrition because there are simply too many variables to consider.
Add to that how food itself is changing, our food choices change, our lifestyles change, and all along the way we are aging.
This makes a great deal of sense: If nutrition isn't governed by universal laws (as physics is) and instead affects different people differently, then the way you will know certain things is by learning through trial and error, through your own experience.
First, it is only useful for factors that are immediately bad for you, not factors that will kill you in ten years.
We tend to notice every time the expected effect is triggered by the cause, but may not notice all the times it isn't.
The second way people choose a nutritional theory is to develop it from their overall social and political understanding of the world.
Whether you are for the organic food movement or against it, for genetically modified crops or against them, for corporate farms or seed banks or raw food or anything else, is influenced significantly by your larger view of politics.
This is how people are.
If you think "Western Medicine" is a business whose goal is to keep you sick to sell you medicines, you will tend to move away from genetically modified foods and favor organic.
Again, this is because without compelling, widely accepted facts, we use things we've learned from other parts of our lives to make our decisions.
The subtle interplay of everything involved in nutrition is vastly more complex than our minds are able to handle.
And because agriculture is a technology, subject to technological advance, advances in agriculture will quicken and multiply, leading to improved nutrition and decreased hunger and famine.
That's right: India is a net food exporter to the tune of US$6 billion a year.
My point here is that currently the planet is producing enough food to feed everyone on it.
It is most unlikely that this process of improvement will not continue in the future.
And he even projects that if farmers followed his plan, it is quite conceivable that in 2050 there will be nine billion people feeding more comfortably than today off a smaller acreage of cropland, releasing large tracts of land for nature reserves.
We all understand intuitively there is plenty of food in the world.
And that fact is driven home by its generally low price in most locations.
Now the number is in the single digits.
And that is paying full retail prices in an air-conditioned Western supermarket; by the ton, this food costs much less.
This is less than one-half of 1 percent of world GNP.
Given these agricultural strengths, is there anyone who believes the United States alone couldn't produce an extra $365 billion worth of food, at full retail price, if there were a ready buyer for it?
The problem is not that the world doesn't have enough food.
The problem is that the poor don't have enough money to afford the food.
So, why is there hunger in the world today?
All of these are sorely lacking in areas where hunger is most prevalent.
Without this, it is impossible to farm at scale.
There is some debate as to whether the poor should even try to feed themselves.
Those who argue they should not say there is no way for poor countries to compete with mechanized Western farming and the extremely high yields it produces.
Still others argue for a system of government price supports, incentives, and subsidies, as is found in the United States and Europe.
Regardless of who is "right," the harm comes if you try to do all these things at once.
Going back and forth between these strategies is problematic, to say the least.
Cheap food is great for the poor but bad for the poor farmer.
Food security is a real issue, and nations that do not at least produce some kinds of food are at risk.
In societies where a large percentage of income is necessary just to buy food, having volatile food prices will mean hunger sooner or later, no matter how good the factory jobs are.
When few people own land and most people live in cities, it is quite common to have high degrees of hunger in a nation that is exporting food.
This is basically the situation in many of earth's chronically hungry countries.
While agriculture itself is a technology, it is, in its most basic form, extremely low tech.
I think we are still at the donkey stage—and this is good news!
The rate of innovation is increasing rapidly, though.
By the late 1800s, superphosphates were all the rage and eighty factories were manufacturing this high-yield fertilizer from coprolites (that is, phosphate-rich fossils of ancient animal dung—I kid you not).
The 2000s saw the rise of commercially viable seeds created by transgenesis, that is, the insertion of DNA from one species into another species.
Second are the inefficiencies in the human processes—that is, the techniques by which we practice agriculture.
But if ever there was a textbook case of one guy making a difference, this is it.
From our point of view, the job of the plant is to convert sunlight into energy and store that energy in a tasty way; then when we eat the plant, we get that energy.
That range between the smallest pea plant and the largest is the full spectrum of what that plant can be.
And yet the future I envision is no more like what we have today than a state-of-the-art Volvo factory is like a nineteenth-century London sweatshop.
All the work is done by machines already.
Only the decision making is left to the farmer—but in the near future, the decision making will be done better by computers.
As I write this, it is down to 2 percent.
Instead, it is a large, open-air farm with a robot assigned to make each turnip be all that it can be.
If the turnip is dry, it is watered, each drop carefully metered out.
If a fly lands on it, the fly is shooed off.
How do I reconcile my personal choices with my statement that the farm of the future is a good thing?
First, this future farm I describe is nothing like what I go out of my way to avoid today.
It is often still warm.
If you are not familiar with this whole issue, look into it; it is fascinating and, I think, important.
My favorite cookbook, Apicius, is a 1,500-year-old collection of recipes from ancient Rome.
Plus, raising plants and animals takes a long time and is a lot of work to boot.
I am certain this idea is going to take some time to get used to.
Do you really know what is in a hotdog, or are you sure you want to?
The problem comes only when the indulgence is more than occasional.)
Presently, labeling of GMO content isn't a requirement—and since labeling is a complex and controversial issue that has no bearing on my thesis, I will pass it by.
The point is this: GMO crops are everywhere.
An example of that is a breed of cat called "Scottish Fold."
This is a form of genetic modification.
If the first order of genetic modification is deliberately keeping desirable mutations, then this is the second order: creating conditions for such genetic modifications to occur more rapidly.
Half the rice grown in California is a descendant of Calrose 76, created when gamma rays mutated some regular rice and the resulting mutant produced more grain and less spoilage.
But again, this could happen in nature, so it is hard to see how we can object to this.
This couldn't happen in nature (or, more precisely, could in theory, but is extremely unlikely).
This is the part that makes some people even more nervous.
Yet even given its unnaturalness, transgenesis is profoundly good.
The law was a win for the environment.
Where transgenesis offers the most amazing possibilities is in GM foods because it allows plants to exceed their maximum genetic potential.
VAD occurs mostly in Africa and South East Asia where rice is the staple food.
Since rice is relied upon by so much of the world's poor, efforts here really can save lives.
By one count, rice is the principle source of calories for about half the planet.
It is not presently available for human consumption.
In much of Europe, because of deep fear and suspicion of GMO crops, their importation is forbidden.
This is especially unfortunate because a major crop in Africa, grain sorghum, has a somewhat indigestible protein which our bodies have a hard time metabolizing.
This is exactly the kind of problem geneticists can sink their teeth into, so to speak, to make the protein in this grain digestible.
The corn genome data is free for anyone to download at maizesequence.org, in case you are bored some Sunday afternoon and want to see how to make corn.
There is a distinction.
Venter's plan is to use bacteria to brew fuel, much like we brew beer today.
This is not science fiction.
Remember my earlier statement that a farmer treats a thousand acres of corn as a single entity because it is not cost effective to deal with each corn stalk separately?
That is also the case because humans couldn't do a very good job at a stalk-by-stalk approach.
The ultimate goal, I submit, is not to optimize just meter by meter but what I call "grape by grape," down to each individual piece of flora and fauna.
And advances in drip irrigation, which itself isn't exactly new but is becoming far more widespread and ever more efficient, allows crops to be grown with massively less water.
The price of such hardware is in free fall.
This has been a common situation throughout areas with high degrees of poverty and is certainly the case in Ethiopia.
That is, before Eleni Zaude Gabre-Madhin came along.
Eleni is CEO of the Ethiopian Commodity Exchange, which works like this: Farmers in Ethiopia bring their crops to any of two hundred market centers around the country.
Their produce is checked in to the warehouse and each farmer is issued a certificate corresponding to the amount of produce he brought.
This is made possible by technology and the Internet, which is used to connect buyers and sellers worldwide and bring information (world commodity prices) to the far reaches of the globe.
The principle here is to agree to buy a certain amount of a commodity at a certain price from farmers in these countries.
The access to information that mobile phones are bringing virtually everywhere on the planet is helping people raise their standard of living and will do so even more dramatically in the years to come.
If politicians are demonstrably good at one thing, it is getting elected, and people who are starving don't normally re-elect their representatives.
The world is quickly moving to participatory government.
Dictatorships are toppling, and the Internet is helping that along.
One of these is micro-lending, which directly connects the lender with the borrower and which the Internet has made appealingly easy and personal.
Once the amount the fish seller requested is reached, the loan is funded and funds are transferred to her.
At some point, the loan is repaid to the local agency and your money comes back to you.
Since its founding in 2005, Kiva has loaned out nearly a quarter of a billion dollars and is repaid almost 99 percent of the time.
Micro-lending is not new; the idea of small loans to the entrepreneurial poor is centuries old.
But micro-lending via the Internet is different.
The old adage is true: There really is no such thing as a free lunch.
The right is inseparable from its possessor.
To think of the right to life as somehow different than a right to food is hard for me.
It is akin to saying you have a right to life but not a right to a heart.
Napoleon Bonaparte made a comment along these lines when he stated, "Man is entitled by birthright to a share of the Earth's produce sufficient to fill the needs of his existence."
Some might say, Hunger is awful.
That is, agree in principle but decline any personal accountability.
Some might say something I consider even worse: It is inexcusable that some go hungry while you have so much.
And the great tragedy is: During these three years, China exported more than twelve million tons of grain along with a literal cornucopia of other agricultural products.
Yang also quotes Mao as saying in a 1959 meeting, When there is not enough to eat, people starve to death.
It is better to let half of the people die so that the other half can eat their fill.
Before his death, Pol Pot conceded that his regime certainly killed people, but ''to say that millions died is too much.''
Water isn't free; someone is paying a bill to purify the water that comes through that fountain.
But the cost is so negligible that no one thinks much of it.
I believe we will see the day when food is like that.
But this is a misreading of both Roosevelt and history.
He is raising the value of citizenship, not cheapening it.
Roosevelt is saying that freedom itself cannot exist apart from some amount of economic liberty.
In the United States, de Tocqueville's voluntary associations still do the job and anyone willing to make her way to a church or food pantry and say she is hungry will not leave empty handed.
Food in the United States is so inexpensive as a percentage of national income that it literally is a throwaway item.
Is our nation so poor or so weak that we must resort to the ultimate in pragmatism and befriend nations in the name of commerce or prosperity or military security while turning a blind eye to the suffering of their people?
What good is our high economic standing in the world if we do not use it for good purposes?
As people grow wealthier (as the whole world will), they typically spend more money on food, though it is less as a percentage of overall income.
As the world grows richer, people will care more about how their food is made, how the animals are treated, whether the laborer who picked the food is paid a living wage.
We know all this is true because we see signs of it already.
We will radically improve the primitive, inefficient process that agriculture is today.
As we understand our own genome better, we will know better how to eat in a way that is custom tailored for us.
That is a hard truth, but a truth nonetheless.
In this case, sooner is so much better than later.
Throughout this book, I've insisted the way to know the future is by studying the past.
Maybe you will agree it to be possible, but after reading this chapter, you will likely think it is improbable.
Is that a distant bugle I hear?
All right then, not the cavalry, but a marshaling of arguments and observations that will show how the end of war is inevitable, or nearly so.
No silver bullet is in this chapter, no "aha" insight that will instantly persuade you.
An old joke is about the city slicker who finds himself lost in the country.
My goal is to explain how we can all get there from here.
The implication is that any time they nursed, they felt pain as well, to learn at an early age that there is no pleasure to be had in life without pain.
I will spare my readers a description of this other than to say it is exactly what it sounds like.
This is how people lived their lives in the past and if asked about it, they would have defended it.
The disturbing thing to realize is we would have been those people had we been born in those times.
The only thing that separates us from that world is this thing called civilization.
This is not a defense of our present age; we will come to our own report card soon enough.
Rather, it is an acknowledgement of progress made.
Although slavery still exists and the low price of slaves speaks to the low value of a human life, the legal institution of slavery is gone.
While inequalities still exist around the world for women, the tide of history is flowing inexorably in favor of women's rights.
We have stigmatized racism; and while it unquestionably still exists between many races, racism is becoming less and less relevant.
Monarchy is not inherently bad, and there have been fine kings and queens in history.
Even acknowledging that human rights exist is a great advance of civilization.
This too is becoming widely accepted.
The idea that a person can be a political prisoner, jailed for his beliefs about government, politics, or politicians, is ancient but happily fading.
The very fact that we have debated in recent years whether we can use torture to get information that will save lives is a sign of the effects of civilization.
It is no longer legal for people to be secretly arrested, not charged, and left to rot in jail.
The right to representation is spreading around the world.
The United States is a republic, as even the Pledge of Allegiance says.
We use democracy as a method of selecting representatives.
After all, it is a chicken.
As clichéd as it is to complain about rising rates of crime, the statistics tell a different story.
Murder isn't the only form of violent crime that is falling.
They do this for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that it often works.
The civilizing process is not flawless, and we may disagree on the ways it has manifested itself.
Maybe you think the British ban on fox hunting with dogs is ridiculous.
Still, I would argue these changes are the results of an overall increase in empathy and that, more often than not, increasing empathy promotes civilization and is splendid.
It is true that there is much disagreement over how to achieve these ideals, but the fact remains we want a just society for all.
That is not the point.
The point is that it is now illegal in every state, with Louisiana being the last to outlaw it in 2008.
That is not the important point.
The point is that he went to jail for it.
No matter your view of history and cosmology, civilization is very young.
It is not surprising that we are taking awhile to get it right.
The most difficult work is in the past.
It is through this civilizing process that I find hope we will end war.
War is the ultimate barbarism, the primitive belief that fighting determines who is right—but of course it doesn't.
Maybe this is dawning on us.
By declaring a pretty broad range of things worth killing and dying for, we say that each of those is more precious to us than human life.
Early in his presidency, in a 1953 address that would become known as his "Cross of Iron" speech, he declared, "Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.
This world in arms is not spending money alone.
It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the houses of its children ...
This is not a way of life ...
Under the cloud of war, it is humanity hanging itself on a cross of iron.
So did de Tocqueville, touring nineteenth-century America, when he wrote that "All those who seek to destroy the liberties of a democratic nation ought to know that war is the surest and shortest means to accomplish it."
Journalist Brooks Atkinson, said: "After each war, there is a little less democracy left to save."
If it was true then, then it is even more true now.
The ability of humanity to destroy is now exponentially higher.
As Denzel Washington's character observed in the movie Crimson Tide, "In the nuclear world, the true enemy is war itself."
It has led us up those last few steps to the mountain pass; and beyond there is a different country.
We know it is easier to destroy than to create.
If we conclude that we must end war, the next question is: Is that even possible?
If we conclude that we must end war, the next question is: Is that even possible?
Is it possible to end war?
But it is obvious to me that we can end war.
It is certainly possible to conceive of a single day without war.
This is not semantics.
It is an acknowledgement that war is completely a choice and our choice can be "no."
It was a way for that generation to ask, Why is there war?
This is not a section about hope, ideals, wishes, or the brotherhood of all mankind.
My aim is to show you how war will end and convince you that the end of war is inevitable.
This is not me fighting against the tide of history but being swept along with it.
War occurs for a very simple reason: To some nations at some time, war is preferable to peace.
At the world level is no equivalent.
No such system of laws controls relations among nations, no significant world police force exists, and the world court system is very weak.
The way to end war is not to set up some big world government or eliminate nation-states, which will always retain the right to take unilateral military action to defend themselves.
Why do I say world government is not a good idea and nation-states are?
Faceless government in a distant land is no one's idea of paradise.
For these reasons and a hundred more, government should be the smallest unit that is economically and politically viable.
I won't speculate on what that size is, but it certainly is not a size 0.
Of course, politics being what it is, the Peace Dividend was spent a dozen times over by as many special interests who felt they were the most deserving of such an unexpected largess.
It is an old dream.
But just because it is an old dream, doesn't mean it is an impossible one.
That is exactly what happens, again and again, with unspeakable results: dead bodies by the millions, each someone's child, and millions more mutilated.
When the leaders of nations decide war is the best choice, they should know better.
The demise of war, now that is inevitable.
Fifty years after Eisenhower's warning, the armament industry is the largest industry on the planet.
Just as there is no single cause of war, there will be no single way that war will end.
Young boys compete with other boys in sports and races and tug-of-wars and, well, in everything, because that is simply how they are wired.
Today's new battlefield, the battlefield of the market, is much better.
Success is now defined by creating, not destroying.
Some have questioned whether Friedman's thesis is 100 percent true, mentioning NATO air strikes against Yugoslavia as a potential exception.
Because it is cheaper to destroy than create, advances in technology increase our ability to destroy.
It is not just that the price of weapons falls and that their destructive ability increases.
It is this combined with the fact that their targets, too, are worth more; the cost of rebuilding a modern city today dwarfs the cost of rebuilding that city fifty years ago.
The only winning move is not to play.
MAD is now back, but in economic form.
Now neither is true.
It is hard to see how all-out war turns a profit for anyone in any scenario.
This unquestionably is good.
Poverty in sub-Saharan Africa is a contributing factor in any number of conflicts there.
Since the poorest nations will improve their financial conditions indefinitely, this is a long-term trend toward peace.
That is good for peace.
War disrupts this, and people will have little patience for it if there is not an extremely compelling reason for it.
This is not to say that if another Pearl Harbor or another 9/11 occurred, people in any country wouldn't rise to the occasion and make great sacrifices if needed.
It is nothing but downside for them.
This is not to say that businesses are so materialistic they will favor a war to get a government contract.
What I am saying is that as more factors align toward peace, peace becomes ever more the better economic option.
Public opinion is ever more in the peace camp because the vast majority of the economy doesn't benefit financially in times of war.
Now, there is talk of war.
If peace happens, all is well.
Plus, if there is war, there are more competitors.
Is this situation really preferable from a business standpoint?
Even if you don't accept this, try to accept that war is financially disadvantageous to 99 percent of the business owners in the country and that this is new and meaningful.
It is yet another major disincentive to war—and we are only six items into our list!
It is a pacific system, operating to cordialize mankind, by rendering nations, as well as individuals, useful to each other.
This is simply another form of trade, so some might accuse me of double counting some of my forty-three reasons war will end.
But the point really is different.
Anything that creates a more intertwined world without compromising autonomy, self-rule, and self-determination is good for peace.
Because of this, "two bits" is still slang for twenty-five cents in the United States.
In the modern age, money is once again represented by bits, but a different kind altogether: Money went from gold to paper and is now digital.
At the end of their day, the loan is repaid with a slight bit of interest.
Now, however, more and more wealth is tied up in intangibles such as intellectual property, patents, brands, media, and contracts.
More wealth is digital, to be sure, but immeasurably more wealth is tied up in the intricacies of society itself.
Is the value of the city just the value of the buildings, cars, furniture, and other physical items in the city?
In warfare, asymmetry is where something very small can do a huge amount of damage.
Asymmetry is a mixed bag as far as the future goes.
It is bad in that it allows a few to harm the many.
If the weak nation will not willingly do the bidding of the strong one, then it is made to.
We will avoid war because it is unprofitable; and while that is not a moral reason, any reason that brings peace is fine by me.
(Of course, when a king proves himself through battle, he is not risking his life but the lives of thousands of his subjects.
To him, it is a chess game, not personal combat.)
The way they secure their positions is through the ruthless application of violence.
Because this is the only power they know, it is the only power they respect.
Weakness in neighbors is regarded as an opportunity for conquest or, at least, coercion.
They wage war because it is the only language they speak.
The number of dictatorships is falling.
The theory is that democracies do not go to war with other democracies.
If you think about it, it is hard to come up with an exception.
No matter why the theory works, is it good for the world that it does.
It is unprecedented for so many nations to change their form of government so quickly and peacefully.
In military alliances, however, it is much likelier that when nations choose their friends, they create enemies where there were none before.
It is a relic of a different age.
Almost three-quarters of all defense spending occurs within NATO countries, meaning the alliance is largely the only military show in town.
Unless one can somehow imagine NATO countries going to war with each other, such as Belgium invading the United Kingdom, it is hard to see how "world wars" could escalate outside of NATO member countries.
If NATO is responsible for the bulk of the world's military spending and NATO no longer has the stomach for full-on war with modern states, then large-scale war seems less likely.
We could go on here and talk about other military powers and alliances, but the simple fact is that large countries are less willing to risk war in defense of small ones.
This is exactly the sort of thinking that makes nation-states useful.
It has no military and is strictly neutral.
It is a completely viable state, with a ski museum and a McDonald's.
I am saying that for small nations to be economically and politically viable is good news for peace.
From the northwest angle of Nova Scotia, viz., that angle which is formed by a line drawn due north from the source of St. Croix River to the highlands; along the said highlands which divide those rivers that empty themselves into the river St. Lawrence ...
The tricky part is the bit about the highlands, or mountains.
Is it OK to dump nuclear waste in the ocean?
Voluntary acceptance of shared practices is not a surrender of autonomy.
It is a willing agreement to a set of values and procedures, and a standard of conduct.
The demise of war will be hastened when every impulse to war is regarded, at least initially, with a healthy measure of distrust.
James Dean is locked in our minds with a cigarette.
While the right thing to do is never to drive drunk, be a smoker, or be a racist, occasionally war is the right thing to do.
But war is seldom the answer.
Thanks to the burgeoning of technology and social media, public opinion is the most powerful political force in the world today.
Some might argue this is not in and of itself a force for peace.
I don't think this is likely, though.
Pause, just for a moment, and consider how profound a force for peace this is: to be able to communicate with anyone, anywhere, instantly.
Better communication is a huge step toward peace.
This is starkly different than if violence breaks out in a distant, unreal place where the only flow of information is from official sources.
It is the ultimate manifestation of the marketplace of ideas; the more people who proffer their ideas to the world, the better the outcome will be for us all.
That is never bad.
Third, the web acts as a feedback loop in that it allows all people to say what is on their minds.
Very seldom is that, "I should go to war to force others to my will."
Public opinion is a powerful force, and if it is generally a force for peace, then the web magnifies it.
The web is a force for truth, connectedness, understanding, and communication—all things whose absence can trigger war.
The idea is the power of short, instant messages broadcast to interested crowds.
Twitter.com is unquestionably the most efficient way in the history of humanity to send a single idea, invitation, complaint, or observation to the world.
Despite being the most efficient method ever, it is still highly inefficient, and this inefficiency inspires hope.
It is inefficient because I must know to follow people in order to receive their updates, and that knowing spreads haphazardly.
It is an altogether new concept that meets a need we didn't even know existed.
Twitter is profound, and it unquestionably furthers peace because it promotes the interests of the many against the interests of the few.
Before it is all over, the number of Facebook accounts will exceed the number of people on the planet.
Already, we get a glimpse of what is to come.
And through this, peace is promoted.
Seldom will one decide that war with a friend's nation is the only recourse.
This is not a particularly new idea, similar to the phenomenon of getting to know and care about "pen pals" in far-flung places by exchanging postal-mail letters.
Organizations have encouraged "pen pals for peace" exchanges—but such efforts tend to be limited in scale, and if there is one thing Facebook has, it is scale.
This is no longer the case.
The system we have is not perfect, but it is highly distributed and bottom up.
This is unquestionably good.
And truth is a force for peace.
I realize in these pages I must seem very distrustful of government, but it is not really true.
Government is a great achievement of civilization.
It is necessary to protect life, liberty, and property.
Practically speaking, governments often act as if their first duty is to protect the government, not the people.
More information leads to more peace, unless you want to argue that ignorance is more peaceful.
And this is a force for peace.
Everything is up for scrutiny.
But a sizable number are attempting this, and the direction the world is heading is obvious.
Secrecy, while occasionally necessary, is less desirable than openness.
Free and peaceful societies function best when government is transparent and open.
According to Portio Research7.8 trillion SMS messages were sent in 2011, and it is expected that 2012's number will come in at ten trillion.
We have seen it most recently and most profoundly in the Arab Spring, where the motto we see again and again is Ash-sha'b yurid isqat an-nizam, or "The people want to bring down the regime."
But if that is the case, they will fall in due course.
But it is worth noting.
In point #29, we described how peace is served when mobile devices allow people to organize and communicate in a widely distributed fashion.
The Internet is still able to be "turned off" by despotic rulers.
Enabling people to communicate in a method with which their governments cannot interfere is a force for freedom and peace.
I know this is a controversial forecast, and to many people a very depressing one, but I think it is both inevitable and good.
And if everyone you know speaks English and it is the language of the world, commerce, the Internet, and success, what will be the primary language you teach your children?
It is already the official language in more than fifty countries spread across every continent.
It is easy to be suspicious of the person who speaks in some strange tongue.
If it is any comfort, languages won't truly be dead.
As difficult as it might be to "let go," this is good for peace.
By 2020, it is estimated that five billion people will be online, representing two-thirds the population of the planet.
Every other metric is still climbing: data throughput, mobile phone usage, messages sent, websites created, amount of information online, data transfer speed, and CPU speed.
Nothing is slowing down.
The Internet is still in its adolescence.
It is only really about twenty years old.
It is to this end that we want to educate you ...
The world is becoming more educated at an amazing rate.
This is because, like technology, money also multiplies the labor of man.
This is a force for peace, as more and more people have family members in more than one culture and share the interests of more than one nationality.
If your father is American and your mother Chinese, you will have a different understanding of differences between those countries, and, on balance, will be less amenable to war between those nations.
But the notion of "elites" is broadening, as is the number of non-Americans who study in the United States.
Here is a fact to get your head around: In 1980, about seven million Americans had a passport.
That is a huge change and a force for peace.
This is a reassuring trend.
The world is developing a shared popular culture with elements drawn from around the globe.
American English is taught in schools and American slang is practiced in bars everywhere.
And, of course, American fast food is the food the world loves to say it hates.
British music is known and loved around the world, as is its comedy and royalty.
This is a force for peace—to the extent that as we share the same set of cultural references, we understand each other better.
Now video is everywhere—on my phone, in my cab in New York, and in the elevator as I zoom to the fourteenth floor.
The range of subject matter on YouTube is as incomprehensibly large as the range in quality.
YouTube's contribution to world peace is not simply to add empathy to current events, although that would be enough.
Nationalism, in my use of the term, is being an uncritical fan of your country.
It is the same spirit that makes people fanatical about a certain sports team, regardless of the players or the score.
From the way I have written this, it is clear where my sympathies lie.
Nationalism is on the decline.
Sadly, patriotism is as well.
But the decline of nationalism is a force for peace.
The social reformer of the past is depicted as a dour spinster wielding an axe to break barrels of "Demon Rum."
Nowadays, the social reformer is cool and hip.
The population at that time was a tenth of what it is today.
This is the present reality in a world defined by the ease of communication.
But the critical question is, will they resort to war to resolve them?
We will live out the realization that, as Bertrand Russell said, "War does not determine who is right, only who is left."
The world is happiest when this process is one of persuasion, goodwill, reason, logic, and negotiation.
This is how our Founding Fathers intended our nation to behave: To try to achieve our foreign policy aims through negotiation and, if that failed, through economic sanctions.
Whether it is the notion of manufacturing meat or having the computer tell you what you should order at the restaurant, you may have cringed and thought, "Man, that's kind of creepy."
Anything that looks too much like The Matrix movies or The Terminator movies is just, well, kind of creepy.
Under the terms of the definition I offered earlier, that makes Shakespeare the epitome of art—that is, something that continues to speak to future generations.
In Othello is a character named Iago, an evil man who never does anything illegal himself but is always planting ideas in other people's minds, to get them to do his dirty work.
He convinces Othello that Desdemona, Othello's wife, is unfaithful to him.
Macbeth is the story of a ruthless wife, Lady Macbeth, who persuades her husband to murder the king and take his throne.
It is a tale of ambition and then of guilt.
King Lear is about a father who has three daughters—two who flatter him, but a third who speaks honestly and bluntly to him because she loves him.
Two millennia later, it is fair to assume that humans are still capable of this kind of memory.
My memory is a big part of who I am and I have no desire to trade any of it away.
In this way, you are processing aurally, which is much slower but more focused than silent reading.
I think they would have said, That is kind of creepy.
That is just so alien to me.
The problem for us was always that it is easier to get a car running than it is to fix the brakes.
I don't think there is an extensible life-lesson here.
Life, as they say, is good.
At that point, the iffy parts of human history are behind us and it is blue skies and clean sailing ahead.
My grandmother used to say, "There is many a slip between cup and lip."
Wealth and society encourage civilization, which is advantageous to everyone.
Disease is a problem of technology; thus, its solution will be technological.
Scarcity, or what we term scarcity, is a technological problem as well. 4.
That is to say, wealth creation is about to skyrocket.
A world without hunger, disease, ignorance, poverty, and war is not a perfect world.
Progress is widely distributed.
We all saw what happened on 9/11, and it is likely similar acts will occur in the future.
As troubling as this thought is, equally troubling would be the response of the country so attacked.
The government operating in its correct role is instrumental to civilization.
In the United States, where we have mostly Democrats and Republicans, life is largely the same no matter who is in charge.
As a government grows in size, even if the growth is in social programs, it inevitably grows in its intrusion on civil liberty.
"Big Candle" is not still around and never was.
I think the future I describe is pretty secure.
A term, "techno-utopian," is often applied to people who believe a technology will bring about a perfect world.
I think the range of problems that technology can solve is confined to technological problems.
And war is a by-product of several technical problems.
Is there possibly a solution to it?
If the answers to those questions are affirmative, then making assumptions about increasing rates of technological progress is very reasonable.
But a world without want and without disease, a world with opportunity for all, is a world where getting along—even when we don't see eye to eye—is going to be a good bit easier.
This book began with the assertion that it is the optimists who get things done.
That claim is simply not true.
It is pessimism that says, "We are doomed."
Pessimism is numbing, demoralizing, depressing.
Pessimism is all the reasons "this won't work."
Optimism, on the other hand, says, "There is a way."
Optimism is empowering, uplifting, and inspiring.
This book is a call to action, not complacency.
It is based on the idea that what we believe about the future determines what we do in the present.
My goal is not to convince people that the world will be perfect in the future.
I hope that, after reading this far, you appreciate that for our age, this is no idle boast.
It is simply a realization.
Everything is about to change.
So, far from reaching that point the pessimists foretold—where we have exhausted the meager resources of earth and find ourselves dwindling away—something entirely different is happening.
It is consistent with all we know of the past, which is progress and prosperity.
At the time in history when our future has never looked brighter, it is baffling that some people are more pessimistic than ever.
But whatever the process, the result is wonderful.
I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?"
Is this not love?
Is this not love?
Again I asked my teacher, "Is this not love?"
"Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun came out," she replied.
This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child.
On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe.
What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories.
Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze.
After I had learned a great many interesting things about the life and habits of the children of the sea--how in the midst of dashing waves the little polyps build the beautiful coral isles of the Pacific, and the foraminifera have made the chalk-hills of many a land--my teacher read me "The Chambered Nautilus," and showed me that the shell-building process of the mollusks is symbolical of the development of the mind.
My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her.
How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell.
I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers.
All the best of me belongs to her--there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.
My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean.
One who is entirely dependent upon the manual alphabet has always a sense of restraint, of narrowness.
I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm."
It is an unspeakable boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation.
Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself.
It astonished me to find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part; but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.
The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see.
The mere spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is in writing.
Now, if words and images come to me without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss.
I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me through the medium of others' eyes and ears.
I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."
One thing is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.
It is only after years of this sort of practice that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which come thronging through every byway of the mind.
It is certain that I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read, because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind.
It seems to me that the great difficulty of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more than bundles of instinctive tendencies.
Trying to write is very much like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together.
"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions.
My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.
It is difficult to describe my emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American Falls and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble.
So it always is--"man only is interesting to man."
In the electrical building we examined the telephones, autophones, phonographs, and other inventions, and he made me understand how it is possible to send a message on wires that mock space and outrun time, and, like Prometheus, to draw fire from the sky.
The tedium of that work is hard to conceive.
At Radcliffe no one reads the papers to me after they are written, and I have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is up.
It is true that I was familiar with all literary braille in common use in this country--English, American, and New York Point; but the various signs and symbols in geometry and algebra in the three systems are very different, and I had used only the English braille in my algebra.
I had taken to heart the words of the wise Roman who said, "To be banished from Rome is but to live outside of Rome."
The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time.
But in college there is no time to commune with one's thoughts.
The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep in the race.
I have tried many machines, and I find the Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work.
Every struggle is a victory.
But college is not the universal Athens I thought it was.
They are there, it is true; but they seem mummified.
The trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory.
But when a great scholar like Professor Kittredge interprets what the master said, it is "as if new sight were given the blind."
It is impossible, I think, to read in one day four or five different books in different languages and treating of widely different subjects, and not lose sight of the very ends for which one reads.
It happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded.
It is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away.
You are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top--you saw it there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the Reformation.
But where is it now?
In desperation you seize the budget and dump everything out, and there in a corner is your man, serenely brooding on his own private thought, unconscious of the catastrophe which he has brought upon you.
Just then the proctor informs you that the time is up.
One of them is the precious science of patience, which teaches us that we should take our education as we would take a walk in the country, leisurely, our minds hospitably open to impressions of every sort.
I do not know why it is, but stories in which animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed to me very strongly.
And the mystery is still unsolved.
It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine poem.
My admiration for the Aeneid is not so great, but it is none the less real.
Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.
How easy it is to fly on paper wings!
Still there is much in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through from beginning to end.
There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible directness of the book of Esther.
She knows her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath.
Yet how different is the life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital!
Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she stands with the reapers amid the waving corn.
My delight in them is as varied as my moods.
But, with all my love for Shakespeare, it is often weary work to read all the meanings into his lines which critics and commentators have given them.
Though I believe it is no longer considered valid, yet I have kept it ever since as one of my treasures.
When he speaks, it is not to impress others, but because his heart would burst if he did not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul.
Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like; but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming potency of woman's self-sacrificing love.
This thought pervades all German literature and is mystically expressed in Goethe's "Faust":
The indescribable Here it is done.
Alfred de Musset is impossible!
I admire Victor Hugo – I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his romanticism; though he is not one of my literary passions.
In a word, literature is my Utopia.
I trust that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are many and varied.
It is fun to try to steer by the scent of watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore.
It is like the kiss of warm lips on my face.
My favourite amusement is sailing.
The memory of it is a joy forever.
Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows.
Thus it is that Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth, Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive Of sunshine and wide air and winged things, By sympathy of nature, so do I gave evidence of things unseen.
This inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense--a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in one.
One of them, a splendid oak, is the special pride of my heart.
There is a tradition that under this tree King Philip, the heroic Indian chief, gazed his last on earth and sky.
As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I hastened to this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous.
They forget that my whole body is alive to the conditions about me.
In the country one sees only Nature's fair works, and one's soul is not saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the crowded city.
In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the air is foul.
It is impossible not to think of all this when I return to the country after a year of work in town.
It is splendid to feel the wind blowing in my face and the springy motion of my iron steed.
Whenever it is possible, my dog accompanies me on a walk or ride or sail.
At present the lord of my affections is one of these bull terriers.
The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to another tells me when it is my turn.
Another pleasure, which comes more rarely than the others, is going to the theatre.
I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if I were living in the midst of stirring events.
I go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting.
Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at many points the life of the World Beautiful?
Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate.
Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter.
Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose handshake is brimful of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager, impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is divine.
In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that all is well.
They are like people who when walking with you try to shorten their steps to suit yours; the hypocrisy in both cases is equally exasperating.
The touch of some hands is an impertinence.
I knew Mr. Henry Drummond, and the memory of his strong, warm hand-clasp is like a benediction.
Dr. Edward Everett Hale is one of my very oldest friends.
He has filled the old skins of dogma with the new wine of love, and shown men what it is to believe, live and be free.
Dr. Bell is proficient in many fields of science, and has the art of making every subject he touches interesting, even the most abstruse theories.
His dominating passion is his love for children.
He is never quite so happy as when he has a little deaf child in his arms.
Mrs. Hutton is a true and tried friend.
When I find my work particularly difficult and discouraging, she writes me letters that make me feel glad and brave; for she is one of those from whom we learn that one painful duty fulfilled makes the next plainer and easier.
One is Mrs. William Thaw, of Pittsburgh, whom I have often visited in her home, Lyndhurst.
She is always doing something to make some one happy, and her generosity and wise counsel have never failed my teacher and me in all the years we have known her.
Thus it is that my friends have made the story of my life.
One cause for the excellence of her letters is the great number of them.
To them and to a few friends with whom she is in closest sympathy she writes with intimate frankness whatever she is thinking about.
A few weeks later her style is more nearly correct and freer in movement.
Prince is not good dog.
She is a good doll.
Her name is Allie.
This letter is to a school-mate at the Perkins Institution.
I hope Mr. Anagnos is coming to see me soon.
Bessie is weak and little.
Little Natalie is a very weak and small baby.
Boat is like house.
Mildred is a good baby.
Her name is Adeline Keller.
She is Nancy's sister and I am their mother.
Allie is their cousin.
Louise is aunt Nannie's child.
Father took us to see steam boat it is like house.
Lucien Thompson is sick.
Sheffield is north and Tuscumbia is south.
"Uncle Morrie" of the next letter is Mr. Morrison Heady, of Normandy, Kentucky, who lost his sight and hearing when he was a boy.
He is the author of some commendable verses.
Mr. Anagnos is coming to see me Monday.
I love to play with little sister, she is weak and small baby.
Yates is digging in garden.
Uncle Frank is here.
He is picking strawberries for dinner.
Nancy is sick again, new teeth do make her ill.
Adeline is well and she can go to Cincinnati Monday with me.
Wee sister is a good girl.
She is a very pretty baby.
Her eyes are very big and blue, and her cheeks are soft and round and rosy and her hair is very bright and golden.
She is very good and sweet when she does not cry loud.
West Newton is not far from Boston and we went there in the steam cars very quickly.
I am very sorry that poor little Peregrine is dead now.
Poor Edith is blind and deaf and dumb.
Se agapo is Greek, and it means I love thee.
J'ai une bonne petite soeur is French, and it means I have a good little sister.
Puer is boy in Latin, and Mutter is mother in German.
Teacher is writing letters to her friends.
The furnace is to make iron.
Then it is all ready to be manufactured into engines, stoves, kettles and many other things.
Coal is found in the ground, too.
Mildred is running about downstairs.
A telescope is like a very strong eye.
Teacher says she can see Venus from our window, and it is a large and beautiful star.
A knife is an instrument to cut with.
I think the bell is an instrument, too.
They tell us when breakfast is ready, when to go to school, when it is time for church, and when there is a fire.
My little pigeons are well, and so is my little bird.
My darling little sister is growing very fast.
Sometimes she tries to spell very short words on her small [fingers] but she is too young to remember hard words.
When she is older I will teach her many things if she is patient and obedient.
The sun is shining brightly to-day and I hope we shall go to ride if the roads are dry.
Cedric is my little boy, he is named for Lord Fauntleroy.
Ida is my baby.
Lucy is a fine young lady.
Poor old Nancy is growing old and very feeble.
She is almost an invalid.
Jumbo is very strong and faithful.
I should like to send a kiss to Vittorio, the little prince of Naples, but teacher says she is afraid you will not remember so many messages.
I am so glad that Eva is coming to stay with me this summer.
Mildred is out in the yard playing, and mother is picking the delicious strawberries.
Simpson is coming home soon.
Like a good many of Helen Keller's early letters, this to her French teacher is her re-phrasing of a story.
It shows how much the gift of writing is, in the early stages of its development, the gift of mimicry.
It hobbled, and that made me laugh; but it is wrong to laugh at the poor animals!
Is it not a pitiful story?
She is going home to rest, but she will come back to me next autumn.
In the evening, when it is cool and pleasant, we would walk in the yard, and catch the grasshoppers and butterflies.
Daisy is happy, but she would be happy ever if she had a little mate.
My little children are all well except Nancy, and she is quite feeble.
Grandmother is going to make me two new dresses.
I am sitting on the piazza, and my little white pigeon is perched on the back of my chair, watching me write.
Her little brown mate has flown away with the other birds; but Annie is not sad, for she likes to stay with me.
Fauntleroy is asleep upstairs, and Nancy is putting Lucy to bed.
Perhaps the mocking bird is singing them to sleep.
The air is sweet with the perfume of jasmines, heliotropes and roses.
It is getting warm here now, so father is going to take us to the Quarry on the 20th of August.
Little Arthur is growing very fast.
The crane is a large and strong bird.
His wings are as long as my arm, and his bill is as long as my foot.
Mildred is the dearest and sweetest little maiden in the world.
She is very roguish, too.
Pearl is a very proud mother-dog now.
I cannot know about many things, when my dear teacher is not here.
The dress is blue like your eyes, and candy is sweet just like your dear little self.
I hope she is not lonely and unhappy.
EXCEEDINGLY is one that I learned yesterday.
I think she will laugh when I tell her she is a vertebrate, a mammal, a quadruped; and I shall be very sorry to tell her that she belongs to the order Carnivora.
This letter is indorsed in Whittier's hand, "Helen A. Keller--deaf dumb and blind--aged nine years."
"Browns" is a lapse of the pencil for "brown eyes."
It is very pleasant to live here in our beautiful world.
When I walk out in my garden I cannot see the beautiful flowers but I know that they are all around me; for is not the air sweet with their fragrance?
How is dear little sister?
If it is too warm in Tuscumbia for little sister to wear her pretty mittens, she can keep them because her sister made them for her.
Her throat was very sore and the doctor thought she would have to go away to the hospital, but she is better now.
He is very soft and delicate yet.
Mr. Anagnos is in Athens now.
He is delighted because I am here.
I hope I have written my letter nicely, but it is very difficult to write on this paper and teacher is not here to give me better.
She is a lovely baby, and I am sure you will love her.
Mildred has grown much taller and stronger than she was when I went to Boston, and she is the sweetest and dearest little child in the world.
I think it is so pleasant to make everybody happy.
It makes me happy to know much about my loving Father, who is good and wise.
I should like very much to see you to-day Is the sun very hot in Boston now? this afternoon if it is cool enough I shall take Mildred for a ride on my donkey.
I should like very much to see you to-day Is the sun very hot in Boston now? this afternoon if it is cool enough I shall take Mildred for a ride on my donkey.
Simpson, that is my brother, brought me some beautiful pond lilies yesterday--he is a very brother to me.
I do not see how we can help thinking about God when He is so good to us all the time.
It is from the power of love which is in our own hearts.
Love is at the soul of everything.
And so God who is the greatest and happiest of all beings is the most loving too.
All the love that is in our hearts comes from him, as all the light which is in the flowers comes from the sun.
But do you not think that God is happy too because you are happy?
And He is happier than any of us because He is greater than any of us, and also because He not merely SEES your happiness as we do, but He also MADE it.
A great deal of the trouble that is in the world is medicine which is very bad to take, but which it is good to take because it makes us better.
And Jesus, who is His Son, but is nearer to Him than all of us His other Children, came into the world on purpose to tell us all about our Father's Love.
And so love is everything.
And if anybody asks you, or if you ask yourself what God is, answer, "God is Love."
That is the beautiful answer which the Bible gives.
All this is what you are to think of and to understand more and more as you grow older.
Your letter is charming, and I am greatly pleased with it.
The tongue is so serviceable a member (taking all sorts of shapes, just as is wanted),--the teeth, the lips, the roof of the mouth, all ready to help, and so heap up the sound of the voice into the solid bits which we call consonants, and make room for the curiously shaped breathings which we call vowels!
Everybody will feel an interest in dear little Helen; everybody will want to do something for her; and, if she becomes an ancient, gray-haired woman, she is still sure of being thoughtfully cared for.
But I suppose he is very busy now.
Pennsylvania is a very beautiful State.
Our room is pleasant and comfortable.
Teacher is going to see if it can be fixed.
It is a very pretty story, and I will tell it to you some time.
Teacher is well and sends her kind remembrance to you.
The happy Christmas time is almost here!
I am glad thee is at the Institution; it is an excellent place.
His name is Tommy, and he is five years old.
Is it not a beautiful plan?
Sweet Mother Nature can have no secrets from me when my poet is near.
He is poor and helpless and lonely now, but before another April education will have brought light and gladness into Tommy's life.
It is very beautiful to think that people far away in England feel sorry for a little helpless child in America.
You will be glad to hear that Tommy has a kind lady to teach him, and that he is a pretty, active little fellow.
He loves to climb much better than to spell, but that is because he does not know yet what a wonderful thing language is.
It is very beautiful to think that you can tell so many people of the heavenly Father's tender love for all His children even when they are not gentle and noble as He wishes them to be.
I hope too, that Bishop Brooks' whole life will be as rich in happiness as the month of May is full of blossoms and singing birds.
This letter is to the editor of the Boston Herald, enclosing a complete list of the subscribers.
He is very happy indeed at the kindergarten, and is learning something every day.
He loves to climb the bed-posts and unscrew the steam valves much better than to spell, but that is because he does not understand that words would help him to make new and interesting discoveries.
I hope that good people will continue to work for Tommy until his fund is completed, and education has brought light and music into his little life.
He is the same restless little creature he was when you saw him.
When I came home teacher read to me "The School-boy," for it is not in our print.
It is Sunday morning, and while I sit here in the library writing this letter you are teaching hundreds of people some of the grand and beautiful things about their heavenly Father.
There is a hiatus of several months in the letters, caused by the depressing effect on Helen and Miss Sullivan of the "Frost King" episode.
It is evident that something has displeased his Majesty but I cannot imagine what it can be.
Now, dear friend, Please accept these few words because of the love that is linked with them.
It is undated, but must have been written two or three months before it was published.
I am glad Miss Eleanor is interested.
We thought everything was arranged: but we found Monday that Mrs. Elliott would not be willing to let us invite more than fifty people, because Mrs. Howe's house is quite small.
His name is Eumer.
A queer name, is it not?
I think it is Saxon.
My little brother, Phillips, is not well, and we think the clear mountain air will benefit him.
Mildred is a sweet little sister and I am sure you would love her.
You could not read Braille; for it is written in dots, not at all like ordinary letters.
His name is Phillips Brooks.
You see, it is not very pleasant to write all about one's self.
It is because my books are full of the riches of which Mr. Ruskin speaks that I love them so dearly.
I do try to think that he is still near, very near; but sometimes the thought that he is not here, that I shall not see him when I go to Boston,--that he is gone,--rushes over my soul like a great wave of sorrow.
In reading this letter about Niagara one should remember that Miss Keller knows distance and shape, and that the size of Niagara is within her experience after she has explored it, crossed the bridge and gone down in the elevator.
But of course, it is not alone for their bright colors that we love the flowers....
Within two miles of the Falls is a wonderful suspension bridge.
It is thrown across the gorge at a height of two hundred and fifty-eight feet above the water and is supported on each bank by towers of solid rock, which are eight hundred feet apart.
That is my castle in the air.
Her visit to the World's Fair she described in a letter to Mr. John P. Spaulding, which was published in St. Nicholas, and is much like the following letter.
GENTLEMEN--The bearer, Miss Helen Keller, accompanied by Miss Sullivan, is desirous of making a complete inspection of the Exposition in all Departments.
I went to the Japanese department with Prof. Morse who is a well-known lecturer.
Prof. Morse knows a great deal about Japan, and is very kind and wise.
It is so pleasant to learn about new things.
At present there is no library of any sort in the town.
That is why I thought about starting one.
My mother and several of my friends said they would help me with the establishment of a public library.
I do not know what books we have, but I think it is a miscellaneous (I think that is the word) collection....
It is a very interesting souvenir of Columbus, and of the Fair White City; but I cannot imagine what discoveries I have made,--I mean new discoveries.
We are all discoverers in one sense, being born quite ignorant of all things; but I hardly think that is what she meant.
Oct. 23, 1894. ...The school is very pleasant, and bless you! it is quite fashionable....
The ancient cannon, which look seaward, wear a very menacing expression; but I doubt if there is any unkindness in their rusty old hearts.
Liberty is a gigantic figure of a woman in Greek draperies, holding in her right hand a torch....
Dr. Humason is still trying to improve my speech.
It is sometimes called the "Millionaires' Club."
I think he is very handsome indeed....
(If that is the way to spell the name.)
Mr. Wade is just as dear and good as ever!
As I sit by the window writing to you, it is so lovely to have the soft, cool breezes fan my cheek and to feel that the hard work of last year is over!
Teacher seems to feel benefitted by the change too; for she is already beginning to look like her dear old self.
My heart is too full of sadness to dwell upon the happiness the summer has brought me.
My father is dead.
On the first of October Miss Keller entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, of which Mr. Arthur Gilman is Principal.
The "examinations" mentioned in this letter were merely tests given in the school, but as they were old Harvard papers, it is evident that in some subjects Miss Keller was already fairly well prepared for Radcliffe.
There are about a hundred girls, and they are all so bright and happy; it is a joy to be with them.
This year is going to be a very busy one for Teacher and myself.
But it is harder for Teacher than it is for me because the strain on her poor eyes is so great, and I cannot help worrying about them.
It is such a delight to be with the other girls, and do everything that they do.
All the time I was preparing for the great ordeal, I could not suppress an inward fear and trembling lest I should fail, and now it is an unspeakable relief to know that I have passed the examinations with credit.
But what I consider my crown of success is the happiness and pleasure that my victory has brought dear Teacher.
Indeed, I feel that the success is hers more than mine; for she is my constant inspiration....
It is so fresh, and peaceful and free!
I think Greek is the loveliest language that I know anything about.
If it is true that the violin is the most perfect of musical instruments, then Greek is the violin of human thought.
On the other hand, when we learn a new word, it is the key to untold treasures....
The truth is, I know very little about bicycles.
I have only ridden a "sociable," which is very different from the ordinary tandem.
It is almost no effort for me to row around the lake, no matter how heavy the load may be.
This is the first opportunity I have had to write to you since we came here last Monday.
The "Iliad" is beautiful with all the truth, and grace and simplicity of a wonderfully childlike people while the "Aeneid" is more stately and reserved.
It is like a beautiful maiden, who always lived in a palace, surrounded by a magnificent court; while the "Iliad" is like a splendid youth, who has had the earth for his playground.
You will think I'm pining away for my beloved Wrentham, which is true in one sense and not in another.
But, as you know, my heart is usually brimful of happiness.
The thought that my dear Heavenly Father is always near, giving me abundantly of all those things, which truly enrich life and make it sweet and beautiful, makes every deprivation seem of little moment compared with the countless blessings I enjoy.
Why, I can do long, complicated quadratic equations in my head quite easily, and it is great fun!
I think Mr. Keith is a wonderful teacher, and I feel very grateful to him for having made me see the beauty of Mathematics.
It is a very strong poem and set me dreaming too.
I already have the seventh and eighth books of the "Aeneid" and one book of the "Iliad," all of which is most fortunate, as I have come almost to the end of my embossed text-books.
It gives me great pleasure to hear how much is being done for the deaf-blind.
As to the two-handed alphabet, I think it is much easier for those who have sight than the manual alphabet; for most of the letters look like the large capitals in books; but I think when it comes to teaching a deaf-blind person to spell, the manual alphabet is much more convenient, and less conspicuous....
There is but one cloud in my sky at present; but that is one which casts a dark shadow over my life, and makes me very anxious at times.
My teacher's eyes are no better: indeed, I think they grow more troublesome, though she is very brave and patient, and will not give up.
But it is most distressing to me to feel that she is sacrificing her sight for me.
I would like so much to show him in some way how deeply I appreciate all that he is doing for me, and I cannot think of anything better to do.
Every one here is talking about the Sargent pictures.
It is a wonderful exhibition of portraits, they say.
I have at least the satisfaction of seeing them through the eyes of my friends, which is a real pleasure.
Cicero is splendid, but his orations are very difficult to translate.
TO MRS. SAMUEL RICHARD FULLER Wrentham, October 20, 1899. ...I suppose it is time for me to tell you something about our plans for the winter.
Now there is one more fact, which I wish to state very plainly, in regard to what Mr. Gilman wrote to you.
TO MISS MILDRED KELLER 138 Brattle Street, Cambridge, November 26, 1899. ...At last we are settled for the winter, and our work is going smoothly.
In French Teacher is reading "Columba" to me.
The other is woollen, and of a very pretty green.
The waist is trimmed with pink and green brocaded velvet, and white lace, I think, and has double reefers on the front, tucked and trimmed with velvet, and also a row of tiny white buttons.
The skirt is black, while the waist is mostly yellow, trimmed with delicate lavender chiffon, and black velvet bows and lace.
Her other dress is purple, trimmed with purple velvet, and the waist has a collar of cream lace.
We are enjoying every moment of our visit, every one is so good to us.
I do not think I have told you that my dear teacher is reading "The Faery Queen" to me.
You know a student's life is of necessity somewhat circumscribed and narrow and crowds out almost everything that is not in books....
Is it possible for the College to accommodate itself to these unprecedented conditions, so as to enable me to pursue my studies at Radcliffe?
I'm enjoying my work even more than I expected to, which is another way of saying that I'm glad I came.
It is hard, very hard at times; but it hasn't swamped me yet.
Her name is Ruby Rice, and she is thirteen years old, I think.
Her sense of smell is wonderful.
Her name is Maud Scott, and she is six years old.
Miss Watkins adds that she is very pretty.
The dear, sweet little girl, it makes my heart ache to think how utterly she is cut off from all that is good and desirable in life.
He is a great, strong boy now, and he will soon need a man to take care of him; he is really too big for a lady to manage.
It is pale blue, trimmed with chiffon of the same color.
The mother is a physician and a brilliant woman, he says.
This little boy could speak two or three languages before he lost his hearing through sickness, and he is now only about five years old.
TO MR. WILLIAM WADE Cambridge, February 2, 1901. ...By the way, have you any specimens of English braille especially printed for those who have lost their sight late in life or have fingers hardened by long toil, so that their touch is less sensitive than that of other blind people?
Why, it is the print that can be most readily adapted to many different languages.
It is evident that the blind should have a good magazine, not a special magazine for the blind, but one of our best monthlies, printed in embossed letters.
To be able to read for one's self what is being willed, thought and done in the world--the world in whose joys and sorrows, failures and successes one feels the keenest interest--that would indeed be a happiness too deep for words.
Words are powerless to describe the desolation of that prison-house, or the joy of the soul that is delivered out of its captivity.
It was written out of my heart, and perhaps that is why it met a sympathetic response in other hearts.
You see, I use a typewriter--it is my right hand man, so to speak.
It is fitting that Miss Keller's "Story of My Life" should appear at this time.
What is remarkable in her career is already accomplished, and whatever she may do in the future will be but a relatively slight addition to the success which distinguishes her now.
He quoted the passages in which she explains that college is not the "universal Athens" she had hoped to find, and cited the cases of other remarkable persons whose college life had proved disappointing.
But it is to be remembered that Miss Keller has written many things in her autobiography for the fun of writing them, and the disillusion, which the writer of the editorial took seriously, is in great part humorous.
I ought to apologize to the reader and to Miss Keller for presuming to say what her subject matter is worth, but one more explanation is necessary.
In her account of her early education Miss Keller is not giving a scientifically accurate record of her life, nor even of the important events.
She cannot know in detail how she was taught, and her memory of her childhood is in some cases an idealized memory of what she has learned later from her teacher and others.
She is less able to recall events of fifteen years ago than most of us are to recollect our childhood.
That is why her teacher's records may be found to differ in some particulars from Miss Keller's account.
Miss Sullivan, who is an excellent critic, made suggestions at many points in the course of composition and revision.
The book is Miss Keller's and is final proof of her independent power.
The admiration with which the world has regarded her is more than justified by what she has done.
Miss Keller is tall and strongly built, and has always had good health.
She seems to be more nervous than she really is, because she expresses more with her hands than do most English-speaking people.
When Miss Keller speaks, her face is animated and expresses all the modes of her thought--the expressions that make the features eloquent and give speech half its meaning.
When she is talking with an intimate friend, however, her hand goes quickly to her friend's face to see, as she says, "the twist of the mouth."
In this way she is able to get the meaning of those half sentences which we complete unconsciously from the tone of the voice or the twinkle of the eye.
Her memory of people is remarkable.
When she met Dr. Furness, the Shakespearean scholar, he warned her not to let the college professors tell her too many assumed facts about the life of Shakespeare; all we know, he said, is that Shakespeare was baptized, married, and died.
"That," he said, "is your prize-fighting bump."
Miss Keller's humour is that deeper kind of humour which is courage.
If it happens to be blue, and you tell her so triumphantly, she is likely to answer, Thank you.
If any one whom she is touching laughs at a joke, she laughs, too, just as if she had heard it.
In the same way her response to music is in part sympathetic, although she enjoys it for its own sake.
Her enjoyment of music, however, is very genuine, for she has a tactile recognition of sound when the waves of air beat against her.
It is amusing to read in one of the magazines of 1895 that Miss Keller "has a just and intelligent appreciation of different composers from having literally felt their music, Schumann being her favourite."
If she knows the difference between Schumann and Beethoven, it is because she has read it, and if she has read it, she remembers it and can tell any one who asks her.
She is a good talker on the little occasional affairs of life.
When she is out walking she often stops suddenly, attracted by the odour of a bit of shrubbery.
She reaches out and touches the leaves, and the world of growing things is hers, as truly as it is ours, to enjoy while she holds the leaves in her fingers and smells the blossoms, and to remember when the walk is done.
When she is in a new place, especially an interesting place like Niagara, whoever accompanies her--usually, of course, Miss Sullivan--is kept busy giving her an idea of visible details.
Miss Sullivan, who knows her pupil's mind, selects from the passing landscape essential elements, which give a certain clearness to Miss Keller's imagined view of an outer world that to our eyes is confused and overloaded with particulars.
True, her view of life is highly coloured and full of poetic exaggeration; the universe, as she sees it, is no doubt a little better than it really is.
This sense is not, however, so finely developed as in some other blind people.
Anything shallower than a half-inch bas-relief is a blank to her, so far as it expresses an idea of beauty.
When she found them she said, "One is silent."
It is, however, in her daily life that one can best measure the delicacy of her senses and her manual skill.
She gropes her way without much certainty in rooms where she is quite familiar.
Most blind people are aided by the sense of sound, so that a fair comparison is hard to make, except with other deaf-blind persons.
The only thing she does which requires skill with the hands is her work on the typewriter.
Although she has used the typewriter since she was eleven years old, she is rather careful than rapid.
The manual alphabet is that in use among all educated deaf people.
The deaf person with sight looks at the fingers of his companion, but it is also possible to feel them.
Miss Keller puts her fingers lightly over the hand of one who is talking to her and gets the words as rapidly as they can be spelled.
As she explains, she is not conscious of the single letters or of separate words.
The ordinary embossed book is made with roman letters, both small letters and capitals.
Green's "Short History of the English People" is in six large volumes.
The time that one of Miss Keller's friends realizes most strongly that she is blind is when he comes on her suddenly in the dark and hears the rustle of her fingers across the page.
The most convenient print for the blind is braille, which has several variations, too many, indeed--English, American, New York Point.
Braille is especially useful in making single manuscript copies of books.
Miss Keller does not as a rule read very fast, but she reads deliberately, not so much because she feels the words less quickly than we see then, as because it is one of her habits of mind to do things thoroughly and well.
Sometimes this finger-play is unconscious.
When she is walking up or down the hall or along the veranda, her hands go flying along beside her like a confusion of birds' wings.
To what extent she now identifies objects by their odour is hard to determine.
The sense of smell has fallen into disrepute, and a deaf person is reluctant to speak of it.
The question of a special "sixth sense," such as people have ascribed. to Miss Keller, is a delicate one.
This much is certain, she cannot have any sense that other people may not have, and the existence of a special sense is not evident to her or to any one who knows her.
Miss Keller is distinctly not a singular proof of occult and mysterious theories, and any attempt to explain her in that way fails to reckon with her normality.
She is no more mysterious and complex than any other person.
All that she is, all that she has done, can be explained directly, except such things in every human being as never can be explained.
If she had any conception, there is no way of discovering it now; for she cannot remember, and obviously there was no record at the time.
Her sense of time is excellent, but whether it would have developed as a special faculty cannot be known, for she has had a watch since she was seven years old.
Though there is less than half an inch between the points--a space which represents sixty minutes--Miss Keller tells the time almost exactly.
It should be said that any double-case watch with the crystal removed serves well enough for a blind person whose touch is sufficiently delicate to feel the position of the hands and not disturb or injure them.
No attempt is made by those around her either to preserve or to break her illusions.
I believe she is the purest-minded human ever in existence....
The world to her is what her own mind is.
In consequence her mind is not only vigorous, but it is pure.
She is in love with noble things, with noble thoughts, and with the characters of noble men and women.
She was very greatly excited by it, and said: 'It is terrible!
After thinking a little while, she added, 'I think Shakespeare made it very terrible so that people would see how fearful it is to do wrong.'
Once when some one asked her to define "love," she replied, "Why, bless you, that is easy; it is what everybody feels for everybody else."
"Toleration," she said once, when she was visiting her friend Mrs. Laurence Hutton, "is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same effort of the brain that it takes to balance oneself on a bicycle."
There is never the least false sententiousness in what she says.
Her sympathy is of the swift and ministering sort which, fortunately, she has found so often in other people.
She is an optimist and an idealist.
It is now sixty-five years since Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe knew that he had made his way through Laura Bridgman's fingers to her intelligence.
The names of Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller will always be linked together, and it is necessary to understand what Dr. Howe did for his pupil before one comes to an account of Miss Sullivan's work.
For Dr. Howe is the great pioneer on whose work that of Miss Sullivan and other teachers of the deaf-blind immediately depends.
His success convinced him that language can be conveyed through type to the mind of the blind-deaf child, who, before education, is in the state of the baby who has not learned to prattle; indeed, is in a much worse state, for the brain has grown in years without natural nourishment.
From a scientific standpoint it is unfortunate that it was impossible to keep such a complete record of Helen Keller's development.
This in itself is a great comment on the difference between Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller.
In some ways this is unfortunate.
How perfectly absurd to say that Helen is 'already talking fluently!'
Then it is amusing to read of the elaborate preparation I underwent to fit me for the great task my friends entrusted to me.
Indeed, I am heartily glad that I don't know all that is being said and written about Helen and myself.
The truth is not wonderful enough to suit the newspapers; so they enlarge upon it and invent ridiculous embellishments.
This with the extracts from her letters, scattered through the report, is the first valid source of information about Helen Keller.
Doubtless the work of the past few months does seem like a triumphal march to him; but then people seldom see the halting and painful steps by which the most insignificant success is achieved.
There grew up a mass of controversial matter which it is amusing to read now.
For this report Miss Sullivan wrote the fullest and largest account she has ever written; and in this report appeared the "Frost King," which is discussed fully in a later chapter.
Although Miss Sullivan is still rather amused than distressed when some one, even one of her friends, makes mistakes in published articles about her and Miss Keller, still she sees that Miss Keller's book should include all the information that the teacher could at present furnish.
But it is evident that in these letters she was making a clear analysis of what she was doing.
The impression that Miss Sullivan educated Helen Keller "under the direction of Mr. Anagnos" is erroneous.
But whether Helen stays at home or makes visits in other parts of the country, her education is always under the immediate direction and exclusive control of her teacher.
The first letter is dated March 6, 1887, three days after her arrival in Tuscumbia.
My first question was, "Where is Helen?"
She is large, strong, and ruddy, and as unrestrained in her movements as a young colt.
She has a fine head, and it is set on her shoulders just right.
Her face is hard to describe.
It is intelligent, but lacks mobility, or soul, or something.
Her mouth is large and finely shaped.
You see at a glance that she is blind.
One eye is larger than the other, and protrudes noticeably.
She is unresponsive and even impatient of caresses from any one except her mother.
She is very quick-tempered and wilful, and nobody, except her brother James, has attempted to control her.
One thing that impresses everybody is Helen's tireless activity.
She is never still a moment.
She is here, there, and everywhere.
I went downstairs and got some cake (she is very fond of sweets).
I know this letter is very carelessly written.
The little house is a genuine bit of paradise.
There is a piazza in front, covered with vines that grow so luxuriantly that you have to part them to see the garden beyond.
She kept going to the door, as if she expected some one, and every now and then she would touch her cheek, which is her sign for her mother, and shake her head sadly.
It is amusing and pathetic to see Helen with her dolls.
As I have said before, she is wonderfully bright and active and as quick as lightning in her movements.
You will be glad to hear that my experiment is working out finely.
She has learned three new words, and when I give her the objects, the names of which she has learned, she spells them unhesitatingly; but she seems glad when the lesson is over.
My heart is singing for joy this morning.
She is sitting by me as I write, her face serene and happy, crocheting a long red chain of Scotch wool.
She learned the stitch this week, and is very proud of the achievement.
She lets me kiss her now, and when she is in a particularly gentle mood, she will sit in my lap for a minute or two; but she does not return my caresses.
It now remains my pleasant task to direct and mould the beautiful intelligence that is beginning to stir in the child-soul.
I have noticed also that she eats much less, a fact which troubles her father so much that he is anxious to get her home.
He says she is homesick.
One day this week Captain Keller brought Belle, a setter of which he is very proud, to see us.
She usually feels the softest step and throws out her arms to ascertain if any one is near her.
The back of the greatest obstacle in the path of progress is broken.
Of course, it is hard for them.
We almost live in the garden, where everything is growing and blooming and glowing.
This morning she planted her doll and showed me that she expected her to grow as tall as I. You must see that she is very bright, but you have no idea how cunning she is.
She learned to knit very quickly, and is making a wash-cloth for her mother.
But I am always glad when this work is over for the day.
The hour from twelve to one is devoted to the learning of new words.
Often, when the weather is fine, we drive from four to six, or go to see her aunt at Ivy Green or her cousins in the town.
Here is a list of the words.
She has learned that EVERYTHING HAS A NAME, AND THAT THE MANUAL ALPHABET IS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING SHE WANTS TO KNOW.
She is anxious for her friends to spell, and eager to teach the letters to every one she meets.
The child comes into the world with the ability to learn, and he learns of himself, provided he is supplied with sufficient outward stimulus.
BUT LONG BEFORE HE UTTERS HIS FIRST WORD, HE UNDERSTANDS WHAT IS SAID TO HIM.
She is about fifteen months old, and already understands a great deal.
If I say, "Where is baby's other ear?" she points it out correctly.
Helen knows the meaning of more than a hundred words now, and learns new ones daily without the slightest suspicion that she is performing a most difficult feat.
"Mother," accompanied by an inquiring look, means, "Were is mother?"
It is an adaptation of hide-the-thimble.
I used my little stock of beads, cards and straws at first because I didn't know what else to do; but the need for them is past, for the present at any rate.
They seem to me to be built up on the supposition that every child is a kind of idiot who must be taught to think.
Whereas, if the child is left to himself, he will think more and better, if less showily.
Helen is learning adjectives and adverbs as easily as she learned nouns.
She is going through the house now, applying the new words to all kinds of objects.
The weather is fine, and the air is full of the scent of strawberries.
Keller's Landing was used during the war to land troops, but has long since gone to pieces, and is overgrown with moss and weeds.
Near the landing there is a beautiful little spring, which Helen calls "squirrel-cup," because I told her the squirrels came there to drink.
She has felt dead squirrels and rabbits and other wild animals, and is anxious to see a "walk-squirrel," which interpreted, means, I think, a "live squirrel."
We go home about dinner-time usually, and Helen is eager to tell her mother everything she has seen.
This is the basis of real intercourse.
The impulse to tell is the important thing.
Helen is a wonderful child, so spontaneous and eager to learn.
It is a rare privilege to watch the birth, growth, and first feeble struggles of a living mind; this privilege is mine; and moreover, it is given me to rouse and guide this bright intelligence.
My mind is full of ideas; but I cannot get them into working shape.
You see, my mind is undisciplined, full of skips and jumps, and here and there a lot of things huddled together in dark corners.
She is delighted with action-words; so it is no trouble at all to teach her verbs.
She is always ready for a lesson, and the eagerness with which she absorbs ideas is very delightful.
One of Helen's old habits, that is strongest and hardest to correct, is a tendency to break things.
If she finds anything in her way, she flings it on the floor, no matter what it is: a glass, a pitcher, or even a lamp.
I made her go through the motion of knocking the doll's head on the table and spelled to her: No, no, Helen is naughty.
Teacher is sad, and let her feel the grieved expression on my face.
I hear there is a deaf and blind child being educated at the Baltimore Institution.
The weather is scorching.
She is very nervous and excitable.
She is restless at night and has no appetite.
It is hard to know what to do with her.
The doctor says her mind is too active; but how are we to keep her from thinking?
Helen is almost as eager to read as she is to talk.
I taught her the word AFRAID, and she said: Helen is not afraid.
And right here I want to say something which is for your ears alone.
She is no ordinary child, and people's interest in her education will be no ordinary interest.
I shall write freely to you and tell you everything, on one condition: It is this: you must promise never to show my letters to any one.
She is the dearest, cutest little thing now, and so loving!
She is much interested in some little chickens that are pecking their way into the world this morning.
Helen is about the same--pale and thin; but you mustn't think she is really ill.
We are bothered a good deal by people who assume the responsibility of the world when God is neglectful.
They tell us that Helen is "overdoing," that her mind is too active (these very people thought she had no mind at all a few months ago!) and suggest many absurd and impossible remedies.
But so far nobody seems to have thought of chloroforming her, which is, I think, the only effective way of stopping the natural exercise of her faculties.
It gives her something to do, and keeps her quiet, which I think is desirable while this enervating weather lasts.
She has counted everything in the house, and is now busy counting the words in her primer.
The little fellow who whirls his "New York Flyer" round the nursery, making "horseshoe curves" undreamed of by less imaginative engineers, is concentrating his whole soul on his toy locomotive.
This suggestion didn't please her, however; for she replied, "No. Nancy is very sick."
Her every waking moment is spent in the endeavour to satisfy her innate desire for knowledge, and her mind works so incessantly that we have feared for her health.
Unlike Laura Bridgman, she is fond of gentlemen, and we notice that she makes friends with a gentleman sooner than with a lady.
She is always ready to share whatever she has with those about her, often keeping but very little for herself.
She will insist on having her hair put in curl papers when she is so sleepy she can scarcely stand.
She spelled, "Helen is good, Viney is bad."
Is bug very happy?
Helen's pencil-writing is excellent, as you will see from the enclosed letter, which she wrote for her own amusement.
The "why?" is the DOOR THROUGH WHICH HE ENTERS THE WORLD OF REASON AND REFLECTION.
Why is Viney black?
But it hardly seems possible that any mere words should convey to one who has never seen a mountain the faintest idea of its grandeur; and I don't see how any one is ever to know what impression she did receive, or the cause of her pleasure in what was told her about it.
All that we do know certainly is that she has a good memory and imagination and the faculty of association.
(puppies) "Why is Elizabeth Evelyn's sister?" etc., etc.
The only thing for me to do in a perplexity is to go ahead, and learn by making mistakes.
I did, however, try to give her the idea that love is the great continuer of life.
"Tuscumbia" is the Indian for "Great Spring."
It's easy enough, however, to say Helen is wonderful, because she really is.
I told her that her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?"
"What colour is think?" was one of the restful questions she asked, as we swung to and fro in the hammock.
Quick as a flash she said, "My think is white, Viney's think is black."
My account for the report is finished and sent off.
It's Mr. Anagnos's property until it is published.
She laughed and said, Teacher is wrong.
This is another great forward step.
The rapid development of Helen's mind is beautiful to watch.
Only those who are with her daily can realize the rapid advancement which she is making in the acquisition of language.
She is also beginning to realize that she is not like other children.
This is the effect of putting it all in a summary.
"Lesson" is too formal for the continuous daily work.
"Helen is in wardrobe," "Mildred is in crib," "Box is on table," "Papa is on bed," are specimens of sentences constructed by her during the latter part of April.
Taking the bullet she made her habitual sign for SMALL--that is, by pinching a little bit of the skin of one hand.
A few minutes afterward she felt of her little sister's head and said to her mother, "Mildred's head is small and hard."
I find it hard to realize that Christmas is almost here, in spite of the fact that Helen talks about nothing else.
Helen has learned to tell the time at last, and her father is going to give her a watch for Christmas.
Helen is as eager to have stories told her as any hearing child I ever knew.
Helen is invited to all the children's entertainments, and I take her to as many as I can.
When I see that she is eager to tell me something, but is hampered because she does not know the words, I supply them and the necessary idioms, and we get along finely.
The other day Helen came across the word grandfather in a little story and asked her mother, "Where is grandfather?" meaning her grandfather.
Mrs. Keller replied, "He is dead."
So far, her only knowledge of death is in connection with things to eat.
How ridiculous it is to say I had drunk so copiously of the noble spirit of Dr. Howe that I was fired with the desire to rescue from darkness and obscurity the little Alabamian!
She said: Pencil is very tired in head.
In a flash she answered, "I think Uncle Frank is much (too) old to read very small letters."
"No," she replied, "pencil is very weak."
It is irksome because the process is so slow, and they cannot read what they have written or correct their mistakes.
Helen is more and more interested in colour.
Everything we have seen and heard is in the mind somewhere.
It is always: "Oh, Miss Sullivan, please come and tell us what Helen means," or "Miss Sullivan, won't you please explain this to Helen?
Helen was petted and caressed enough to spoil an angel; but I do not think it is possible to spoil her, she is too unconscious of herself, and too loving.
Dr. Bell writes that Helen's progress is without a parallel in the education of the deaf, or something like that and he says many nice things about her teacher.
This is what Helen wrote Sunday:
Cross is cry and kick.
Fierce is much cross and strong and very hungry.
Mrs. Newsum is Robert's wife.
Robert is her husband.
Natalie is a good girl and does not cry.
Mrs. Graves is making short dresses for Natalie.
Her motions are often more expressive than any words, and she is as graceful as a nymph.
Do you realize that this is the last letter I shall write to you for a long, long time?
There is something about her that attracts people.
I think it is her joyous interest in everything and everybody.
Nancy is sick, and Adeline is cross, and Ida is very bad.
It seems strange that people should marvel at what is really so simple.
Why, it is as easy to teach the name of an idea, if it is clearly formulated in the child's mind, as to teach the name of an object.
It is not the word, but the capacity to experience the sensation that counts in his education.
This extract from one of Miss Sullivan's letters is added because it contains interesting casual opinions stimulated by observing the methods of others.
It is a pretty dress.
One of them pulled me by the sleeve and said, "Girl is blind."
The teacher was writing on the blackboard: The girl's name is Helen.
These children were older in years, it is true, than the baby who lisps, "Papa kiss baby--pretty," and fills out her meaning by pointing to her new dress; but their ability to understand and use language was no greater.
On entering a greenhouse her countenance becomes radiant, and she will tell the names of the flowers with which she is familiar, by the sense of smell alone.
Indeed, her whole body is so finely organized that she seems to use it as a medium for bringing herself into closer relations with her fellow creatures.
She is able not only to distinguish with great accuracy the different undulations of the air and the vibrations of the floor made by various sounds and motions, and to recognize her friends and acquaintances the instant she touches their hands or clothing, but she also perceives the state of mind of those around her.
It is impossible for any one with whom Helen is conversing to be particularly happy or sad, and withhold the knowledge of this fact from her.
She responds quickly to the gentle pressure of affection, the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the firm motion of command, and to the many other variations of the almost infinite language of the feelings; and she has become so expert in interpreting this unconscious language of the emotions that she is often able to divine our very thoughts.
When her attention was drawn to a marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE in relief, she dropped upon the ground as though looking for something, then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "Were is poor little Florence?"
Then she added: I think she is very dead.
Poor little Florence is dead.
She got in the ground, and she is very dirty, and she is cold.
Florence is very sad in big hole.
Notwithstanding the activity of Helen's mind, she is a very natural child.
She is fond of fun and frolic, and loves dearly to be with other children.
She is never fretful or irritable, and I have never seen her impatient with her playmates because they failed to understand her.
Then it is beautiful to observe with what patience, sweetness, and perseverance Helen endeavours to bring the unruly fingers of her little friend into proper position.
She is very fond of children younger than herself, and a baby invariably calls forth all the motherly instincts of her nature.
It is pleasant, too, to note her thoughtfulness for little children, and her readiness to yield to their whims.
Her behaviour is easy and natural, and it is charming because of its frankness and evident sincerity.
She is not conscious of any reason why she should be awkward; consequently, her movements are free and graceful.
She is very fond of all the living things at home, and she will not have them unkindly treated.
When she is riding in the carriage she will not allow the driver to use the whip, because, she says, "poor horses will cry."
In two or three months after I began to teach her she would say: "Helen wants to go to bed," or, "Helen is sleepy, and Helen will go to bed."
This is especially true of her earlier lessons, when her knowledge of language was so slight as to make explanation impossible.
I said to her, "Teacher is SORRY."
It is never necessary to urge her to study.
New baby's name is Harry.
The warm winds blow The waters flow And robin dear, Is come to show That Spring is here.
The warm winds blow The waters flow And robin dear, Is come to show That Spring is here.
She likes to skip and play, for she is happy when the sun is bright and warm.
There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse before, she looked full at me and said, 'Black Beauty, is that you?'
The gate, I suppose, is New York City, and Freedom is the great statue of Liberty.
She is at once transported into the midst of the events of a story.
She even enters into the spirit of battle; she says, "I think it is right for men to fight against wrongs and tyrants."
I have found it best not to tell her that she cannot understand, because she is almost certain to become excited.
The intellectual improvement which Helen has made in the past two years is shown more clearly in her greater command of language and in her ability to recognize nicer shades of meaning in the use of words, than in any other branch of her education.
Some of these words have successive steps of meaning, beginning with what is simple and leading on to what is abstract.
A mouse is in the box.
I am convinced that Helen's use of English is due largely to her familiarity with books.
Whenever she meets any one who is familiar with this system, she is delighted to use it in conversation.
I have found it a convenient medium of communicating with Helen when she is at some distance from me, for it enables me to talk with her by tapping upon the floor with my foot.
She feels the vibrations and understands what is said to her.
It is impossible to isolate a child in the midst of society, so that he shall not be influenced by the beliefs of those with whom he associates.
After a moment she went on: A. says God is everywhere, and that He is all love; but I do not think a person can be made out of love.
Love is only something in our hearts.
She says He (meaning God) is my dear father.
It made me laugh quite hard, for I know my father is Arthur Keller.
"I am thinking how very busy dear Mother Nature is in the springtime," she replied.
She is the mother of everything; the flowers and trees and winds.
Why does not the earth fall, it is so very large and heavy?
Throughout Helen's education I have invariably assumed that she can understand whatever it is desirable for her to know.
Without that degree of mental development and activity which perceives the necessity of superhuman creative power, no explanation of natural phenomena is possible.
It is often necessary to remind her that there are infinitely many things that the wisest people in the world cannot explain.
That is why I cannot see God.
At another time she asked, "What is a soul?"
"No one knows what the soul is like," I replied; "but we know that it is not the body, and it is that part of us which thinks and loves and hopes, and which Christian people believe will live on after the body is dead."
I explained to her that the soul, too, is invisible, or in other words, that it is without apparent form.
A moment after she said, "Will you please go first and tell me all about it?" and then she added, "Tuscumbia is a very beautiful little town."
She asked: Where is heaven, and what is it like?
Is it blind? she asked; for in her mind the idea of being led was associated with blindness.
She knows with unerring instinct what is right, and does it joyously.
To her pure soul all evil is equally unlovely.
And indeed, this is true of the language of all children.
Their language is the memory of the language they hear spoken in their homes.
It is not necessary that a child should understand every word in a book before he can read with pleasure and profit.
It is true, the more sensitive and imaginative the mind is that receives the thought-pictures and images of literature, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced.
Her mind is so filled with the beautiful thoughts and ideals of the great poets that nothing seems commonplace to her; for her imagination colours all life with its own rich hues.
Miss Keller's education, however, is so fundamentally a question of language teaching that it rather includes the problems of the deaf than limits itself to the deaf alone.
And this is Miss Sullivan's great discovery.
It is the proposition, something predicated about something, that conveys an idea.
True, single words do suggest and express ideas; the child may say simply "mamma" when he means "Where is mamma?" but he learns the expression of the ideas that relate to mamma--he learns language--by hearing complete sentences.
It is true rather that she has a special aptitude for thinking, and her leaning toward language is due to the fact that language to her meant life.
She got the language from the language itself, and this is, next to hearing the language spoken, the way for any one to get a foreign tongue, more vital and, in the end, easier than our schoolroom method of beginning with the grammar.
So Helen Keller's aptitude for language is her whole mental aptitude, turned to language because of its extraordinary value to her.
It is true that a teacher with ten times Miss Sullivan's genius could not have made a pupil so remarkable as Helen Keller out of a child born dull and mentally deficient.
Miss Sullivan is a person of extraordinary power.
If Miss Keller is fond of language and not interested especially in mathematics, it is not surprising to find Miss Sullivan's interests very similar.
And this does not mean that Miss Keller is unduly dependent on her teacher.
There is, then, a good deal that Miss Sullivan has done for Miss Keller which no other teacher can do in just the same way for any one else.
And the one to do it is the parent or the special teacher, not the school.
To be sure, the deaf school is the only thing possible for children educated by the State.
But it is evident that precisely what the deaf child needs to be taught is what other children learn before they go to school at all.
Surely Dr. Howe is wrong when he says, "A teacher cannot be a child."
That is just what the teacher of the deaf child must be, a child ready to play and romp, and interested in all childish things.
How far she could receive communications is hard to determine, but she knew much that was going on around her.
Miss Keller's later education is easy to understand and needs no further explanation than she has given.
Her voice is low and pleasant to listen to.
Her speech lacks variety and modulation; it runs in a sing-song when she is reading aloud; and when she speaks with fair degree of loudness, it hovers about two or three middle tones.
When she is telling a child's story, or one with pathos in it, her voice runs into pretty slurs from one tone to another.
This is like the effect of the slow dwelling on long words, not quite well managed, that one notices in a child who is telling a solemn story.
The principal thing that is lacking is sentence accent and variety in the inflection of phrases.
Her friend, Mr. John Hitz, whose native tongue is German, says that her pronunciation is excellent.
Another friend, who is as familiar with French as with English, finds her French much more intelligible than her English.
It would, I think, be hard to make her feel just how to pronounce DICTIONARY without her erring either toward DICTIONAYRY or DICTION'RY, and, of course the word is neither one nor the other.
The only way is to hear it, especially in a language like English which is so full of unspellable, suppressed vowels and quasi-vowels.
Her AWFUL is nearly AWFIL.
The wavering is caused by the absence of accent on FUL, for she pronounces FULL correctly.
It is hard to say whether or not Miss Keller's speech is easy to understand.
Her friends grow accustomed to her speech and forget that it is different from that of any one else.
Children seldom have any difficulty in understanding her; which suggests that her deliberate measured speech is like theirs, before they come to the adult trick of running all the words of a phrase into one movement of the breath.
Miss Sullivan's account in her address at Chautauqua, in July, 1894, at the meeting of The American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, is substantially like Miss Keller's in points of fact.
I believe that I have hardly begun yet to know what is possible.
Teachers of the deaf often express surprise that Helen's speech is so good when she has not received any regular instruction in speech since the first few lessons given her by Miss Fuller.
I can only say in reply, "This is due to habitual imitation and practice! practice! practice!"
The acquiring of speech by untaught deaf children is always slow and often painful.
In the very nature of things, articulation is an unsatisfactory means of education; while the use of the manual alphabet quickens and invigorates mental activity, since through it the deaf child is brought into close contact with the English language, and the highest and most abstract ideas may be conveyed to the mind readily and accurately.
In reading the lips she is not so quick or so accurate as some reports declare.
It is a clumsy and unsatisfactory way of receiving communication, useless when Miss Sullivan or some one else who knows the manual alphabet is present to give Miss Keller the spoken words of others.
Indeed, when some friend is trying to speak to Miss Keller, and the attempt is not proving successful, Miss Sullivan usually helps by spelling the lost words into Miss Keller's hand.
She got every word, for the President's speech is notably distinct.
The ability to read the lips helps Miss Keller in getting corrections of her pronunciation from Miss Sullivan and others, just as it was the means of her learning to speak at all, but it is rather an accomplishment than a necessity.
So you see what a blessing speech is to me.
Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.
Her service as a teacher of English is not to be measured by her own skill in composition.
The reason why she read to her pupil so many good books is due, in some measure, to the fact that she had so recently recovered her eyesight.
There is, moreover, a reason why Helen Keller writes good English, which lies in the very absence of sight and hearing.
This letter is published in the Perkins Institution Report (1891), p. 204.
Her admiration for the impressive explanations which Bishop Brooks has given her of the Fatherhood of God is well known.
In one of his letters, speaking of how God in every way tells us of His love, he says, "I think he writes it even upon the walls of the great house of nature which we live in, that he is our Father."
The next year at Andover she said: It seems to me the world is full of goodness, beauty, and love; and how grateful we must be to our heavenly Father, who has given us so much to enjoy!
Helen's mind is so gifted by nature that she seems able to understand with only the faintest touch of explanation every possible variety of external relations.
This is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of her parents in Tuscumbia, which she called "Autumn Leaves."
As we had never seen or heard of any such story as this before, we inquired of her where she read it; she replied, "I did not read it; it is my story for Mr. Anagnos's birthday."
This became a difficult task, as her publishers in Philadelphia had retired from business many years ago; however, it was eventually discovered that her residence is at Wilmington, Delaware, and copies of the second edition of the book, 1889, were obtained from her.
She is indeed a 'Wonder-Child.'
Tell her there are a few bitter drops in every one's cup, and the only way is to take the bitter patiently, and the sweet thankfully.
I have now (March, 1892) read to Helen "The Frost Fairies," "The Rose Fairies," and a portion of "The Dew Fairies," but she is unable to throw any light on the matter.
She thinks it is wonderful that two people should write stories so much alike; but she still considers her own as original.
It is a beautiful day.
Every year Santa Claus takes a journey over the world in a sleigh drawn by a strong and rapid steed called "Rudolph."
But his most wonderful work is the painting of the trees, which look, after his task is done, as if they were covered with the brightest layers of gold and rubies; and are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer.
I will tell you how King Frost first thought of this kind work, for it is a strange story.
He has two neighbours, who live still farther north; one is King Winter, a cross and churlish old monarch, who is hard and cruel, and delights in making the poor suffer and weep; but the other neighbour is Santa Claus, a fine, good-natured, jolly old soul, who loves to do good, and who brings presents to the poor, and to nice little children at Christmas.
I believe it is raining; I certainly hear the falling drops.
The entrance to the palace is at the end of an arched recess, and it is guarded night and day by twelve soldierly-looking white Bears.
The old King will welcome you kindly, for he loves children, and it is his chief delight to give them pleasure.
You must know that King Frost, like all other kings, has great treasures of gold and precious stones; but as he is a generous old monarch, he endeavours to make a right use of his riches.
I will tell you how King Frost happened to think of painting the leaves, for it is a strange story.
Another fact is of great significance in this connection.
Mr. Anagnos is much troubled.
The following letter from Mr. Anagnos is reprinted from the American Annals of the Deaf, April, 1892:
Soon after its appearance in print I was pained to learn, through the Goodson Gazette, that a portion of the story (eight or nine passages) is either a reproduction or adaptation of Miss Margaret Canby's "Frost Fairies."
Her testimony is as follows:
The result of her investigation is embodied in the printed note herewith enclosed. [This note is a statement of the bare facts and an apology, which Mr. Anagnos inserted in his report of the Perkins Institute.]
This may explain the reason why Helen claims persistently that "The Frost King" is her own story.
She is absolutely truthful.
Veracity is the strongest element of her character.
Of the sources of his vocabulary he is, for the most part, as unaware as he is of the moment when he ate the food which makes a bit of his thumbnail.
It shows how the child-mind gathers into itself words it has heard, and how they lurk there ready to come out when the key that releases the spring is touched.
The reason that we do not observe this process in ordinary children is, because we seldom observe them at all, and because they are fed from so many sources that the memories are confused and mutually destructive.
The style of her version is in some respects even better than the style of Miss Canby's story.
"Twelve soldierly-looking white bears" is a stroke of genius, and there is beauty of rhythm throughout the child's narrative.
It is original in the same way that a poet's version of an old story is original.
All use of language is imitative, and one's style is made up of all other styles that one has met.
The way to write good English is to read it and hear it.
Thus it is that any child may be taught to use correct English by not being allowed to read or hear any other kind.
A remarkable example is a paragraph from Miss Keller's sketch in the Youth's Companion.
So the master of words is master of thoughts which the words create, and says things greater than he could otherwise know.
The educated man is the man whose expression is educated.
The substance of thought is language, and language is the one thing to teach the deaf child and every other child.
Let him get language and he gets the very stuff that language is made of, the thought and the experience of his race.
The deaf child who has only the sign language of De l'Epee is an intellectual Philip Nolan, an alien from all races, and his thoughts are not the thoughts of an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a Spaniard.
The Lord's prayer in signs is not the Lord's prayer in English.
"A new word opens its heart to me," she writes in a letter; and when she uses the word its heart is still open.
I do not know whether the difference or the similarity in phrasing between the child's version and the woman's is the more remarkable.
There is no affectation about them, and as they come straight from your heart, so they go straight to mine.
The style of the Bible is everywhere in Miss Keller's work, just as it is in the style of most great English writers.
Stevenson, whom Miss Sullivan likes and used to read to her pupil, is another marked influence.
There is no reason why she should strike from her vocabulary all words of sound and vision.
It is true, on the other hand, that in her descriptions, she is best from the point of view of art when she is faithful to her own sensations; and this is precisely true of all artists.
Yes, it is a tomb in which hope, joy and the power of acting nobly lie buried.
It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil.
To be sure, I take the keenest interest in everything that concerns those who surround me; it is this very interest which makes it so difficult for me to carry on a conversation with some people who will not talk or say what they think, but I should not be sorry to find more friends ready to talk with me now and then about the wonderful things I read.
This is an age of workers, not of thinkers.
It is very interesting to watch a plant grow, it is like taking part in creation.
When all outside is cold and white, when the little children of the woodland are gone to their nurseries in the warm earth, and the empty nests on the bare trees fill with snow, my window-garden glows and smiles, making summer within while it is winter without.
It is wonderful to see flowers bloom in the midst of a snow-storm!
My house is not resplendent with ivory and gold; nor is it adorned with marble arches, resting on graceful columns brought from the quarries of distant Africa.
My little Sabine farm is dear to me; for here I spend my happiest days, far from the noise and strife of the world.
In most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference.
Self-emancipation even in the West Indian provinces of the fancy and imagination--what Wilberforce is there to bring that about?
What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.
A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind.
There is no play in them, for this comes after work.
Yet they honestly think there is no choice left.
It is never too late to give up our prejudices.
Age is no better, hardly so well, qualified for an instructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it has lost.
Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it.
Hippocrates has even left directions how we should cut our nails; that is, even with the ends of the fingers, neither shorter nor longer.
The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior.
Nature is as well adapted to our weakness as to our strength.
The incessant anxiety and strain of some is a well-nigh incurable form of disease.
This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there can be drawn radii from one centre.
All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant.
Confucius said, "To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge."
Let us consider for a moment what most of the trouble and anxiety which I have referred to is about, and how much it is necessary that we be troubled, or at least careful.
To many creatures there is in this sense but one necessary of life, Food.
To the bison of the prairie it is a few inches of palatable grass, with water to drink; unless he seeks the Shelter of the forest or the mountain's shadow.
Is it impossible to combine the hardiness of these savages with the intellectualness of the civilized man?
According to Liebig, man's body is a stove, and food the fuel which keeps up the internal combustion in the lungs.
Of course the vital heat is not to be confounded with fire; but so much for analogy.
The grand necessity, then, for our bodies, is to keep warm, to keep the vital heat in us.
It is remarkable that we know so much of them as we do.
The same is true of the more modern reformers and benefactors of their race.
Yet it is admirable to profess because it was once admirable to live.
It is to solve some of the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically.
What is the nature of the luxury which enervates and destroys nations?
Are we sure that there is none of it in our own lives?
He is not fed, sheltered, clothed, warmed, like his contemporaries.
When a man is warmed by the several modes which I have described, what does he want next?
The soil, it appears, is suited to the seed, for it has sent its radicle downward, and it may now send its shoot upward also with confidence.
It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising, but, doubt not, it was of the last importance only to be present at it.
The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind.
It is a labor to task the faculties of a man--such problems of profit and loss, of interest, of tare and tret, and gauging of all kinds in it, as demand a universal knowledge.
I have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business, not solely on account of the railroad and the ice trade; it offers advantages which it may not be good policy to divulge; it is a good port and a good foundation.
It is said that a flood-tide, with a westerly wind, and ice in the Neva, would sweep St. Petersburg from the face of the earth.
Let him who has work to do recollect that the object of clothing is, first, to retain the vital heat, and secondly, in this state of society, to cover nakedness, and he may judge how much of any necessary or important work may be accomplished without adding to his wardrobe.
But even if the rent is not mended, perhaps the worst vice betrayed is improvidence.
It is an interesting question how far men would retain their relative rank if they were divested of their clothes.
Beside, clothes introduced sewing, a kind of work which you may call endless; a woman's dress, at least, is never done.
If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit?
All costume off a man is pitiful or grotesque.
It is only the serious eye peering from and the sincere life passed within it which restrain laughter and consecrate the costume of any people.
When the soldier is hit by a cannonball, rags are as becoming as purple.
The manufacturers have learned that this taste is merely whimsical.
Comparatively, tattooing is not the hideous custom which it is called.
It is not barbarous merely because the printing is skin-deep and unalterable.
I cannot believe that our factory system is the best mode by which men may get clothing.
The condition of the operatives is becoming every day more like that of the English; and it cannot be wondered at, since, as far as I have heard or observed, the principal object is, not that mankind may be well and honestly clad, but, unquestionably, that corporations may be enriched.
At last, we know not what it is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic in more senses than we think.
Consider first how slight a shelter is absolutely necessary.
Many a man is harassed to death to pay the rent of a larger and more luxurious box who would not have frozen to death in such a box as this.
But, answers one, by merely paying this tax, the poor civilized man secures an abode which is a palace compared with the savage's.
But how happens it that he who is said to enjoy these things is so commonly a poor civilized man, while the savage, who has them not, is rich as a savage?
But perhaps a man is not required to bury himself.
Behold all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die.
The man who has actually paid for his farm with labor on it is so rare that every neighbor can point to him.
This is the reason he is poor; and for a similar reason we are all poor in respect to a thousand savage comforts, though surrounded by luxuries.
And if the civilized man's pursuits are no worthier than the savage's, if he is employed the greater part of his life in obtaining gross necessaries and comforts merely, why should he have a better dwelling than the former?
The luxury of one class is counterbalanced by the indigence of another.
On the one side is the palace, on the other are the almshouse and "silent poor."
It is a mistake to suppose that, in a country where the usual evidences of civilization exist, the condition of a very large body of the inhabitants may not be as degraded as that of savages.
It certainly is fair to look at that class by whose labor the works which distinguish this generation are accomplished.
Such too, to a greater or less extent, is the condition of the operatives of every denomination in England, which is the great workhouse of the world.
Or I could refer you to Ireland, which is marked as one of the white or enlightened spots on the map.
It is the luxurious and dissipated who set the fashions which the herd so diligently follow.
The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper.
The best works of art are the expression of man's struggle to free himself from this condition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higher state to be forgotten.
There is actually no place in this village for a work of fine art, if any had come down to us, to stand, for our lives, our houses and streets, furnish no proper pedestal for it.
There is not a nail to hang a picture on, nor a shelf to receive the bust of a hero or a saint.
Without factitious support, man is sure to come to earth again beyond that distance.
The cart before the horse is neither beautiful nor useful.
The civilized man is a more experienced and wiser savage.
Under the most splendid house in the city is still to be found the cellar where they store their roots as of old, and long after the superstructure has disappeared posterity remark its dent in the earth.
The house is still but a sort of porch at the entrance of a burrow.
There is some of the same fitness in a man's building his own house that there is in a bird's building its own nest.
It is not the tailor alone who is the ninth part of a man; it is as much the preacher, and the merchant, and the farmer.
Where is this division of labor to end? and what object does it finally serve?
It would signify somewhat, if, in any earnest sense, he slanted them and daubed it; but the spirit having departed out of the tenant, it is of a piece with constructing his own coffin--the architecture of the grave--and "carpenter" is but another name for "coffin-maker."
Is he thinking of his last and narrow house?
If I seem to boast more than is becoming, my excuse is that I brag for humanity rather than for myself; and my shortcomings and inconsistencies do not affect the truth of my statement.
Those things for which the most money is demanded are never the things which the student most wants.
Tuition, for instance, is an important item in the term bill, while for the far more valuable education which he gets by associating with the most cultivated of his contemporaries no charge is made.
After all, the man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important messages; he is not an evangelist, nor does he come round eating locusts and wild honey.
I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot.
The distance is thirty miles; the fare ninety cents.
That is almost a day's wages.
Such is the universal law, which no man can ever outwit, and with regard to the railroad even we may say it is as broad as it is long.
I was more independent than any farmer in Concord, for I was not anchored to a house or farm, but could follow the bent of my genius, which is a very crooked one, every moment.
Men and oxen exchange work; but if we consider necessary work only, the oxen will be seen to have greatly the advantage, their farm is so much the larger.
Man does some of his part of the exchange work in his six weeks of haying, and it is no boy's play.
However, I should never have broken a horse or bull and taken him to board for any work he might do for me, for fear I should become a horseman or a herdsman merely; and if society seems to be the gainer by so doing, are we certain that what is one man's gain is not another's loss, and that the stable-boy has equal cause with his master to be satisfied?
This town is said to have the largest houses for oxen, cows, and horses hereabouts, and it is not behindhand in its public buildings; but there are very few halls for free worship or free speech in this county.
Genius is not a retainer to any emperor, nor is its material silver, or gold, or marble, except to a trifling extent.
To what end, pray, is so much stone hammered?
As for the religion and love of art of the builders, it is much the same all the world over, whether the building be an Egyptian temple or the United States Bank.
The mainspring is vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter.
Mr. Balcom, a promising young architect, designs it on the back of his Vitruvius, with hard pencil and ruler, and the job is let out to Dobson & Sons, stonecutters.
It is simpler and more respectable to omit it.
Man is an animal who more than any other can adapt himself to all climates and circumstances.
When you have kneaded it well, mould it, and bake it under a cover, that is, in a baking kettle.
For the most part the farmer gives to his cattle and hogs the grain of his own producing, and buys flour, which is at least no more wholesome, at a greater cost, at the store.
The human race is interested in these experiments, though a few old women who are incapacitated for them, or who own their thirds in mills, may be alarmed.
None is so poor that he need sit on a pumpkin.
There is a plenty of such chairs as I like best in the village garrets to be had for taking them away.
That is Spaulding's furniture.
Each load looks as if it contained the contents of a dozen shanties; and if one shanty is poor, this is a dozen times as poor.
It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to a man's belt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines are cast without dragging them--dragging his trap.
How often he is at a dead set!
I think that the man is at a dead set who has got through a knot-hole or gateway where his sledge load of furniture cannot follow him.
"But what shall I do with my furniture?"--My gay butterfly is entangled in a spider's web then.
I look upon England today as an old gentleman who is travelling with a great deal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated from long housekeeping, which he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, little trunk, bandbox, and bundle.
The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of mine, nor will the sun injure my furniture or fade my carpet; and if he is sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to retreat behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a single item to the details of housekeeping.
It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.
After having taken medicine, and fasted for three days, all the fire in the town is extinguished.
On the fourth morning, the high priest, by rubbing dry wood together, produces new fire in the public square, from whence every habitation in the town is supplied with the new and pure flame.
I was actually afraid that I might by that time be doing what is called a good business.
The laborer's day ends with the going down of the sun, and he is then free to devote himself to his chosen pursuit, independent of his labor; but his employer, who speculates from month to month, has no respite from one end of the year to the other.
It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do.
It is by a mathematical point only that we are wise, as the sailor or the fugitive slave keeps the polestar in his eye; but that is sufficient guidance for all our life.
Undoubtedly, in this case, what is true for one is truer still for a thousand, as a large house is not proportionally more expensive than a small one, since one roof may cover, one cellar underlie, and one wall separate several apartments.
If a man has faith, he will co-operate with equal faith everywhere; if he has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatever company he is joined to.
But all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townsmen say.
As for Doing-good, that is one of the professions which are full.
Probably I should not consciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it.
There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted.
It is human, it is divine, carrion.
Philanthropy is not love for one's fellow-man in the broadest sense.
Often the poor man is not so cold and hungry as he is dirty and ragged and gross.
It is partly his taste, and not merely his misfortune.
It is the pious slave-breeder devoting the proceeds of every tenth slave to buy a Sunday's liberty for the rest.
Philanthropy is almost the only virtue which is sufficiently appreciated by mankind.
Nay, it is greatly overrated; and it is our selfishness which overrates it.
This is a charity that hides a multitude of sins.
Who is that intemperate and brutal man whom we would redeem?
If anything ail a man, so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even--for that is the seat of sympathy--he forthwith sets about reforming--the world.
I believe that what so saddens the reformer is not his sympathy with his fellows in distress, but, though he be the holiest son of God, is his private ail.
If you should ever be betrayed into any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing.
There is nowhere recorded a simple and irrepressible satisfaction with the gift of life, any memorable praise of God.
What is a house but a sedes, a seat?--better if a country seat.
The oftener you go there the more it will please you, if it is good.
The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.
Olympus is but the outside of the earth everywhere.
A lake like this is never smoother than at such a time; and the clear portion of the air above it being, shallow and darkened by clouds, the water, full of light and reflections, becomes a lower heaven itself so much the more important.
One value even of the smallest well is, that when you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular.
This is as important as that it keeps butter cool.
The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour.
Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.
To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning.
Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me.
Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep.
The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life.
To be awake is to be alive.
It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do.
Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour.
Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed into men; like pygmies we fight with cranes; it is error upon error, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness.
Our life is frittered away by detail.
Our life is like a German Confederacy, made up of petty states, with its boundary forever fluctuating, so that even a German cannot tell you how it is bounded at any moment.
Each one is a man, an Irishman, or a Yankee man.
And every few years a new lot is laid down and run over; so that, if some have the pleasure of riding on a rail, others have the misfortune to be ridden upon.
And when they run over a man that is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in the wrong position, and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars, and make a hue and cry about it, as if this were an exception.
After a night's sleep the news is as indispensable as the breakfast.
The penny-post is, commonly, an institution through which you seriously offer a man that penny for his thoughts which is so often safely offered in jest.
To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea.
What news! how much more important to know what that is which was never old!
Shams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while reality is fabulous.
If we respected only what is inevitable and has a right to be, music and poetry would resound along the streets.
This is always exhilarating and sublime.
Children, who play life, discern its true law and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure.
We think that that is which appears to be.
In eternity there is indeed something true and sublime.
And we are enabled to apprehend at all what is sublime and noble only by the perpetual instilling and drenching of the reality that surrounds us.
The universe constantly and obediently answers to our conceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us.
Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest of the way is down hill.
If the engine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains.
Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.
I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars.
The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things.
I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary.
My head is hands and feet.
My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and fore paws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills.
I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining-rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.
The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision.
That time which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has heard.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem.
It is not enough even to be able to speak the language of that nation by which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spoken and the written language, the language heard and the language read.
The one is commonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, and we learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers.
However much we may admire the orator's occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds.
A written word is the choicest of relics.
It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art.
It is the work of art nearest to life itself.
There is a work in several volumes in our Circulating Library entitled "Little Reading," which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties.
This sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and finds a surer market.
There is in this town, with a very few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English literature, whose words all can read and spell.
I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says, for he is above that, but to "keep himself in practice," he being a Canadian by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English.
This is about as much as the college-bred generally do or aspire to do, and they take an English paper for the purpose.
But how actually is it?
We are underbred and low-lived and illiterate; and in this respect I confess I do not make any very broad distinction between the illiterateness of my townsman who cannot read at all and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is for children and feeble intellects.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
It is time that we had uncommon schools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women.
Alas! what with foddering the cattle and tending the store, we are kept from school too long, and our education is sadly neglected.
It is rich enough.
It can spend money enough on such things as farmers and traders value, but it is thought Utopian to propose spending money for things which more intelligent men know to be of far more worth.
The one hundred and twenty-five dollars annually subscribed for a Lyceum in the winter is better spent than any other equal sum raised in the town.
That is the uncommon school we want.
If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.
Much is published, but little printed.
The rays which stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed.
Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on into futurity.
The day advanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished.
My days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any heathen deity, nor were they minced into hours and fretted by the ticking of a clock; for I lived like the Puri Indians, of whom it is said that "for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for yesterday forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing day."
A man must find his occasions in himself, it is true.
The natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove his indolence.
Nor is there any man so independent on his farm that he can say them nay.
I watch the passage of the morning cars with the same feeling that I do the rising of the sun, which is hardly more regular.
Their train of clouds stretching far behind and rising higher and higher, going to heaven while the cars are going to Boston, conceals the sun for a minute and casts my distant field into the shade, a celestial train beside which the petty train of cars which hugs the earth is but the barb of the spear.
If the enterprise were as innocent as it is early!
If the enterprise were as heroic and commanding as it is protracted and unwearied!
There is something electrifying in the atmosphere of the former place.
To do things "railroad fashion" is now the byword; and it is worth the while to be warned so often and so sincerely by any power to get off its track.
There is no stopping to read the riot act, no firing over the heads of the mob, in this case.
Every path but your own is the path of fate.
What recommends commerce to me is its enterprise and bravery.
Commerce is unexpectedly confident and serene, alert, adventurous, and unwearied.
This carload of torn sails is more legible and interesting now than if they should be wrought into paper and printed books.
Here is a hogshead of molasses or of brandy directed to John Smith, Cuttingsville, Vermont, some trader among the Green Mountains, who imports for the farmers near his clearing, and now perchance stands over his bulkhead and thinks of the last arrivals on the coast, how they may affect the price for him, telling his customers this moment, as he has told them twenty times before this morning, that he expects some by the next train of prime quality.
It is advertised in the Cuttingsville Times.
The air is filled with the bleating of calves and sheep, and the hustling of oxen, as if a pastoral valley were going by.
Their vocation, too, is gone.
The echo is, to some extent, an original sound, and therein is the magic and charm of it.
It is new information and not merely a repetition of what was presented in the first chapter.
They give me a new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our common dwelling.
The note of this once wild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any bird's, and if they could be naturalized without being domesticated, it would soon become the most famous sound in our woods, surpassing the clangor of the goose and the hooting of the owl; and then imagine the cackling of the hens to fill the pauses when their lords' clarions rested!
This foreign bird's note is celebrated by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their native songsters.
He is more indigenous even than the natives.
His health is ever good, his lungs are sound, his spirits never flag.
Even the sailor on the Atlantic and Pacific is awakened by his voice; but its shrill sound never roused me from my slumbers.
This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore.
As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me.
The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whip-poor-will is borne on the rippling wind from over the water.
Though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes.
There is commonly sufficient space about us.
The thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature.
My nearest neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own.
But for the most part it is as solitary where I live as on the prairies.
It is as much Asia or Africa as New England.
Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing.
I am tempted to reply to such--This whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space.
Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way?
What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary?
I one evening overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is called "a handsome property"--though I never got a fair view of it--on the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to give up so many of the comforts of life.
The place where that may occur is always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses.
Nearest to all things is that power which fashions their being.
Next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, with whom we love so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are.
We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting to me.
To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating.
A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will.
The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert.
Society is commonly too cheap.
The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.
The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun.
God is alone--but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion.
An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of every fable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents occurred when she was young.
A ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her children yet.
What is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented?
It is surprising how many great men and women a small house will contain.
So easy is it, though many housekeepers doubt it, to establish new and better customs in the place of the old.
As for lodging, it is true they were but poorly entertained, though what they found an inconvenience was no doubt intended for an honor; but as far as eating was concerned, I do not see how the Indians could have done better.
But the intellectual and what is called spiritual man in him were slumbering as in an infant.
May be the man you hoe with is inclined to race; then, by gorry, your mind must be there; you think of weeds.
It is a fine broad leaf to look on.
My auxiliaries are the dews and rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself, which for the most part is lean and effete.
It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory.
But labor of the hands, even when pursued to the verge of drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idleness.
The crop of English hay is carefully weighed, the moisture calculated, the silicates and the potash; but in all dells and pond-holes in the woods and pastures and swamps grows a rich and various crop only unreaped by man.
The hawk is aerial brother of the wave which he sails over and surveys, those his perfect air-inflated wings answering to the elemental unfledged pinions of the sea.
"The earth," he adds elsewhere, "especially if fresh, has a certain magnetism in it, by which it attracts the salt, power, or virtue (call it either) which gives it life, and is the logic of all the labor and stir we keep about it, to sustain us; all dungings and other sordid temperings being but the vicars succedaneous to this improvement."
This is the result of my experience in raising beans: Plant the common small white bush bean about the first of June, in rows three feet by eighteen inches apart, being careful to select fresh round and unmixed seed.
It is the premium and the feast which tempt him.
In his view the earth is all equally cultivated like a garden.
These are the coarsest mills, in which all gossip is first rudely digested or cracked up before it is emptied into finer and more delicate hoppers within doors.
For the most part I escaped wonderfully from these dangers, either by proceeding at once boldly and without deliberation to the goal, as is recommended to those who run the gauntlet, or by keeping my thoughts on high things, like Orpheus, who, "loudly singing the praises of the gods to his lyre, drowned the voices of the Sirens, and kept out of danger."
It is darker in the woods, even in common nights, than most suppose.
It is a surprising and memorable, as well as valuable experience, to be lost in the woods any time.
By night, of course, the perplexity is infinitely greater.
These take place only in communities where some have got more than is sufficient while others have not enough.
There is but one way to obtain it, yet few take that way.
It is a vulgar error to suppose that you have tasted huckleberries who never plucked them.
The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and green another without any perceptible change in the atmosphere.
Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the same point of view.
Viewed from a hilltop it reflects the color of the sky; but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform dark green in the body of the pond.
In some lights, viewed even from a hilltop, it is of a vivid green next the shore.
Such is the color of its iris.
This is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still frozen middle.
It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before sundown.
Yet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as colorless as an equal quantity of air.
It is well known that a large plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its "body," but a small piece of the same will be colorless.
The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet.
The shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like paving-stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep that in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be the last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side.
Some think it is bottomless.
Successive nations perchance have drank at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and still its water is green and pellucid as ever.
It is a gem of the first water which Concord wears in her coronet.
This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly distinguishable close at hand.
It is commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not corresponding to the general wet and dryness.
By this fluctuation the pond asserts its title to a shore, and thus the shore is shorn, and the trees cannot hold it by right of possession.
For four months in the year its water is as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as good as any, if not the best, in the town.
In the winter, all water which is exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are protected from it.
The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45º, or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know of in summer, when, beside, shallow and stagnant surface water is not mingled with it.
Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm as most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth.
I have sometimes disturbed a fish hawk sitting on a white pine over the water; but I doubt if it is ever profaned by the wind of a gull, like Fair Haven.
You may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern shore, where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a foot in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen's egg in size, where all around is bare sand.
The forest has never so good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from the middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water's edge; for the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best foreground in such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable boundary to it.
There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, as where the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it.
A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature.
It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.
It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed, and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in glass.
It is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is advertised--this piscine murder will out--and from my distant perch I distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods in diameter.
In such a day, in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or rarer.
It is a mirror which no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose gilding Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its surface ever fresh;--a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, swept and dusted by the sun's hazy brush--this the light dust-cloth--which retains no breath that is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds high above its surface, and be reflected in its bosom still.
A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air.
It is continually receiving new life and motion from above.
It is intermediate in its nature between land and sky.
On land only the grass and trees wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind.
It is remarkable that we can look down on its surface.
My Muse may be excused if she is silent henceforth.
That devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore, that Trojan horse, with a thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks!
Where is the country's champion, the Moore of Moore Hill, to meet him at the Deep Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest?
Though the woodchoppers have laid bare first this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by it, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have skimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my youthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me.
It is the work of a brave man surely, in whom there was no guile!
I see by its face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can almost say, Walden, is it you?
I have said that Walden has no visible inlet nor outlet, but it is on the one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint's Pond, which is more elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and on the other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower, by a similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological period it may have flowed, and by a little digging, which God forbid, it can be made to flow thither again.
It is much larger, being said to contain one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and is more fertile in fish; but it is comparatively shallow, and not remarkably pure.
It is by this time mere vegetable mould and undistinguishable pond shore, through which rushes and flags have pushed up.
Such is the poverty of our nomenclature.
Such is a model farm.
This is my lake country.
Since the wood-cutters, and the railroad, and I myself have profaned Walden, perhaps the most attractive, if not the most beautiful, of all our lakes, the gem of the woods, is White Pond;--a poor name from its commonness, whether derived from the remarkable purity of its waters or the color of its sands.
In these as in other respects, however, it is a lesser twin of Walden.
Instead of the white lily, which requires mud, or the common sweet flag, the blue flag (Iris versicolor) grows thinly in the pure water, rising from the stony bottom all around the shore, where it is visited by hummingbirds in June; and the color both of its bluish blades and its flowers and especially their reflections, is in singular harmony with the glaucous water.
This was probably the same phenomenon to which I have referred, which is especially observed in the morning, but also at other times, and even by moonlight.
But the only true America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the use of such things.
A man will not need to study history to find out what is best for his own culture.
It is good bait sometimes, I allow.
The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary a fisherman.
He who is only a traveller learns things at second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority.
We are most interested when science reports what those men already know practically or instinctively, for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.
But already a change is taking place, owing, not to an increased humanity, but to an increased scarcity of game, for perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.
There is a period in the history of the individual, as of the race, when the hunters are the "best men," as the Algonquins called them.
Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself.
Such a one might make a good shepherd's dog, but is far from being the Good Shepherd.
It is a faint intimation, yet so are the first streaks of morning.
The repugnance to animal food is not the effect of experience, but is an instinct.
This is the tidbit which tempts his insectivorous fate.
It is not worth the while to live by rich cookery.
Most men would feel shame if caught preparing with their own hands precisely such a dinner, whether of animal or vegetable food, as is every day prepared for them by others.
Yet till this is otherwise we are not civilized, and, if gentlemen and ladies, are not true men and women.
This certainly suggests what change is to be made.
I am satisfied that it is not.
Is it not a reproach that man is a carnivorous animal?
Is it not a reproach that man is a carnivorous animal?
If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal--that is your success.
All nature is your congratulation, and you have cause momentarily to bless yourself.
The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening.
It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.
I believe that water is the only drink for a wise man; wine is not so noble a liquor; and think of dashing the hopes of a morning with a cup of warm coffee, or of an evening with a dish of tea!
Not that food which entereth into the mouth defileth a man, but the appetite with which it is eaten.
The wonder is how they, how you and I, can live this slimy, beastly life, eating and drinking.
Our whole life is startlingly moral.
There is never an instant's truce between virtue and vice.
Goodness is the only investment that never fails.
In the music of the harp which trembles round the world it is the insisting on this which thrills us.
The harp is the travelling patterer for the Universe's Insurance Company, recommending its laws, and our little goodness is all the assessment that we pay.
Listen to every zephyr for some reproof, for it is surely there, and he is unfortunate who does not hear it.
Many an irksome noise, go a long way off, is heard as music, a proud, sweet satire on the meanness of our lives.
"That in which men differ from brute beasts," says Mencius, "is a thing very inconsiderable; the common herd lose it very soon; superior men preserve it carefully."
Chastity is the flowering of man; and what are called Genius, Heroism, Holiness, and the like, are but various fruits which succeed it.
Man flows at once to God when the channel of purity is open.
He is blessed who is assured that the animal is dying out in him day by day, and the divine being established.
All sensuality is one, though it takes many forms; all purity is one.
It is the same whether a man eat, or drink, or cohabit, or sleep sensually.
How shall a man know if he is chaste?
In the student sensuality is a sluggish habit of mind.
An unclean person is universally a slothful one, one who sits by a stove, whom the sun shines on prostrate, who reposes without being fatigued.
Nature is hard to be overcome, but she must be overcome.
I hesitate to say these things, but it is not because of the subject--I care not how obscene my words are--but because I cannot speak of them without betraying my impurity.
He teaches how to eat, drink, cohabit, void excrement and urine, and the like, elevating what is mean, and does not falsely excuse himself by calling these things trifles.
Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead.
We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones.
A voice said to him--Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existence is possible for you?
I wonder what the world is doing now.
Oh, they swarm; the sun is too warm there; they are born too far into life for me.
Is it some ill-fed village hound yielding to the instinct of the chase? or the lost pig which is said to be in these woods, whose tracks I saw after the rain?
Is it some ill-fed village hound yielding to the instinct of the chase? or the lost pig which is said to be in these woods, whose tracks I saw after the rain?
It comes on apace; my sumachs and sweetbriers tremble.--Eh, Mr. Poet, is it you?
It is the only trade I have learned.
Angleworms are rarely to be met with in these parts, where the soil was never fattened with manure; the race is nearly extinct.
When they make us an offer, is it wise to say, We will think of it?
How now, Hermit, is it too soon?
So perfect is this instinct, that once, when I had laid them on the leaves again, and one accidentally fell on its side, it was found with the rest in exactly the same position ten minutes afterward.
The remarkably adult yet innocent expression of their open and serene eyes is very memorable.
Such an eye was not born when the bird was, but is coeval with the sky it reflects.
It is said that when hatched by a hen they will directly disperse on some alarm, and so are lost, for they never hear the mother's call which gathers them again.
It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though secret in the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns, suspected by hunters only.
I formerly saw the raccoon in the woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard their whinnering at night.
A similar engagement between great and small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones, being victorious, are said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of their giant enemies a prey to the birds.
Suddenly your adversary's checker disappears beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours nearest to where his will appear again.
Like the wasps, before I finally went into winter quarters in November, I used to resort to the northeast side of Walden, which the sun, reflected from the pitch pine woods and the stony shore, made the fireside of the pond; it is so much pleasanter and wholesomer to be warmed by the sun while you can be, than by an artificial fire.
The mortar on them was fifty years old, and was said to be still growing harder; but this is one of those sayings which men love to repeat whether they are true or not.
Many of the villages of Mesopotamia are built of second-hand bricks of a very good quality, obtained from the ruins of Babylon, and the cement on them is older and probably harder still.
The north wind had already begun to cool the pond, though it took many weeks of steady blowing to accomplish it, it is so deep.
Cato says, the master of a family (patremfamilias) must have in his rustic villa "cellam oleariam, vinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et virtuti, et gloriae erit," that is, "an oil and wine cellar, many casks, so that it may be pleasant to expect hard times; it will be for his advantage, and virtue, and glory."
Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance.
There is as much secrecy about the cooking as if he had a design to poison you.
The dinner even is only the parable of a dinner, commonly.
There are many furrows in the sand where some creature has travelled about and doubled on its tracks; and, for wrecks, it is strewn with the cases of caddis-worms made of minute grains of white quartz.
But the ice itself is the object of most interest, though you must improve the earliest opportunity to study it.
It is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman ancestors.
Michaux, more than thirty years ago, says that the price of wood for fuel in New York and Philadelphia "nearly equals, and sometimes exceeds, that of the best wood in Paris, though this immense capital annually requires more than three hundred thousand cords, and is surrounded to the distance of three hundred miles by cultivated plains."
In this town the price of wood rises almost steadily, and the only question is, how much higher it is to be this year than it was the last.
It is now many years that men have resorted to the forest for fuel and the materials of the arts: the New Englander and the New Hollander, the Parisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robin Hood, Goody Blake and Harry Gill; in most parts of the world the prince and the peasant, the scholar and the savage, equally require still a few sticks from the forest to warm them and cook their food.
It is interesting to remember how much of this food for fire is still concealed in the bowels of the earth.
It is now filled with the smooth sumach (Rhus glabra), and one of the earliest species of goldenrod (Solidago stricta) grows there luxuriantly.
Not long since I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln burying-ground, a little on one side, near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers who fell in the retreat from Concord--where he is styled "Sippio Brister"--Scipio Africanus he had some title to be called--"a man of color," as if he were discolored.
"It is the Codman place," affirmed another.
It chanced that I walked that way across the fields the following night, about the same hour, and hearing a low moaning at this spot, I drew near in the dark, and discovered the only survivor of the family that I know, the heir of both its virtues and its vices, who alone was interested in this burning, lying on his stomach and looking over the cellar wall at the still smouldering cinders beneath, muttering to himself, as is his wont.
All I know of him is tragic.
Sometimes the well dent is visible, where once a spring oozed; now dry and tearless grass; or it was covered deep--not to be discovered till some late day--with a flat stone under the sod, when the last of the race departed.
But all I can learn of their conclusions amounts to just this, that "Cato and Brister pulled wool"; which is about as edifying as the history of more famous schools of philosophy.
The soil is blanched and accursed there, and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will be destroyed.
How cheerful it is to hear of!
He is perhaps the sanest man and has the fewest crotchets of any I chance to know; the same yesterday and tomorrow.
A blue-robed man, whose fittest roof is the overarching sky which reflects his serenity.
The Vishnu Purana says, "The house-holder is to remain at eventide in his courtyard as long as it takes to milk a cow, or longer if he pleases, to await the arrival of a guest."
Whichever side you walk in the woods the partridge bursts away on whirring wings, jarring the snow from the dry leaves and twigs on high, which comes sifting down in the sunbeams like golden dust, for this brave bird is not to be scared by winter.
It is frequently covered up by drifts, and, it is said, "sometimes plunges from on wing into the soft snow, where it remains concealed for a day or two."
It is Nature's own bird which lives on buds and diet drink.
Credit is given for deerskins also, and they were daily sold.
What is a country without rabbits and partridges?
It is hardly as if you had seen a wild creature when a rabbit or a partridge bursts away, only a natural one, as much to be expected as rustling leaves.
If the forest is cut off, the sprouts and bushes which spring up afford them concealment, and they become more numerous than ever.
The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines, and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward!
Heaven is under our feet is well as over our heads.
It is surprising that they are caught here--that in this deep and capacious spring, far beneath the rattling teams and chaises and tinkling sleighs that travel the Walden road, this great gold and emerald fish swims.
It is remarkable how long men will believe in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to sound it.
This is a remarkable depth for so small an area; yet not an inch of it can be spared by the imagination.
They are not like cups between the hills; for this one, which is so unusually deep for its area, appears in a vertical section through its centre not deeper than a shallow plate.
William Gilpin, who is so admirable in all that relates to landscapes, and usually so correct, standing at the head of Loch Fyne, in Scotland, which he describes as "a bay of salt water, sixty or seventy fathoms deep, four miles in breadth," and about fifty miles long, surrounded by mountains, observes, "If we could have seen it immediately after the diluvian crash, or whatever convulsion of nature occasioned it, before the waters gushed in, what a horrid chasm must it have appeared!
But it is easiest, as they who work on the highways know, to find the hollows by the puddles after a shower.
The amount of it is, the imagination give it the least license, dives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes.
As I sounded through the ice I could determine the shape of the bottom with greater accuracy than is possible in surveying harbors which do not freeze over, and I was surprised at its general regularity.
In the deepest part there are several acres more level than almost any field which is exposed to the sun, wind, and plow.
Is not this the rule also for the height of mountains, regarded as the opposite of valleys?
We know that a hill is not highest at its narrowest part.
Now we know only a few laws, and our result is vitiated, not, of course, by any confusion or irregularity in Nature, but by our ignorance of essential elements in the calculation.
Our notions of law and harmony are commonly confined to those instances which we detect; but the harmony which results from a far greater number of seemingly conflicting, but really concurring, laws, which we have not detected, is still more wonderful.
Even when cleft or bored through it is not comprehended in its entireness.
What I have observed of the pond is no less true in ethics.
It is the law of average.
Also there is a bar across the entrance of our every cove, or particular inclination; each is our harbor for a season, in which we are detained and partially land-locked.
It is true, we are such poor navigators that our thoughts, for the most part, stand off and on upon a harborless coast, are conversant only with the bights of the bays of poesy, or steer for the public ports of entry, and go into the dry docks of science, where they merely refit for this world, and no natural currents concur to individualize them.
It is well known that a level cannot be used on ice.
When such holes freeze, and a rain succeeds, and finally a new freezing forms a fresh smooth ice over all, it is beautifully mottled internally by dark figures, shaped somewhat like a spider's web, what you may call ice rosettes, produced by the channels worn by the water flowing from all sides to a centre.
Like the water, the Walden ice, seen near at hand, has a green tint, but at a distance is beautifully blue, and you can easily tell it from the white ice of the river, or the merely greenish ice of some ponds, a quarter of a mile off.
Perhaps the blue color of water and ice is due to the light and air they contain, and the most transparent is the bluest.
Ice is an interesting subject for contemplation.
Why is it that a bucket of water soon becomes putrid, but frozen remains sweet forever?
It is commonly said that this is the difference between the affections and the intellect.
In the morning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagvat-Geeta, since whose composition years of the gods have elapsed, and in comparison with which our modern world and its literature seem puny and trivial; and I doubt if that philosophy is not to be referred to a previous state of existence, so remote is its sublimity from our conceptions.
This difference of three and a half degrees between the temperature of the deep water and the shallow in the latter pond, and the fact that a great proportion of it is comparatively shallow, show why it should break up so much sooner than Walden.
So, also, every one who has waded about the shores of the pond in summer must have perceived how much warmer the water is close to the shore, where only three or four inches deep, than a little distance out, and on the surface where it is deep, than near the bottom.
Ice has its grain as well as wood, and when a cake begins to rot or "comb," that is, assume the appearance of honeycomb, whatever may be its position, the air cells are at right angles with what was the water surface.
Every morning, generally speaking, the shallow water is being warmed more rapidly than the deep, though it may not be made so warm after all, and every evening it is being cooled more rapidly until the morning.
The day is an epitome of the year.
The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer.
The earth is all alive and covered with papillae.
The largest pond is as sensitive to atmospheric changes as the globule of mercury in its tube.
The whole bank, which is from twenty to forty feet high, is sometimes overlaid with a mass of this kind of foliage, or sandy rupture, for a quarter of a mile on one or both sides, the produce of one spring day.
What makes this sand foliage remarkable is its springing into existence thus suddenly.
I feel as if I were nearer to the vitals of the globe, for this sandy overflow is something such a foliaceous mass as the vitals of the animal body.
The whole tree itself is but one leaf, and rivers are still vaster leaves whose pulp is intervening earth, and towns and cities are the ova of insects in their axils.
It is wonderful how rapidly yet perfectly the sand organizes itself as it flows, using the best material its mass affords to form the sharp edges of its channel.
In the silicious matter which the water deposits is perhaps the bony system, and in the still finer soil and organic matter the fleshy fibre or cellular tissue.
What is man but a mass of thawing clay?
The ball of the human finger is but a drop congealed.
Is not the hand a spreading palm leaf with its lobes and veins?
The chin is a still larger drop, the confluent dripping of the face.
This is the frost coming out of the ground; this is Spring.
It convinces me that Earth is still in her swaddling-clothes, and stretches forth baby fingers on every side.
There is nothing inorganic.
These foliaceous heaps lie along the bank like the slag of a furnace, showing that Nature is "in full blast" within.
It is an antique style, older than Greek or Egyptian.
The marsh hawk, sailing low over the meadow, is already seeking the first slimy life that awakes.
The sinking sound of melting snow is heard in all dells, and the ice dissolves apace in the ponds.
It is almost identical with that, for in the growing days of June, when the rills are dry, the grass-blades are their channels, and from year to year the herds drink at this perennial green stream, and the mower draws from it betimes their winter supply.
Walden is melting apace.
There is a canal two rods wide along the northerly and westerly sides, and wider still at the east end.
He too is helping to crack it.
It is unusually hard, owing to the recent severe but transient cold, and all watered or waved like a palace floor.
It is glorious to behold this ribbon of water sparkling in the sun, the bare face of the pond full of glee and youth, as if it spoke the joy of the fishes within it, and of the sands on its shore--a silvery sheen as from the scales of a leuciscus, as it were all one active fish.
Such is the contrast between winter and spring.
Walden was dead and is alive again.
The change from storm and winter to serene and mild weather, from dark and sluggish hours to bright and elastic ones, is a memorable crisis which all things proclaim.
It is seemingly instantaneous at last.
This at least is not the Turdus migratorius.
You may tell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay, at your very wood-pile, whether its winter is past or not.
As every season seems best to us in its turn, so the coming in of spring is like the creation of Cosmos out of Chaos and the realization of the Golden Age.
We loiter in winter while it is already spring.
Such a day is a truce to vice.
It is because they do not obey the hint which God gives them, nor accept the pardon which he freely offers to all.
I love to see that Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to be sacrificed and suffered to prey on one another; that tender organizations can be so serenely squashed out of existence like pulp--tadpoles which herons gobble up, and tortoises and toads run over in the road; and that sometimes it has rained flesh and blood!
With the liability to accident, we must see how little account is to be made of it.
Poison is not poisonous after all, nor are any wounds fatal.
This is the "sulphur showers" we hear of.
Thank Heaven, here is not all the world.
The buckeye does not grow in New England, and the mockingbird is rarely heard here.
The wild goose is more of a cosmopolite than we; he breaks his fast in Canada, takes a luncheon in the Ohio, and plumes himself for the night in a southern bayou.
The universe is wider than our views of it.
The other side of the globe is but the home of our correspondent.
Our voyaging is only great-circle sailing, and the doctors prescribe for diseases of the skin merely.
One hastens to southern Africa to chase the giraffe; but surely that is not the game he would be after.
Is not our own interior white on the chart? black though it may prove, like the coast, when discovered.
Is it the source of the Nile, or the Niger, or the Mississippi, or a Northwest Passage around this continent, that we would find?
Is Franklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest to find him?
Is Franklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest to find him?
Patriotism is a maggot in their heads.
It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar.
England and France, Spain and Portugal, Gold Coast and Slave Coast, all front on this private sea; but no bark from them has ventured out of sight of land, though it is without doubt the direct way to India.
It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves.
I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the pond-side; and though it is five or six years since I trod it, it is still quite distinct.
It is true, I fear, that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open.
The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels.
If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be.
It is a ridiculous demand which England and America make, that you shall speak so that they can understand you.
The commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which they express by snoring.
"They pretend," as I hear, "that the verses of Kabir have four different senses; illusion, spirit, intellect, and the exoteric doctrine of the Vedas"; but in this part of the world it is considered a ground for complaint if a man's writings admit of more than one interpretation.
Southern customers objected to its blue color, which is the evidence of its purity, as if it were muddy, and preferred the Cambridge ice, which is white, but tastes of weeds.
The purity men love is like the mists which envelop the earth, and not like the azure ether beyond.
But what is that to the purpose?
A living dog is better than a dead lion.
If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.
It is not important that he should mature as soon as an apple tree or an oak.
If the condition of things which we were made for is not yet, what were any reality which we can substitute?
Shall we with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over ourselves, though when it is done we shall be sure to gaze still at the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the former were not?
Any truth is better than make-believe.
His companion's prayer is forgotten.
However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.
It is not so bad as you are.
Do not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject yourself to many influences to be played on; it is all dissipation.
It is life near the bone where it is sweetest.
Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul.
It is the noise of my contemporaries.
The interest and the conversation are about costume and manners chiefly; but a goose is a goose still, dress it as you will.
God is only the president of the day, and Webster is his orator.
There is a solid bottom everywhere.
So it is with the bogs and quicksands of society; but he is an old boy that knows it.
It is the good Adam contemplating his own virtue.
"Yes, we have done great deeds, and sung divine songs, which shall never die"--that is, as long as we can remember them.
There is not one of my readers who has yet lived a whole human life.
The life in us is like the water in the river.
The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us.
There is more day to dawn.
The sun is but a morning star.
I heartily accept the motto,--"That government is best which governs least"; and I should like to see it acted up to more rapidly and systematically.
Carried out, it finally amounts to this, which also I believe,--"That government is best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.
Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments are usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient.
The standing army is only an arm of the standing government.
The government itself, which is only the mode which the people have chosen to execute their will, is equally liable to be abused and perverted before the people can act through it.
It is a sort of wooden gun to the people themselves.
But it is not the less necessary for this; for the people must have some complicated machinery or other, and hear its din, to satisfy that idea of government which they have.
After all, the practical reason why, when the power is once in the hands of the people, a majority are permitted, and for a long period continue, to rule, is not because they are most likely to be in the right, nor because this seems fairest to the minority, but because they are physically the strongest.
It is not desirable to cultivate a respect for the law, so much as for the right.
The only obligation which I have a right to assume is to do at any time what I think right.
It is truly enough said that a corporation has no conscience; but a corporation of conscientious men is a corporation with a conscience.
They have no doubt that it is a damnable business in which they are concerned; they are all peaceably inclined.
I cannot for an instant recognize that political organization as my government which is the slave's government also.
But almost all say that such is not the case now.
At any rate, it is a great evil to make a stir about it.
What makes this duty the more urgent is the fact that the country so overrun is not our own, but ours is the invading army.
Paley, a common authority with many on moral questions, in his chapter on the "Duty of Submission to Civil Government," resolves all civil obligation into expediency; and he proceeds to say that "so long as the interest of the whole society requires it, that is, so long as the established government cannot be resisted or changed without public inconveniency, it is the will of God... that the established government be obeyed, and no longer....
We are accustomed to say, that the mass of men are unprepared; but improvement is slow, because the few are not materially wiser or better than the many.
It is not so important that many should be as good as you, as that there be some absolute goodness somewhere; for that will leaven the whole lump.
All voting is a sort of gaming, like checkers or backgammon, with a slight moral tinge to it, a playing with right and wrong, with moral questions; and betting naturally accompanies it.
The character of the voters is not staked.
Even voting for the right is doing nothing for it.
It is only expressing to men feebly your desire that it should prevail.
There is but little virtue in the action of masses of men.
When the majority shall at length vote for the abolition of slavery, it will be because they are indifferent to slavery, or because there is but little slavery left to be abolished by their vote.
Oh for a man who is a man, and, as my neighbor says, has a bone in his back which you cannot pass your hand through!
It is not a man's duty, as a matter of course, to devote himself to the eradication of any, even the most enormous wrong; he may still properly have other concerns to engage him; but it is his duty, at least, to wash his hands of it, and, if he gives it no thought longer, not to give it practically his support.
See what gross inconsistency is tolerated.
The soldier is applauded who refuses to serve in an unjust war by those who do not refuse to sustain the unjust government which makes the war; is applauded by those whose own act and authority he disregards and sets at naught; as if the state were penitent to that degree that it hired one to scourge it while it sinned, but not to that degree that it left off sinning for a moment.
The slight reproach to which the virtue of patriotism is commonly liable, the noble are most likely to incur.
Action from principle--the perception and the performance of right--changes things and relations; it is essentially revolutionary, and does not consist wholly with anything which was.
But it is the fault of the government itself that the remedy is worse than the evil.
A man has not everything to do, but something; and because he cannot do everything, it is not necessary that he should do something wrong.
I think that it is enough if they have God on their side, without waiting for that other one.
For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be: what is once well done is done forever.
But we love better to talk about it: that we say is our mission.
Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison.
A minority is powerless while it conforms to the majority; it is not even a minority then; but it is irresistible when it clogs by its whole weight.
Is there not a sort of blood shed when the conscience is wounded?
Is there not a sort of blood shed when the conscience is wounded?
To such the State renders comparatively small service, and a slight tax is wont to appear exorbitant, particularly if they are obliged to earn it by special labor with their hands.
But the rich man--not to make any invidious comparison--is always sold to the institution which makes him rich.
It puts to rest many questions which he would otherwise be taxed to answer; while the only new question which it puts is the hard but superfluous one, how to spend it.
Thus his moral ground is taken from under his feet.
The best thing a man can do for his culture when he is rich is to endeavor to carry out those schemes which he entertained when he was poor.
Confucius said, "If a state is governed by the principles of reason, poverty and misery are subjects of shame; if a state is not governed by the principles of reason, riches and honors are the subjects of shame."
Let us see who is the strongest.
It is not worth the while to snivel about it.
But the jailer said, "Come, boys, it is time to lock up"; and so they dispersed, and I heard the sound of their steps returning into the hollow apartments.
Probably this is the only house in the town where verses are composed, which are afterward printed in a circular form, but not published.
This is the whole history of "My Prisons."
It is for no particular item in the tax-bill that I refuse to pay it.
In fact, I quietly declare war with the State, after my fashion, though I will still make what use and get what advantage of her I can, as is usual in such cases.
If they pay the tax from a mistaken interest in the individual taxed, to save his property, or prevent his going to jail, it is because they have not considered wisely how far they let their private feelings interfere with the public good.
This, then, is my position at present.
But I think, again, This is no reason why I should do as they do, or permit others to suffer much greater pain of a different kind.
It is not many moments that I live under a government, even in this world.
If a man is thought-free, fancy-free, imagination-free, that which is not never for a long time appearing to be to him, unwise rulers or reformers cannot fatally interrupt him.
They are wont to forget that the world is not governed by policy and expediency.
Comparatively, he is always strong, original, and, above all, practical.
Truth is always in harmony with herself, and is not concerned chiefly to reveal the justice that may consist with wrong-doing.
He is not a leader, but a follower.
Is a democracy, such as we know it, the last improvement possible in government?
Is it not possible to take a step further towards recognizing and organizing the rights of man?
She is betraying us!
That is the one thing I have faith in!
Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe is powerless before him....
It is the cross I have to bear.
That is how I explain it to myself.
She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary Bolkonskaya.
Is this princess of yours rich?
Her father is very rich and stingy.
He is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed 'the King of Prussia.'
The poor girl is very unhappy.
She is rich and of good family and that's all I want.
As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect--the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth--seemed to be her own special and peculiar form of beauty.
"You know," said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in French, turning to a general, "my husband is deserting me?
He is going to get himself killed.
Tell me what this wretched war is for? she added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.
"What a delightful woman this little princess is!" said Prince Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.
"It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her.
He is a most interesting man.
Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very interesting but hardly feasible.
"The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur," said she to another.
It is only necessary for one powerful nation like Russia--barbaric as she is said to be--to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the world!
Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women.
Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized if it is to last.
Here is my hand on it.
This is what I expected from you--I knew your kindness!
You don't know how Kutuzov is pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief.
It is enough to make one's head whirl!
It is as if the whole world had gone crazy.
"That is doubtful," said Prince Andrew.
"It is the Buonapartists who say that," replied the vicomte without looking at Pierre.
At the present time it is difficult to know the real state of French public opinion.
Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most important.
"But, my dear Monsieur Pierre," said she, "how do you explain the fact of a great man executing a duc--or even an ordinary man who--is innocent and untried?"
There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very stingy.
Stout, about the average height, broad, with huge red hands; he did not know, as the saying is, how to enter a drawing room and still less how to leave one; that is, how to say something particularly agreeable before going away.
"It is settled," she added in a low voice.
In my opinion perpetual peace is possible but--I do not know how to express it... not by a balance of political power....
Here is a letter to Prince Vasili, and here is money.
That is all nonsense.
There is a war now against Napoleon.
If it were a war for freedom I could understand it and should be the first to enter the army; but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in the world is not right.
"How is it," she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly and fussily in the easy chair, "how is it Annette never got married?
"Ah, that is just what I tell him!" said she.
How is it that we women don't want anything of the kind, don't need it?
He is so well known, so much appreciated by everyone.
He is so well received everywhere.
What is it you are afraid of, Lise?
An outsider is out of place here...
The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending the evening with you.
"Lise!" said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch which indicates that patience is exhausted.
Marry when you are old and good for nothing--or all that is good and noble in you will be lost.
"You don't understand why I say this," he continued, "but it is the whole story of life.
My father is right.
Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of life, praise and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary to wheels that they may run smoothly.
"My part is played out," said Prince Andrew.
"But what is there to say about me?" said Pierre, his face relaxing into a careless, merry smile.
Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet!
Is the Englishman bragging?...
Is it all right? said Anatole.
I say, this is folly!
"Why is it so long?" thought Pierre.
The great thing is the serving, that's it.
She is so affected.
He is in such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill him!
"What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen times.
He is a son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a worthy woman, but there, just fancy!
And to think it is Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's son who amuses himself in this sensible manner!
This is all that his foreign education has done for him!
"Why do you say this young man is so rich?" asked the countess, turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention.
I think Pierre also is illegitimate.
"The fact of the matter is," said she significantly, and also in a half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation....
"He is very much altered now," said Anna Mikhaylovna.
"Yes, but between ourselves," said the princess, "that is a pretext.
The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladimirovich, hearing how ill he is.
"Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing.
"Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with feigned severity.
"Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you," said the mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning to the visitor she added: "She is my youngest girl."
"Tell me, my dear," said she to Natasha, "is Mimi a relation of yours?
"Ah yes, my dear," said the count, addressing the visitor and pointing to Nicholas, "his friend Boris has become an officer, and so for friendship's sake he is leaving the university and me, his old father, and entering the military service, my dear.
Schubert, the colonel of the Pavlograd Hussars, is dining with us today.
* Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.
And yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy.
One is always, always anxious!
"What a charming creature your younger girl is," said the visitor; "a little volcano!"
Sonya, what is the matter with you?
What is anyone in the world to me?
"What is the something?" asked he.
"Vera," she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a favorite, "how is it you have so little tact?
You are a Madame de Genlis and nothing more" (this nickname, bestowed on Vera by Nicholas, was considered very stinging), "and your greatest pleasure is to be unpleasant to people!
"Ah, my dear," said the countess, "my life is not all roses either.
"Ah, my love," answered Anna Mikhaylovna, "God grant you never know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you love to distraction!
You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my Nicholas is going as a cadet.
"He is just the same as ever," replied Anna Mikhaylovna, "overflowing with amiability.
Yes, he is a fine fellow and a very kind relation.
And my affairs are in such a bad way that my position is now a terrible one, continued Anna Mikhaylovna, sadly, dropping her voice.
My only hope now is in Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov.
"I often think, though, perhaps it's a sin," said the princess, "that here lives Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov so rich, all alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth?
It's a burden to him, and Bory's life is only just beginning....
Let people think what they will of me, it's really all the same to me when my son's fate is at stake.
Count Cyril Vladimirovich is your godfather after all, your future depends on him.
"My friend," said Anna Mikhaylovna in gentle tones, addressing the hall porter, "I know Count Cyril Vladimirovich is very ill... that's why I have come...
I only need see Prince Vasili Sergeevich: he is staying here, is he not?
"Then it is certain?" said the prince.
* To err is human.
And how is our dear invalid? said she, as though unaware of the cold offensive look fixed on her.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Anna Mikhaylovna.
It is terrible to think....
This is my son, she added, indicating Boris.
"That is, with Ilya Rostov who married Nataly Shinshina," said Anna Mikhaylovna.
He is his godson, she added, her tone suggesting that this fact ought to give Prince Vasili much satisfaction.
It can make things no worse, and it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill.
Consider that the welfare of his soul is at stake.
Ah, it is awful: the duties of a Christian...
Well, how is he?
Here he is, and the count has not once asked for him.
How is the count?
The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you have done your best to increase his mental sufferings.
Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is ready--it is almost time, she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.
He sent for Pierre and said to him: My dear fellow, if you are going to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that is all I have to say to you.
The count is very, very ill, and you must not see him at all.
"England is done for," said he, scowling and pointing his finger at someone unseen.
Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the rights of man, is sentenced to...
I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not well.
Yes, it seems he is ill.
Rostov, the father, is Ilya, and his son is Nicholas.
I think the expedition is quite feasible.
Moscow is chiefly busy with gossip, he continued.
Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune, though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...
"Yes, it is all very horrid," interrupted Pierre, "very horrid."
"And it must seem to you," said Boris flushing slightly, but not changing his tone or attitude, "it must seem to you that everyone is trying to get something out of the rich man?"
Well, this is strange!
What you have just said is good, very good.
"It is dreadful, dreadful!" she was saying, "but cost me what it may I shall do my duty.
Every moment is precious.
"Oh, he is in a dreadful state," said the mother to her son when they were in the carriage.
"I don't understand, Mamma--what is his attitude to Pierre?" asked the son.
He is so rich, and we are so poor!
How ill he is! exclaimed the mother.
"What is the matter with you, my dear?" she said crossly to the maid who kept her waiting some minutes.
He is worth it!
"This is what I want, my dear fellow," said the count to the deferential young man who had entered.
There is never any 'impossible' with him.
Oh, what a terrible state he is in!
One would not know him, he is so ill!
This is for Boris from me, for his outfit.
But what is to be done, old man?
"Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?" said Marya Dmitrievna.
Berg with tender smiles was saying to Vera that love is not an earthly but a heavenly feeling.
Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and zere's an end of it!
My son is going.
It is all in God's hands.
But where is Sonya?
What is the matter?...
"Nicholas is going away in a week's time, his... papers... have come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry," and she showed a paper she held in her hand--with the verses Nicholas had written, "still, I should not cry, but you can't... no one can understand... what a soul he has!"
But Nicholas is my cousin... one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and even then it can't be done.
God is my witness," and she made the sign of the cross, "I love her so much, and all of you, only Vera...
And Boris says it is quite possible.
And he is so clever and so good! said Natasha.
"Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!" said Natasha, stopping suddenly.
At nighttime in the moon's fair glow How sweet, as fancies wander free, To feel that in this world there's one Who still is thinking but of thee!
What is there to be surprised at?
A regular eagle he is! loudly remarked the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways.
"Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament," replied the priest, passing his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his bald head.
Yes, and he is over sixty.
The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow one feels as if one were in the country.
Ah, is it you, cousin?
No, there is no change.
"And I?" he said; "do you think it is easier for me?
I know, I know how hard it is for you to talk or think of such matters.
But... in short, the fact is... you know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre.
The only question is, has it been destroyed or not?
If not, then as soon as all is over," and Prince Vasili sighed to intimate what he meant by the words all is over, "and the count's papers are opened, the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and the petition will certainly be granted.
But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight!
"I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; and you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool," said the princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are saying something witty and stinging.
"And this is gratitude--this is recognition for those who have sacrificed everything for his sake!" she cried.
"Do you or do you not know where that will is?" insisted Prince Vasili, his cheeks twitching more than ever.
There is still time, my dear.
Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to ease his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and not to let him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who...
You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his wishes; that is my only reason for being here.
Yes; if I have a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman! almost shrieked the princess, now quite changed.
"Is this the way to the princesses' apartments?" asked Anna Mikhaylovna of one of them.
Think that he is your father... perhaps in the agony of death.
This young man is the count's son, she added more softly.
"Dear doctor," said she, "this young man is the count's son.
Is there any hope?
That is well! and he turned to go.
Unction is about to be administered.
"He is dozing," said Anna Mikhaylovna, observing that one of the princesses was coming to take her turn at watching.
"Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not necessary," said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room.
Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is already prepared...
You know how fond the count is of her.
"I don't even know what is in this paper," said the younger of the two ladies, addressing Prince Vasili and pointing to an inlaid portfolio she held in her hand.
All I know is that his real will is in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten....
I think he will not be out of place in a family consultation; is it not so, Prince?
"Oh!" said he with reproach and surprise, "this is absurd!
He is dying and you leave me alone with him!
Death is awful... and he burst into tears.
He is no more....
Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you.
As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity, regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of exactitude.
Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Heloise has sent you.
Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is separation!
One of my two brothers is already abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march to the frontier.
Our dear Emperor has left Petersburg and it is thought intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war.
God grant that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may be overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His goodness, to give us as sovereign!
This young man, of whom I spoke to you last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which one seldom finds nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly, he is so frank and has so much heart.
That is still too fresh.
The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of old Count Bezukhov, and his inheritance.
He is said to be very handsome and a terrible scapegrace.
That is all I have been able to find out about him.
Though there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it is an admirable book which calms and elevates the soul.
This is the reply she wrote, also in French:
He says the count was the last representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as late as possible.
He always seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value most in people.
As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince Vasili, it is very sad for both.
My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasili.
Not only where you are--at the heart of affairs and of the world--is the talk all of war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature--which townsfolk consider characteristic of the country--rumors of war are heard and painfully felt.
He is in a very bad humor, very morose.
"Ah, dear friend," replied Princess Mary, "I have asked you never to warn me of the humor my father is in.
"Why, this is a palace!" she said to her husband, looking around with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball.
Is that Mary practicing?
He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had promotion...
"Is it certain?" she said.
Ah! it is very dreadful...
"Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is pregnant," said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his father's face with an eager and respectful look.
How is your health?
The house for your wife is ready.
* "Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he'll return."
"How thoroughly like him that is!" he said to Princess Mary, who had come up to him.
"He is a great tactician!" said the prince to his son, pointing to the architect.
You may laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great general!
"Oh, he is so kind!" answered Princess Mary.
"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a smile.
She is quite a child: such a dear, merry child.
Don't forget that she has grown up and been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one.
* To understand all is to forgive all.
But think, Andrew: for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life, all alone--for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society.
There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne....
She is very nice and kind and, above all, she's much to be pitied.
She is very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading.
The only thing that is hard for me...
I will tell you the truth, Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects.
I don't understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray.
That is the only thing that makes me unhappy.
What is it, dear?
It will give you no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me.
She is so sweet, so good- natured, and her position now is a very hard one.
But why this is so I don't know...
I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands...
When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur....
I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine.
She has had a dream and is frightened.
What is bad, Father?
If he is all right--serve him.
Nicholas Bolkonski's son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor.
Now here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of Suvorov's wars.
Though the words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and the question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or not, it was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is always better to "bow too low than not bow low enough."
However, I think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?
The captain's face showed the uneasiness of a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not learned.
What is this? shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat of bluish cloth, which contrasted with the others.
The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place?
"Where is Dolokhov?" asked Kutuzov.
"This is Dolokhov," said Prince Andrew.
The Emperor is gracious, and I shan't forget you if you deserve well.
It's in the Emperor's service... it can't be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on parade...
"As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your excellency; but his character..." said Timokhin.
One day he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he's a wild beast....
No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are.
And he says Buonaparte is in Braunau!
See, the fifth company is turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat cooked before we reach our quarters.
And that is the whole point.
Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these," he said, handing him several papers, "make a neat memorandum in French out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the movements of the Austrian army, and then give it to his excellency."
He now looked like a man who has time to think of the impression he makes on others, but is occupied with agreeable and interesting work.
And why is it?
"The commander-in-chief is engaged," said Kozlovski, going hurriedly up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door.
"The commander-in-chief is engaged," repeated Kozlovski calmly.
* (2) "It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for you."
"Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?" he asked.
We are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pua' as on the first day of cweation...
"How much is left in the puhse?" he asked, turning to Rostov.
Where is it? he asked, turning to Lavrushka.
The purse is here!
So that if it is not so, then...
"The master is not in, he's gone to headquarters," said Telyanin's orderly.
"That money is Denisov's; you took it..." he whispered just above Telyanin's ear.
Count!... Don't ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money, take it...
Ask Denisov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to demand satisfaction of his regimental commander?
Is that how you look at it?
Whatever Bogdanich may be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel!
And all this is not right, it's not right!
Bogdanich is vindictive and you'll pay for your obstinacy, said Kirsten.
"It is an illness, there's no other way of explaining it," said the staff captain.
"Yes, so it is, so it is," said the general angrily, lowering the field glass and shrugging his shoulders, "so it is!
Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!
And what is there?
Who is there?--there beyond that field, that tree, that roof lit up by the sun?
I know the service, and it is my habit orders strictly to obey.
There--they are shouting again, and again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above me and around...
But this sort of thing is the very devil, with them shooting at you like a target.
It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the paved streets of Brunn and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the lights of shops, houses, and street lamps, fine carriages, and all that atmosphere of a large and active town which is always so attractive to a soldier after camp life.
"But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me," he thought.
I hope it is good news?
But Mortier is not captured.
That is true, but still why didn't you capture him?
So don't be surprised if not only the Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and King Francis is not much delighted by your victory.
"It is now my turn to ask you 'why?' mon cher," said Bolkonski.
All that is beautiful, but what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories?
Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one archduke's as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only over a fire brigade of Bonaparte's, that will be another story and we'll fire off some cannon!
You abandon Vienna, give up its defense--as much as to say: 'Heaven is with us, but heaven help you and your capital!'
It's too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army!
Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schonbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders.
You see that your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can't be received as a savior.
How is it Vienna was taken?
Prince Auersperg is on this, on our side of the river, and is defending us--doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending us.
But Vienna is on the other side.
"But still this does not mean that the campaign is over," said Prince Andrew.
If not it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up.
"But joking apart," said Prince Andrew, "do you really think the campaign is over?"
This is what I think.
* "Woman is man's companion."
Kuragin is exquisite when he discusses politics--you should see his gravity!
That is how it will end.
"Well now, gentlemen," said Bilibin, "Bolkonski is my guest in this house and in Brunn itself.
If we were in Vienna it would be easy, but here, in this wretched Moravian hole, it is more difficult, and I beg you all to help me.
"I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality, gentlemen, it is already time for me to go," replied Prince Andrew looking at his watch.
Is there sufficient forage in Krems?
"What is it?" he asked.
The scoundrel is again at our heels!
Confess that this is delightful, said he.
And you didn't see that everybody is packing up?
What is it all about? inquired Prince Andrew impatiently.
Why, the French have crossed the bridge that Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat is now rushing along the road to Brunn and will be here in a day or two.
That is what I ask you.
But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost?
Nothing is truer or sadder.
He lets them enter the tÃªte-de-pont. * They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on.
The French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the bridge is taken!
But what is best of all," he went on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, "is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes stayed his hand.
Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a true Gascon) and says: 'I don't recognize the world-famous Austrian discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!'
Come, you must own that this affair of the Thabor Bridge is delightful!
It is not exactly stupidity, nor rascality....
"It's not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is just as at Ulm... it is..."--he seemed to be trying to find the right expression.
I know you think it your duty to gallop back to the army now that it is in danger.
Mon cher, it is heroism!
But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary, is to take care of yourself.
They say we are going to Olmutz, and Olmutz is a very decent town.
You are faced by one of two things," and the skin over his left temple puckered, "either you will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will share defeat and disgrace with Kutuzov's whole army."
"Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army," thought Bolkonski, recalling Bilibin's words.
Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless, tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying.
"This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army," he was thinking as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by name.
"Where is the commander-in-chief?" asked Bolkonski.
And God only knows where your man Peter is, said the other adjutant.
"What is the commander-in-chief doing here?" he asked.
"That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment," he said.
The Russian Emperor's aide-de-camp is an impostor.
"If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he wishes to stay with me, let him... he'll be of use here if he's a brave officer," thought Bagration.
* "This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince."
It's a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest, honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in him, he's a scoundrel.
He is the Emperor!
"No, friend," said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, a familiar voice, "what I say is that if it were possible to know what is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it.
All the same, one is afraid!
"Yes, one is afraid," continued the first speaker, he of the familiar voice.
One is afraid of the unknown, that's what it is.
Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky... we know there is no sky but only an atmosphere.
Here it is! thought Prince Andrew, feeling the blood rush to his heart.
Here it is! was seen even on Prince Bagration's hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes.
Is there anything at all behind that impassive face?
"It is very strange, mon Monsieur Prince," said the staff officer.
Prince Bagration screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing the cause of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to say, "Is it worth while noticing trifles?"
"What is this?" thought Prince Andrew approaching the crowd of soldiers.
How is it I am not moving?
No, I am wounded and the horse is killed.
Me whom everyone is so fond of?
One soldier, in his fear, uttered the senseless cry, "Cut off!" that is so terrible in battle, and that word infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic.
Only when a man was killed or wounded did he frown and turn away from the sight, shouting angrily at the men who, as is always the case, hesitated about lifting the injured or dead.
The soldiers, for the most part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an artillery company, a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad as their officer--all looked at their commander like children in an embarrassing situation, and the expression on his face was invariably reflected on theirs.
And where is the wounded officer?
"Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?" inquired Tushin.
He is in the hut here, said a gunner, coming up to Tushin.
It is true that it was hot there, he added, modestly.
There is no one to help me or pity me.
Nor did he say to himself: "Pierre is a rich man, I must entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles I need."
Here is something I have received from the chancellor.
It is high time for you to get away from these terrible recollections.
In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna Pavlovna's usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added: "You will find the beautiful Helene here, whom it is always delightful to see."
"That is probably the work of Vinesse," said Pierre, mentioning a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.
It is good to have a friend like the prince, she said, smiling at Prince Vasili.
I have myself said she is stupid, he thought.
There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites in me.
Hippolyte is her brother...
Prince Vasili is her father...
"This is all very fine, but things must be settled," said Prince Vasili to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that Pierre who was under such obligations to him ("But never mind that") was not behaving very well in this matter.
Every day he said to himself one and the same thing: It is time I understood her and made up my mind what she really is.
No, she is not stupid, she is an excellent girl," he sometimes said to himself "she never makes a mistake, never says anything stupid.
She says little, but what she does say is always clear and simple, so she is not stupid.
She never was abashed and is not abashed now, so she cannot be a bad woman!
He is such a worthy and excellent man, our dear Vyazmitinov....
"And what nonsense all this is that I am saying!" thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces of the lovers.
"So it is all finished!" he thought.
"But no doubt it always is and must be so!" he consoled himself.
"This happiness is not for you," some inner voice whispered to him.
This happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you.
The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world touched Pierre: he looked at Helene and she too seemed disconcerted, and her look seemed to say: "Well, it is your own fault."
Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear...
It is good because it's definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.
"Something special is always said in such cases," he thought, but could not remember what it was that people say.
"It is too late now, it's done; besides I love her," thought Pierre.
The snow is deep.
I heard, your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor.
The road is not swept for the princess my daughter, but for a minister!
And the other one is not here.
"Where is the princess?" he asked.
It is natural in her state.
Hm!--his excellency is a puppy....
Why his son is coming I don't understand.
I say, Father, joking apart, is she very hideous?
"No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty," said Lise, looking sideways at Princess Mary from a little distance.
But this one is too light, it's not becoming!
It is all quite the same to me, answered a voice struggling with tears.
"But no, it is impossible, I am too ugly," she thought.
"Why is it you were never at Annette's?" the little princess asked Anatole.
Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess, he added, turning to Princess Mary.
* The little one is charming.
And that is what we shall see.
That is what we shall see!
That is what we shall see! he added aloud.
She is shameless, and he ignores her!
Here is my second son; please love and befriend him.
"Is it for visitors you've got yourself up like that, eh?" said he.
Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed.
I will ask her tomorrow in your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on.
Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest, goodhearted lad; an excellent son or kinsman.
"Is it possible that Amelie" (Mademoiselle Bourienne) "thinks I could be jealous of her, and not value her pure affection and devotion to me?"
"Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind--yes, kind, that is the chief thing," thought Princess Mary; and fear, which she had seldom experienced, came upon her.
"Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind--yes, kind, that is the chief thing," thought Princess Mary; and fear, which she had seldom experienced, came upon her.
The first man that turns up--she forgets her father and everything else, runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her tail and is unlike herself!
And how is it she has not pride enough to see it?
They came to disturb my life--and there is not much of it left.
My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my life from yours.
My dear, I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never forget.
Say 'perhaps'... The future is so long.
Prince, what I have said is all there is in my heart.
"My vocation is a different one," thought Princess Mary.
My vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice.
If he is not rich I will give her the means; I will ask my father and Andrew.
I shall be so happy when she is his wife.
She is so unfortunate, a stranger, alone, helpless!
It's not that I don't remember--I know what he is like, but not as I remember Nikolenka.
"It is done!" she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to the countess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait and in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to her lips.
"And who is it she takes after?" thought the countess.
About some Denisov or other, though he himself, I dare say, is braver than any of them.
"Here he is at last!" shouted Rostov.
"Eh, is she pretty?" he asked with a wink.
It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it for!
"He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow," answered Boris.
So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease.
Well, he stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and stormed and stormed!
It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people are rarely capable of it.
Come to me after the review and we will do what is possible.
Is it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment?
When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march past him, and Rostov on Bedouin, recently purchased from Denisov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron--that is, alone and in full view of the Emperor.
But this is what we'll do: I have a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince Dolgorukov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now Kutuzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing.
Everything is now centered round the Emperor.
"So the attack is definitely resolved on?" asked Bolkonski.
I tell you he is in our hands, that's certain!
He is a wise and clever fellow.
He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men--the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartoryski....
Rostov saw tears filling the Emperor's eyes and heard him, as he was riding away, say to Czartoryski: What a terrible thing war is: what a terrible thing!
"If we fought before," he said, "not letting the French pass, as at Schon Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front?
Is it not so, gentlemen?
It is such a lofty, beautiful feeling, such a...
Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though it were prepared to remain so for a hundred years; but the moment comes when the lever catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins in the common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken.
Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of innumerable wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the hands which show the time, so the result of all the complicated human activities of 160,000 Russians and French--all their passions, desires, remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and enthusiasm--was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the so-called battle of the three Emperors--that is to say, a slow movement of the hand on the dial of human history.
The fete is for tomorrow.
How is your old fellow?
I won't say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be heard.
But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when he talks sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when Bonaparte fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible.
Well, what is Bonaparte like?
Believe me, he is afraid, afraid of a general battle.
"But tell me, what is he like, eh?" said Prince Andrew again.
He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call him 'Your Majesty,' but who, to his chagrin, got no title from me!
That's the sort of man he is, and nothing more, replied Dolgorukov, looking round at Bilibin with a smile.
"Oh, that is all the same," Dolgorukov said quickly, and getting up he spread a map on the table.
If he is standing before Brunn...
Whether tomorrow brings victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure.
Except your Kutuzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column!
"Since Prince Bagration is not coming, we may begin," said Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on which an enormous map of the environs of Brunn was spread out.
For this object it is necessary that...
"So you think he is powerless?" said Langeron.
Either he is retreating, which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position.
"Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow--or rather for today, for it is past midnight--cannot now be altered," said he.
Is it possible that on account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives, and my life, my life," he thought, "must be risked?"
"Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow," he thought.
All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division-stipulates that no one is to interfere with his arrangements--leads his division to the decisive point, and gains the victory alone.
Nominally he is only an adjutant on Kutuzov's staff, but he does everything alone.
The next battle is won by him alone.
Kutuzov is removed and he is appointed...
"Well then," Prince Andrew answered himself, "I don't know what will happen and don't want to know, and can't, but if I want this--want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only for that.
All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this mist!
The chief thing is that the Emperor is here.
But that's nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of.
"Believe me," said Prince Dolgorukov, addressing Bagration, "it is nothing but a trick!
"Your honor, there he is!" cried one of the hussars behind him.
Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve.
The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the Austrian army of Ulm.
The position we occupy is a strong one, and while they are marching to go round me on the right they will expose a flank to me.
A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as much as a sailor is by his ship.
However far he has walked, whatever strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the same sergeant major Ivan Mitrich, the same company dog Jack, and the same commanders.
On the day of battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning what is going on around them.
Is the way blocked?
He was in a state of suppressed excitement and irritation, though controlledly calm as a man is at the approach of a long-awaited moment.
The enemy is still far away, your excellency.
"My dear fellow," Nesvitski whispered to Prince Andrew, "the old man is as surly as a dog."
"That is just why I do not begin, sire," said Kutuzov in a resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being heard, and again something in his face twitched--"That is just why I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Empress' Field," said clearly and distinctly.
* "Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to do, Sire."
Yes, see it is!... for certain....
But how is that? said different voices.
"The wound is not here, it is there!" said Kutuzov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers.
"Here it is!" thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him.
Why doesn't the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed?
All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky.
There is nothing, nothing, but that.
But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace.
"That is no business of mine," he thought.
"But be that what it may," he reflected, "there is no riding round it now.
I must look for the commander in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with the rest.
Where is the Emperor?
"Who is it you want?" he asked.
Where is he to go?
That way is nearer.
If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to save myself? he thought.
It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being alone and despondent!
"Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here another two minutes and it is certain death," thought each one.
"Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw today?" was his first thought.
"The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Your Majesty," said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were firing at Augesd.
He is alive, said Napoleon.
"There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, that he is probably tired of them," said another officer.
They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor Alexander's Guards, said the first one, indicating a Russian officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards.
"Which is the senior?" he asked, on seeing the prisoners.
"The praise of a great commander is a soldier's highest reward," said Repnin.
And who is that young man beside you?
There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I understand, and the greatness of something incomprehensible but all-important.
"He is a nervous, bilious subject," said Larrey, "and will not recover."
"Which house is it?" asked the driver.
Is everyone all right? he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar staircase.
Is everything quite all right?
Here he is... our own...
Why, is it late?
"Is this your saber?" he shouted.
"Is this your saber?" asked Petya.
"Or is it yours?" he said, addressing the black-mustached Denisov with servile deference.
She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long, slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered even by a ball dress.
"Well, and is that all?" he asked.
Besides, Sonya is so charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.
"And is Denisov nice?" she asked.
Is he very terrible, Denisov?
No, Vaska is a splendid fellow.
And is he very nice?
"How strange it is," said Vera, selecting a moment when all were silent, "that Sonya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet like strangers."
Who is going to get me the flowers?
That's so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good dinner, but providing it and serving it all up, that's not their business!
Thank God, Boris is now on the staff.
Is his wife with him? he asked.
"Ah, my dear friend, he is very unfortunate," she said.
If what we hear is true, it is dreadful.
"Wh-what is the matter?" asked both the young and old Rostov.
They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune.
All Moscow repeated Prince Dolgorukov's saying: "If you go on modeling and modeling you must get smeared with clay," suggesting consolation for our defeat by the memory of former victories; and the words of Rostopchin, that French soldiers have to be incited to battle by highfalutin words, and Germans by logical arguments to show them that it is more dangerous to run away than to advance, but that Russian soldiers only need to be restrained and held back!
"Yes, he is very handsome," thought Pierre, "and I know him.
"Yes, he is a bully," thought Pierre, "to kill a man means nothing to him.
It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that must please him.
This is what I like!
'Everyone fears a bear,' he says, 'but when you see one your fear's all gone, and your only thought is not to let him get away!'
And that's how it is with me.
"Oh yes, it is horribly stupid," said Pierre.
You know, Count, it is much more honorable to admit one's mistake than to let matters become irreparable.
What is there to talk about? said Pierre.
Is everything ready? he added.
So this is what I was proud of!
Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles.
"It is all, all her fault," he said to himself; "but what of that?
Who is right and who is wrong?
And is it worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life in comparison with eternity?
What is it meant to prove?
To the great regret of myself and of the whole army it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not.
What is the matter, Mary?
She looked at Princess Mary, then sat thinking for a while with that expression of attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women, and suddenly began to cry.
But my father is anxious and I feel afraid.
What is the matter with you, my darling?
"But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?" said the princess.
God is merciful, birdie.
"God is merciful, doctors are never needed," she said.
Why is there a baby there?
Or is the baby born?
"Yes, Count," she would say, "he is too noble and pure-souled for our present, depraved world.
I know you understand Fedya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you.
He is such a lofty, heavenly soul!
And believe me, if I still value my life it is only because I still hope to meet such a divine creature, who will regenerate, purify, and elevate me.
"There's nothing for me to understand," she cried out with resolute self-will, "he is wicked and heartless.
There now, I like your Denisov though he is a rake and all that, still I like him; so you see I do understand.
I don't know how to put it... with this one everything is calculated, and I don't like that.
That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly.
It is the one thing we are interested in here, said the spirit of the place.
He asked you, and Vasili Dmitrich * is also going.
What a darling Sonya is! he added with a smile.
Ah, she is indeed a darling!
It may be arrogant of me, but still it is best to say it.
"That is enough for me," said Sonya, blushing.
"Oh, how delightful it is!" she kept saying, running up to Sonya.
"How sweet she is--she will be a weal beauty!" said Denisov.
"This is not at all the thing," he said.
What sort of Polish mazuwka is this?
He is a real dancer, a wonder! he said.
Dolokhov "killed," that is, beat, ten cards of Rostov's running.
And why is he doing this to me?
Your cousin is in love with you, I know.
Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre What magic power is this recalls me still?
What spark has set my inmost soul on fire, What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?
"Is Papa at home?" he asked.
Vasili Dmitrich is staying a day longer for my sake!
"No, Papa is not back yet," said Sonya.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
A bullet through my brain is the only thing left me--not singing! his thoughts ran on.
Nikolenka, what is the matter?
"And what is she so pleased about?" thought Nicholas, looking at his sister.
"What is this?" thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely opened eyes.
How she is singing today!
All this misery, and money, and Dolokhov, and anger, and honor--it's all nonsense... but this is real....
If it is true that Monsieur Denisov has made you a proposal, tell him he is a fool, that's all!
Is it my fault?
No, but what is it, my dear?
It is in your hands.
"Vasili Dmitrich, I thank you for the honor," she said, with an embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denisov--"but my daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son's friend, you would have addressed yourself first to me.
Is this good or bad?
It is good for me, bad for another traveler, and for himself it's unavoidable, because he needs money for food; the man said an officer had once given him a thrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses.
What is life, and what is death?
All we can know is that we know nothing.
"I know your outlook," said the Mason, "and the view of life you mention, and which you think is the result of your own mental efforts, is the one held by the majority of people, and is the invariable fruit of pride, indolence, and ignorance.
Your view of life is a regrettable delusion.
Only by laying stone on stone with the cooperation of all, by the millions of generations from our forefather Adam to our own times, is that temple reared which is to be a worthy dwelling place of the Great God, he added, and closed his eyes.
You do not know Him and that is why you are unhappy.
"He exists, but to understand Him is hard," the Mason began again, looking not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves of his book with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep still.
To know Him is hard....
"He is not to be apprehended by reason, but by life," said the Mason.
"I don't understand," he said, "how it is that the mind of man cannot attain the knowledge of which you speak."
"Yes, yes, that is so," said Pierre joyfully.
The highest wisdom is one.
That is what you have done.
There is nothing strange in that, my dear sir!
But it is I, above all, who am to blame for everything.
He firmly believed in the possibility of the brotherhood of men united in the aim of supporting one another in the path of virtue, and that is how Freemasonry presented itself to him.
My carriage is at your service.
What is your conception of Freemasonry?
Is that not so? said the Rhetor, after a moment's pause.
But since this mystery is of such a nature that nobody can know or use it unless he be prepared by long and diligent self-purification, not everyone can hope to attain it quickly.
It must be so, but I am still so weak that I love my life, the meaning of which is only now gradually opening before me.
This chamber with what you see therein should already have suggested to your heart, if it is sincere, more than words could do.
A hieroglyph," said the Rhetor, "is an emblem of something not cognizable by the senses but which possesses qualities resembling those of the symbol."
The source of blessedness is not without us but within....
I know all about it, and I can tell you positively that Helene is as innocent before you as Christ was before the Jews.
She is living in Moscow and you are here.
Remember, dear boy," and he drew Pierre's arm downwards, "it is simply a misunderstanding.
That is the actual phrase used by the Vienna cabinet, said the Danish charge d'affaires.
"The doubt is flattering," said "the man of profound intellect," with a subtle smile.
The Emperor of Austria can never have thought of such a thing, it is only the cabinet that says it.
Ah, she is such an unfortunate and charming woman!
It is too painful for her!
"It is the sword of Frederick the Great which I..." she began, but Hippolyte interrupted her with the words: "Le Roi de Prusse..." and again, as soon as all turned toward him, excused himself and said no more.
"Your joke is too bad, it's witty but unjust," said Anna Pavlovna, shaking her little shriveled finger at him.
A snuffbox with the Emperor's portrait is a reward but not a distinction," said the diplomatist--"a gift, rather."
The ribbon of the order is a different matter....
"What is it?" he said crossly, and, his hand shaking unintentionally, he poured too many drops into the glass.
"Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things off-- and this is what comes of it!" said Prince Andrew in an exasperated whisper, evidently meaning to wound his sister.
Karl Ivanich always says that sleep is more important than anything, whispered Princess Mary with a sigh.
In Petersburg everyone is rejoicing, and the rewards sent to the army are innumerable.
Though he is a German--I congratulate him!
I can't make out what the commander at Korchevo--a certain Khandrikov--is up to; till now the additional men and provisions have not arrived.
Gallop off to him at once and say I'll have his head off if everything is not here in a week.
He is said to be fleeing in great disorder.
"No, pardon me, I won't go now till the child is better," thought he, going to the door and looking into the nursery.
I have certainly acquired a taste for war, and it is just as well for me; what I have seen during these last three months is incredible.
The head of the garrison at Glogau, with ten thousand men, asks the King of Prussia what he is to do if he is summoned to surrender....
All this is absolutely true.
The general comes to us, Suvorov- like, in a kibitka, and is received with acclamations of joy and triumph.
'Grant leave to retire to his country seat to an old man who is already in any case dishonored by being unable to fulfill the great and glorious task for which he was chosen.
The field marshal is angry with the Emperor and he punishes us all, isn't it logical?
This is the first act.
Buxhowden is commander-in-chief by seniority, but General Bennigsen does not quite see it; more particularly as it is he and his corps who are within sight of the enemy and he wishes to profit by the opportunity to fight a battle 'on his own hand' as the Germans say.
This is the battle of Pultusk, which is considered a great victory but in my opinion was nothing of the kind.
Those who retreat after a battle have lost it is what we say; and according to that it is we who lost the battle of Pultusk.
Our aim is no longer, as it should be, to avoid or attack the enemy, but solely to avoid General Buxhowden who by right of seniority should be our chief.
So energetically do we pursue this aim that after crossing an unfordable river we burn the bridges to separate ourselves from our enemy, who at the moment is not Bonaparte but Buxhowden.
Both generals are angry, and the result is a challenge on Buxhowden's part and an epileptic fit on Bennigsen's.
But at the critical moment the courier who carried the news of our victory at Pultusk to Petersburg returns bringing our appointment as commander-in-chief, and our first foe, Buxhowden, is vanquished; we can now turn our thoughts to the second, Bonaparte.
The inhabitants are totally ruined, the hospitals overflow with sick, and famine is everywhere.
"All is over," he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
"Yes, this is the one thing left me now," he said with a sigh.
"How easy it is, how little effort it needs, to do so much good," thought Pierre, "and how little attention we pay to it!"
"Well, what is it?" came a sharp, unpleasant voice.
As is usually the case with people meeting after a prolonged separation, it was long before their conversation could settle on anything.
However, this is not at all interesting.
But you know it is all over, and forever.
"One thing I thank God for is that I did not kill that man," said Pierre.
No, to kill a man is bad--wrong.
"Why is it wrong?" urged Prince Andrew.
It is not given to man to know what is right and what is wrong.
"What does harm to another is wrong," said Pierre, feeling with pleasure that for the first time since his arrival Prince Andrew was roused, had begun to talk, and wanted to express what had brought him to his present state.
"And who has told you what is bad for another man?" he asked.
We all know what is bad for ourselves.
The only good is the absence of those evils.
To live for myself avoiding those two evils is my whole philosophy now.
To live only so as not to do evil and not to have to repent is not enough.
And the main thing is," he continued, "that I know, and know for certain, that the enjoyment of doing this good is the only sure happiness in life."
"Come, let's argue then," said Prince Andrew, "You talk of schools," he went on, crooking a finger, "education and so forth; that is, you want to raise him" (pointing to a peasant who passed by them taking off his cap) "from his animal condition and awaken in him spiritual needs, while it seems to me that animal happiness is the only happiness possible, and that is just what you want to deprive him of.
But as I see it, physical labor is as essential to him, as much a condition of his existence, as mental activity is to you or me.
He has a fit, he is dying, and you come and bleed him and patch him up.
"Oh, that is dreadful, dreadful!" said Pierre.
Then I don't eat, don't wash... and how is it with you?...
That is not cleanly," said Prince Andrew; "on the contrary one must try to make one's life as pleasant as possible.
I'm alive, that is not my fault, so I must live out my life as best I can without hurting others.
Life as it is leaves one no peace.
My father is chief in command of the Third District, and my only way of avoiding active service is to serve under him.
My father is one of the most remarkable men of his time.
But he is growing old, and though not exactly cruel he has too energetic a character.
He is so accustomed to unlimited power that he is terrible, and now he has this authority of a commander-in-chief of the recruiting, granted by the Emperor.
"Yes, but it is not as you imagine," Prince Andrew continued.
But it is a good thing for proprietors who perish morally, bring remorse upon themselves, stifle this remorse and grow callous, as a result of being able to inflict punishments justly and unjustly.
It is those people I pity, and for their sake I should like to liberate the serfs.
"Only our holy brotherhood has the real meaning of life, all the rest is a dream," said Pierre.
How is it you know everything?
On earth, here on this earth" (Pierre pointed to the fields), "there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the whole universe there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the children of earth are--eternally--children of the whole universe.
I feel that beyond me and above me there are spirits, and that in this world there is truth.
It cannot be that there is no answer.
That's what convinces, that is what has convinced me, said Prince Andrew.
You know that there is a there and there is a Someone?
There is the future life.
The Someone is--God.
If there is a God and future life, there is truth and good, and man's highest happiness consists in striving to attain them.
It is true, believe it.
This is the one matter in which she disobeys him.
* "You must know that this is a woman."
He is kind, he is one of God's chosen, he's a benefactor, he once gave me ten rubles, I remember.
I saw it myself, master, the star is fixed into the icon.
Today he is cheerful and in good spirits, but that is the effect of your visit--he is not often like that.
He needs activity, and this quiet regular life is very bad for him.
She is like a sister to me, and I can't tell you how it offended me... because... well, for that reason....
Who is it that's starving us? shouted Denisov, hitting the table with the fist of his newly bled arm so violently that the table nearly broke down and the tumblers on it jumped about.
This is a pesthouse, sir.
When a new one comes he is done for in a week, said the doctor with evident satisfaction.
"Is he tall and with reddish hair?" asked the doctor.
That one is dead, I fancy.
"What is there to see?" said the assistant.
This is what I say: 'If I had wobbed the Tweasuwy...'
The looks the visitors cast on him seemed to say: "And what is he sitting here for?"
I have heard of such cases and know that His Majesty is very severe in such affairs.
All is over between us, but I won't leave here without having done all I can for Denisov and certainly not without getting his letter to the Emperor.
He is here! thought Rostov, who had unconsciously returned to the house where Alexander lodged.
"What is it?" asked the person in the other room.
I cannot, because the law is stronger than I, and he raised his foot to the stirrup.
If the Emperor pleases to recognize Bonaparte as Emperor and to conclude an alliance with him, it means that that is the right thing to do.
That way we shall be saying there is no God--nothing! shouted Nicholas, banging the table--very little to the point as it seemed to his listeners, but quite relevantly to the course of his own thoughts.
Our business is to do our duty, to fight and not to think!
"How pleasant it is, your excellency!" he said with a respectful smile.
"What is he talking about?" thought Prince Andrew.
Yes, really everything is green already....
Ah, here is one oak!
There is no spring, no sun, no happiness!
"Yes, the oak is right, a thousand times right," thought Prince Andrew.
Let others--the young--yield afresh to that fraud, but we know life, our life is finished!
What is she so glad about?
What is she thinking of?
Of what is she thinking?
Why is she so happy?
In 1809 Count Ilya Rostov was living at Otradnoe just as he had done in former years, that is, entertaining almost the whole province with hunts, theatricals, dinners, and music.
During the dull day, in the course of which he was entertained by his elderly hosts and by the more important of the visitors (the old count's house was crowded on account of an approaching name day), Prince Andrew repeatedly glanced at Natasha, gay and laughing among the younger members of the company, and asked himself each time, What is she thinking about?
Why is she so glad?
There she is again!
"But where is it?" he again wondered, gazing at the left side of the road, and without recognizing it he looked with admiration at the very oak he sought.
"Yes, it is the same oak," thought Prince Andrew, and all at once he was seized by an unreasoning springtime feeling of joy and renewal.
No, life is not over at thirty-one!
"If it were hot," Prince Andrew would reply at such times very dryly to his sister, "he could go out in his smock, but as it is cold he must wear warm clothes, which were designed for that purpose.
"What is your petition?" asked Arakcheev.
Nowadays everybody designs laws, it is easier writing than doing.
Who else is there? he shouted, bowing to Prince Andrew.
"Oh, is it you, Prince, who have freed your serfs?" said an old man of Catherine's day, turning contemptuously toward Bolkonski.
It is easy to write laws, but difficult to rule....
Is he to go up for examination?
Yes, that's a difficulty, as education is not at all general, but...
I hope you will find him sympathetic and ready to co- operate in promoting all that is reasonable.
Speranski went on to say that honor, l'honneur, cannot be upheld by privileges harmful to the service; that honor, l'honneur, is either a negative concept of not doing what is blameworthy or it is a source of emulation in pursuit of commendation and rewards, which recognize it.
An institution upholding honor, the source of emulation, is one similar to the Legion d'honneur of the great Emperor Napoleon, not harmful but helpful to the success of the service, but not a class or court privilege.
It was evident that the thought could never occur to him which to Prince Andrew seemed so natural, namely, that it is after all impossible to express all one thinks; and that he had never felt the doubt, "Is not all I think and believe nonsense?"
It was evident that the thought could never occur to him which to Prince Andrew seemed so natural, namely, that it is after all impossible to express all one thinks; and that he had never felt the doubt, "Is not all I think and believe nonsense?"
"And that is all the state has for the millions it has spent," said he.
That is why it is a sin for men like you, Prince, not to serve in these times!
"Dear Brothers," he began, blushing and stammering, with a written speech in his hand, "it is not sufficient to observe our mysteries in the seclusion of our lodge--we must act--act!
What is to be done in these circumstances?
It is impossible to eradicate the passions; but we must strive to direct them to a noble aim, and it is therefore necessary that everyone should be able to satisfy his passions within the limits of virtue.
"No one is right and no one is to blame; so she too is not to blame," he thought.
This is what he noted in his diary:
From morning till late at night, except when he eats his very plain food, he is working at science.
Illuminism is not a pure doctrine, just because it is attracted by social activity and puffed up by pride.
That is what I decided, and what I wrote to Joseph Alexeevich.
* (2) "Of a charming woman, as witty as she is lovely."
Pierre went on with his diary, and this is what he wrote in it during that time:
My tongue is my enemy.
That is why I should really like to save him from evil and lead him into the path of truth, but evil thoughts of him did not leave me.
Adonai is the name of the creator of the world.
Elohim is the name of the ruler of all.
The third name is the name unutterable which means the All.
In the holy science of our order all is one, all is known in its entirety and life.
Sulphur is of an oily and fiery nature; in combination with salt by its fiery nature it arouses a desire in the latter by means of which it attracts mercury, seizes it, holds it, and in combination produces other bodies.
Mercury is a fluid, volatile, spiritual essence.
The cause of this is my egotism.
And he said, Tell me frankly what is your chief temptation?
I embraced him and kissed his hands, and he said, "Hast thou noticed that my face is different?"
In our times that is worth something, isn't it?
And I love her, because her character is sensible and very good.
Now the other sister, though they are the same family, is quite different-- an unpleasant character and has not the same intelligence.
She is so... you know?...
"And is Papa older?" she asked.
What is it tonight?--But I have to tell you...
You say Boris is nice.
He is very nice, and I love him like a son.
Because he is young, because he is poor, because he is a relation... and because you yourself don't love him.
It is not right, darling!
Cyril Matveich... but he is old.
But this is what I'll do, Natasha, I'll have a talk with Boris.
But, Mamma, is he very much in love?
Only not quite my taste--he is so narrow, like the dining-room clock....
Bezukhov, now, is blue, dark-blue and red, and he is square.
No, he is a Freemason, I have found out.
He is fine, dark-blue and red....
"There is everything, everything in her," continued this man.
She is unusually intelligent, charming... and then she is pretty, uncommonly pretty, and agile--she swims and rides splendidly... and her voice!
It is nearly ten, came the countess' voice.
Here is some scent.
"Really, madam, it is not at all too long," said Mavra, crawling on her knees after her young lady.
That is the Dutch ambassador, do you see?
"Ah, here she is, the Queen of Petersburg, Countess Bezukhova," said Peronskaya, indicating Helene who had just entered.
She is quite equal to Marya Antonovna.
Beautiful and clever... they say Prince--is quite mad about her.
"She is a splendid match, a millionairess," said Peronskaya.
"That is Bezukhova's brother, Anatole Kuragin," she said, indicating a handsome officer of the Horse Guards who passed by them with head erect, looking at something over the heads of the ladies.
But your cousin, Drubetskoy, is also very attentive to her.
Yes, she is still the most beautiful of them all, our Marya Antonovna!
And how simply she is dressed!
And that stout one in spectacles is the universal Freemason, she went on, indicating Pierre.
* "He is all the rage just now."
She was not concerned about the Emperor or any of those great people whom Peronskaya was pointing out--she had but one thought: Is it possible no one will ask me, that I shall not be among the first to dance?
Is it possible that not one of all these men will notice me?
"Where is she?" asked Bolkonski.
"How delightful it is, Count!" said she.
Yes, that little Rostova is very charming.
"Why do I strive, why do I toil in this narrow, confined frame, when life, all life with all its joys, is open to me?" said he to himself.
What is it you wish, Colonel?
Our general is coming.
He is very good to me.
"The only thing is, we mustn't have children too soon," he continued, following an unconscious sequence of ideas.
"This is what comes of knowing how to make acquaintances," thought Berg.
This is what comes of knowing how to conduct oneself.
That is what I consider true love.
Yes, that is true, Prince.
And it must be confessed that Natalie is very susceptible.
* "Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood."
Clearly it is fate that everything led up to this!
It is not at all the same feeling that I knew in the past.
I cannot help loving the light, it is not my fault.
Her tears were those of an offended child who does not know why it is being punished.
Things are nice as it is, she said to herself, and she began walking up and down the room, not stepping simply on the resounding parquet but treading with each step from the heel to the toe (she had on a new and favorite pair of shoes) and listening to the regular tap of the heel and creak of the toe as gladly as she had to the sounds of her own voice.
"How charming that Natasha is!" she said again, speaking as some third, collective, male person.
Mamma, it is awful, it is unbearable!
"It is long since we had the pleasure..." began the countess, but Prince Andrew interrupted her by answering her intended question, obviously in haste to say what he had to.
(she grew confused) is agreeable to us, and I accept your offer.
My father, to whom I have told my plans, has made it an express condition of his consent that the wedding is not to take place for a year.
It is true that Natasha is still young, but--so long as that?...
"It is unavoidable," said Prince Andrew with a sigh.
He is asking for your hand, said the countess, coldly it seemed to Natasha.
"Is it possible that this stranger has now become everything to me?" she asked herself, and immediately answered, "Yes, everything!
He alone is now dearer to me than everything in the world.
He is trying to discover something by looking at me!
What if what he seeks in me is not there?
He is a most absent-minded and absurd fellow, but he has a heart of gold.
And what is justice?
Sorrow, it seems, is our common lot, my dear, tender friend Julie.
Your loss is so terrible that I can only explain it to myself as a special providence of God who, loving you, wishes to try you and your excellent mother.
Five years have passed since then, and already I, with my petty understanding, begin to see clearly why she had to die, and in what way that death was but an expression of the infinite goodness of the Creator, whose every action, though generally incomprehensible to us, is but a manifestation of His infinite love for His creatures.
As it is, not only has she left us, and particularly Prince Andrew, with the purest regrets and memories, but probably she will there receive a place I dare not hope for myself.
And His will is governed only by infinite love for us, and so whatever befalls us is for our good.
You will be surprised to hear that the reason for this is Buonaparte!
The case is this: my father's health is growing noticeably worse, he cannot stand any contradiction and is becoming irritable.
This irritability is, as you know, chiefly directed to political questions.
He cannot endure the notion that Buonaparte is negotiating on equal terms with all the sovereigns of Europe and particularly with our own, the grandson of the Great Catherine!
He has realized, it seems to me, that life is not over for him.
I am anxious about him and glad he is taking this trip abroad which the doctors recommended long ago.
You write that in Petersburg he is spoken of as one of the most active, cultivated, and capable of the young men.
The good he has done to everybody here, from his peasants up to the gentry, is incalculable.
I do not think my brother will ever marry again, and certainly not her; and this is why: first, I know that though he rarely speaks about the wife he has lost, the grief of that loss has gone too deep in his heart for him ever to decide to give her a successor and our little angel a stepmother.
Secondly because, as far as I know, that girl is not the kind of girl who could please Prince Andrew.
"Besides," he wrote, "the matter was not then so definitely settled as it is now.
My father then insisted on a delay of a year and now already six months, half of that period, have passed, and my resolution is firmer than ever.
If the doctors did not keep me here at the spas I should be back in Russia, but as it is I have to postpone my return for three months.
"How is it that no one realizes this?" thought Princess Mary.
Fallen man has retained a love of idleness, but the curse weighs on the race not only because we have to seek our bread in the sweat of our brows, but because our moral nature is such that we cannot be both idle and at ease.
And such a state of obligatory and irreproachable idleness is the lot of a whole class--the military.
Thoughts of home grew stronger the nearer he approached it--far stronger, as though this feeling of his was subject to the law by which the force of attraction is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance.
He is an excellent fellow....
I was in love with Boris, with my teacher, and with Denisov, but this is quite different.
His health is very delicate.
And don't attach importance to her being so bright: that's because she's living through the last days of her girlhood, but I know what she is like every time we receive a letter from him!
He is an excellent man!
Papa, he is a blackguard and a thief!
Sonya said you wouldn't go, but I knew that today is the sort of day when you couldn't help going.
"You know it is my greatest pleasure," said Natasha.
"In the first place, Trunila is not a 'dog,' but a harrier," thought Nicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feel the distance that ought to separate them at that moment.
It is not to be!
He is not 'Uncle's' man.
Here it is on my saddle!
"So in your parts, too, the harvest is nothing to boast of, Count?" he went on, continuing the conversation they had begun.
"That black-spotted one of yours is fine--well shaped!" said he.
"Yes, she's fast enough," replied Nicholas, and thought: "If only a full-grown hare would cross the field now I'd show you what sort of borzoi she is," and turning to his groom, he said he would give a ruble to anyone who found a hare.
All I care about is to enjoy seeing the chase, is it not so, Count?
"How is it pointing?" asked Nicholas, riding a hundred paces toward the whip who had sighted the hare.
"But what is there in running across it like that?" said Ilagin's groom.
But when it is, then look out! his appearance seemed to Nicholas to be saying.
"How is it you didn't go head over heels?" asked the boldest of all, addressing Natasha directly.
She's ridden all day like a man, and is as fresh as ever!
Now, hunting is another matter--that's it, come on!
"Nicholas, Nicholas!" she said, turning to her brother, as if asking him: "What is it moves me so?"
Is he glad of it or not?
It is as if he thought my Bolkonski would not approve of or understand our gaiety.
Where is he now? she thought, and her face suddenly became serious.
"What a darling Uncle is!" said Natasha, when they had come out onto the highroad.
"What a darling this Nicholas of mine is!" thought Natasha.
It is your happiness I wish for, she added, feeling that she was telling an untruth and was becoming entangled.
Because Sonya is poor I must not love her," he thought, "must not respond to her faithful, devoted love?
If I love Sonya, that feeling is for me stronger and higher than all else.
"Sonya, what is this?" she cried, twanging a thick string.
There won't then be in me what there is now.
Perhaps he has come and is sitting in the drawing room.
"Ah, here she is!" said the old count, when he saw Natasha enter.
"That is metempsychosis," said Sonya, who had always learned well, and remembered everything.
The soul is immortal--well then, if I shall always live I must have lived before, lived for a whole eternity.
"Why is it hard to imagine eternity?" said Natasha.
It is now today, and it will be tomorrow, and always; and there was yesterday, and the day before...
"How light it is, Nicholas!" came Sonya's voice.
What is it, Nicholas?
But no-- this is something new I've never seen before.
It is something new and enchanted.
"Zakhar is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the left?" thought Nicholas.
Heaven only knows where we are going, and heaven knows what is happening to us--but it is very strange and pleasant whatever it is.
And if this is really Melyukovka, it is still stranger that we drove heaven knows where and have come to Melyukovka, thought Nicholas.
"Who is it?" asked someone in the porch.
Really, how becoming it is to dear Sonya.
And who is that?
"And who is this?" she asked her governess, peering into the face of her own daughter dressed up as a Kazan-Tartar.
I suppose it is one of the Rostovs!
"Now to tell one's fortune in the empty bathhouse is frightening!" said an old maid who lived with the Melyukovs, during supper.
It depends on what you hear; hammering and knocking--that's bad; but a sound of shifting grain is good and one sometimes hears that, too.
"What a darling that girl is!" thought he.
"Sonya, is it well with thee?" he asked from time to time.
I will never let anyone say anything bad of Sonya, for there is nothing but good in her.
"Why is it others see things and I don't?" she said.
"Now, Miss Sonya is sure to see something," whispered Dunyasha; "while you do nothing but laugh."
Is he ill? asked Natasha, her frightened eyes fixed on her friend.
* "He is charming; he has no sex."
"Helene, who has never cared for anything but her own body and is one of the stupidest women in the world," thought Pierre, "is regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they pay homage to her.
But I--what is to become of me? thought he.
"Nothing is trivial, and nothing is important, it's all the same--only to save oneself from it as best one can," thought Pierre.
She is the first person in this house; she's my best friend, cried the prince.
"And if you allow yourself," he screamed in a fury, addressing Princess Mary for the first time, "to forget yourself again before her as you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master in this house.
"He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn him!" she thought at such moments, with a feeling of revulsion against herself.
The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head.
But he could not restrain himself and with the virulence of which only one who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at her and screamed:
The prince's house did not belong to what is known as fashionable society, but his little circle--though not much talked about in town-- was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other.
"Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded," he asked, "so long as its substance is forcible?"
The French are our Gods: Paris is our Kingdom of Heaven.
There now, you turned Metivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees.
Yes, he is an agreeable young man....
Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from Petersburg to Moscow it is usually with the object of marrying an heiress.
At present he is hesitating whom to lay siege to-- you or Mademoiselle Julie Karagina.
He is very attentive to her.
He is very melancholy with Mademoiselle Karagina, said Pierre.
He is kind and generous.
"Ah, how bitter it is to love someone near to you and to feel that..." she went on in a trembling voice, "that you can do nothing for him but grieve him, and to know that you cannot alter this.
Then there is only one thing left--to go away, but where could I go?
What is it, Princess?
I don't know what is the matter with me today.
What is to be done?
The thing is impossible.
I really don't know what sort of girl she is; I can't analyze her at all.
She is enchanting, but what makes her so I don't know.
That is all one can say about her.
"Is she clever?" she asked.
Oh no, she is simply enchanting, and that is all.
* Death gives relief and death is peaceful.
Ah! from suffering there is no other refuge.
It is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness and despair, showing the possibility of consolation.
He has suffered so many disappointments and is so sensitive, said she to the mother.
She is an angelic being!
There was no need to say more: Julie's face shone with triumph and self- satisfaction; but she forced Boris to say all that is said on such occasions--that he loved her and had never loved any other woman more than her.
The old man is here and his son's expected any day.
The son is getting married!
He is here too, with his wife.
Of course Prince Andrew is not a child and can shift without him, but it's not nice to enter a family against a father's will.
God is my witness, I did not know you had honored us with a visit, and I came in such a costume only to see my daughter.
God is my witness, I didn't know-" he repeated, stressing the word "God" so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that Princess Mary stood with downcast eyes not daring to look either at her father or at Natasha.
God is my witness, I did not know, muttered the old man, and after looking Natasha over from head to foot he went out.
"I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now," she said with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears choking her.
"Natasha, what is it about?" she asked.
And he no doubt is calming her jealousy of me.
We never hear a word but Dolokhov is mentioned.
"How like the brother is to the sister," remarked the count.
The whole town is singing their praises and I don't even know them!
How is it you're not ashamed to bury such pearls in the country?
Have you heard he is getting married?
How is he now?
So it is plain that nothing has happened and there is nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still.
He was convinced that, as a duck is so made that it must live in water, so God had made him such that he must spend thirty thousand rubles a year and always occupy a prominent position in society.
God is the same everywhere.
We have an excellent priest, he conducts the service decently and with dignity, and the deacon is the same.
What holiness is there in giving concerts in the choir?
No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count, said she to Count Rostov who had followed her in.
My husband is away in Tver or I would send him to fetch you.
He is madly, quite madly, in love with you, my dear.
If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a reason to shut yourself up.
And she is such a grande dame, so kind, and evidently likes me so much.
Is it my fault that you are enchanting?...
I cannot come to visit you but is it possible that I shall never see you?
It means that he is kind, noble, and splendid, and I could not help loving him.
"Well, friends, I have now thought the whole matter over and this is my advice," she began.
My advice to you is finish your business and go back home to Otradnoe... and wait there.
That is perfectly true.
Though I don't like letting you go, it is the best way.
What I say is true!
"Do not think, however," she wrote, "that my father is ill-disposed toward you.
He is an invalid and an old man who must be forgiven; but he is good and magnanimous and will love her who makes his son happy.
All that has happened, and now all is changed, she thought as she sat with the letter she had begun before her.
"Can it be that it is all over?" she thought.
But with that one nothing is spoiled.
There is no other way for me, the letter began.
He is a deceiver and a villain, that's plain!
So this is the meaning of her excited, resolute, unnatural look the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today, thought Sonya.
Probably she is offended by it.
How is it you have loved a man for a whole year and suddenly...
You know Prince Andrew gave you complete freedom--if it is really so; but I don't believe it!
But if he is dishonorable?
If he is an honorable man he should either declare his intentions or cease seeing you; and if you won't do this, I will.
How dare you say he is dishonorable?
Perhaps all is over between me and Bolkonski.
She is capable of anything.
The count is away.
But what is there to oblige him to reply?
And Uncle is away....
I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a dangerous business, and if you think about it--a stupid business.
"Didn't I explain to you that I have come to this conclusion: if this marriage is invalid," he went on, crooking one finger, "then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no matter!
Why, she'll rush out more dead than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay at all there'll be tears and 'Papa' and 'Mamma,' and she's frozen in a minute and must go back--but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing and carry her to the sleigh.
What is it to me?...
"He is better than any of you!" exclaimed Natasha getting up.
What is it all?
What is the matter with you, my angel?
He could not marry--he is married!
And I will go and tell her it is no use expecting him!
Natasha is not quite well; she's in her room and would like to see you.
Marya Dmitrievna is with her and she too asks you to come.
"Natalya Ilynichna," Pierre began, dropping his eyes with a feeling of pity for her and loathing for the thing he had to do, "whether it is true or not should make no difference to you, because..."
Then it is not true that he's married!
Yes, it is true.
"Is he still here?" she asked, quickly.
"Where you are, there is vice and evil!" said Pierre to his wife.
You promised Countess Rostova to marry her and were about to elope with her, is that so?
Come now, this is stupid.
After all, you must understand that besides your pleasure there is such a thing as other people's happiness and peace, and that you are ruining a whole life for the sake of amusing yourself!
Don't you understand that it is as mean as beating an old man or a child?...
"Is it satisfaction you want?" said Pierre ironically.
"But is it possible that all is really ended?" asked Pierre.
"She is very ill," said Pierre.
"Then she is here still?" said Prince Andrew.
"And where is your brother-in-law now, if I may ask?" he said.
Tell Countess Rostova that she was and is perfectly free and that I wish her all that is good.
One hasn't the heart to scold her, she is so much to be pitied.
"Peter Kirilovich," she began rapidly, "Prince Bolkonski was your friend--is your friend," she corrected herself.
He is here now: tell him... to for... forgive me!
"No, I know all is over," she said hurriedly.
We won't speak of it, my dear--I'll tell him everything; but one thing I beg of you, consider me your friend and if you want help, advice, or simply to open your heart to someone--not now, but when your mind is clearer think of me!
All is over for me, she replied with shame and self- abasement.
On the twelfth of June, 1812, the forces of Western Europe crossed the Russian frontier and war began, that is, an event took place opposed to human reason and to human nature.
To us it is incomprehensible that millions of Christian men killed and tortured each other either because Napoleon was ambitious or Alexander was firm, or because England's policy was astute or the Duke of Oldenburg wronged.
We are forced to fall back on fatalism as an explanation of irrational events (that is to say, events the reasonableness of which we do not understand).
Man lives consciously for himself, but is an unconscious instrument in the attainment of the historic, universal, aims of humanity.
A deed done is irrevocable, and its result coinciding in time with the actions of millions of other men assumes an historic significance.
The higher a man stands on the social ladder, the more people he is connected with and the more power he has over others, the more evident is the predestination and inevitability of his every action.
The king's heart is in the hands of the Lord.
A king is history's slave.
History, that is, the unconscious, general, hive life of mankind, uses every moment of the life of kings as a tool for its own purposes.
Nothing is the cause.
All this is only the coincidence of conditions in which all vital organic and elemental events occur.
And the botanist who finds that the apple falls because the cellular tissue decays and so forth is equally right with the child who stands under the tree and says the apple fell because he wanted to eat it and prayed for it.
Equally right or wrong is he who says that Napoleon went to Moscow because he wanted to, and perished because Alexander desired his destruction, and he who says that an undermined hill weighing a million tons fell because the last navvy struck it for the last time with his mattock.
Every act of theirs, which appears to them an act of their own will, is in an historical sense involuntary and is related to the whole course of history and predestined from eternity.
Before leaving, Napoleon showed favor to the emperor, kings, and princes who had deserved it, reprimanded the kings and princes with whom he was dissatisfied, presented pearls and diamonds of his own--that is, which he had taken from other kings--to the Empress of Austria, and having, as his historian tells us, tenderly embraced the Empress Marie Louise--who regarded him as her husband, though he had left another wife in Paris--left her grieved by the parting which she seemed hardly able to bear.
There he is, do you see him?
"Where is your dispatch?" he inquired.
"You will be treated as is fitting," said he and, putting the packet in his pocket, left the shed.
And you offer me negotiations when I have expended millions, when you are in alliance with England, and when your position is a bad one.
Barclay is said to be the most capable of them all, but I cannot say so, judging by his first movements.
Bagration alone is a military man.
And what role is your young monarch playing in that monstrous crowd?
A sovereign should not be with the army unless he is a general! said Napoleon, evidently uttering these words as a direct challenge to the Emperor.
Your army is grumbling.
To the alleged insanity of the Swedes, Balashev wished to reply that when Russia is on her side Sweden is practically an island: but Napoleon gave an angry exclamation to drown his voice.
Napoleon was in that state of irritability in which a man has to talk, talk, and talk, merely to convince himself that he is in the right.
Yes, that is what will happen to you.
That is what you have gained by alienating me!
Is it true that Moscow is called 'Holy Moscow'?
Is it true that Moscow is called 'Holy Moscow'?
"But a large number of monasteries and churches is always a sign of the backwardness of a people," said Napoleon, turning to Caulaincourt for appreciation of this remark.
"But nowhere in Europe is there anything like that," said Napoleon.
"I beg your Majesty's pardon," returned Balashev, "besides Russia there is Spain, where there are also many churches and monasteries."
"If there is a point we don't see it, or it is not at all witty," their expressions seemed to say.
What is the good of that?
If there is any misunderstanding and discord between you and Mary, I can't blame her for it at all.
Why do you say that, when you are going to this terrible war, and he is so old?
Don't imagine that sorrow is the work of men.
Sorrow is sent by Him, not by men.
That is a woman's virtue.
"If Mary is already persuading me to forgive, it means that I ought long ago to have punished him," he thought.
She, poor innocent creature, is left to be victimized by an old man who has outlived his wits.
The old man feels he is guilty, but cannot change himself.
My boy is growing up and rejoices in life, in which like everybody else he will deceive or be deceived.
Already from his military experience and what he had seen in the Austrian campaign, he had come to the conclusion that in war the most deeply considered plans have no significance and that all depends on the way unexpected movements of the enemy--that cannot be foreseen--are met, and on how and by whom the whole matter is handled.
The only reasonable thing left to do is to conclude peace as soon as possible, before we are turned out of Petersburg.
"Be he what he may" (they always began like that), "he is an honest, practical man and we have nobody better.
If our army is well organized and strong and has withdrawn to Drissa without suffering any defeats, we owe this entirely to Barclay.
If Barclay is now to be superseded by Bennigsen all will be lost, for Bennigsen showed his incapacity already in 1807.
A Frenchman is self-assured because he regards himself personally, both in mind and body, as irresistibly attractive to men and women.
An Italian is self-assured because he is excitable and easily forgets himself and other people.
A Russian is self-assured just because he knows nothing and does not want to know anything, since he does not believe that anything can be known.
He said a few words to Prince Andrew and Chernyshev about the present war, with the air of a man who knows beforehand that all will go wrong, and who is not displeased that it should be so.
There is nothing to mend!
What is the difficulty?
Wolzogen took his place and continued to explain his views in French, every now and then turning to Pfuel and saying, "Is it not so, your excellency?"
Well, of course, what more is there to explain?
What theory and science is possible about a matter the conditions and circumstances of which are unknown and cannot be defined, especially when the strength of the acting forces cannot be ascertained?
No one was or is able to foresee in what condition our or the enemy's armies will be in a day's time, and no one can gauge the force of this or that detachment.
Armfeldt says our army is cut in half, and Paulucci says we have got the French army between two fires; Michaud says that the worthlessness of the Drissa camp lies in having the river behind it, and Pfuel says that is what constitutes its strength; Toll proposes one plan, Armfeldt another, and they are all good and all bad, and the advantages of any suggestions can be seen only at the moment of trial.
Is a man a genius who can order bread to be brought up at the right time and say who is to go to the right and who to the left?
Is a man a genius who can order bread to be brought up at the right time and say who is to go to the right and who to the left?
It is only because military men are invested with pomp and power and crowds of sychophants flatter power, attributing to it qualities of genius it does not possess.
God forbid that he should be humane, should love, or pity, or think of what is just and unjust.
My stockings and shirt... and the water is running on my seat!
He is sleeping well as it is, after a sleepless night.
It is not the sugar I want, but only that your little hand should stir my tea.
"This is my cup," said he.
"Well, but supposing Mary Hendrikhovna is 'King'?" asked Ilyin.
As it is, she is Queen, and her word is law!
"She really is a dear little thing," said Rostov to Ilyin, who was following him.
"But what on earth is worrying me?" he asked himself as he rode back from the general.
So that's all there is in what is called heroism!
This simple thought could not occur to the doctors (as it cannot occur to a wizard that he is unable to work his charms) because the business of their lives was to cure, and they received money for it and had spent the best years of their lives on that business.
A child knocks itself and runs at once to the arms of its mother or nurse to have the aching spot rubbed or kissed, and it feels better when this is done.
Even at ten o'clock, when the Rostovs got out of their carriage at the chapel, the sultry air, the shouts of hawkers, the light and gay summer clothes of the crowd, the dusty leaves of the trees on the boulevard, the sounds of the band and the white trousers of a battalion marching to parade, the rattling of wheels on the cobblestones, and the brilliant, hot sunshine were all full of that summer languor, that content and discontent with the present, which is most strongly felt on a bright, hot day in town.
In chapter 13, verse 18, of the Apocalypse, it is said:
Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.
"I want to try to sing again," she said, adding as if by way of excuse, "it is, at least, something to do."
"Count, is it wrong of me to sing?" she said blushing, and fixing her eyes inquiringly on him.
The Emperor is to be here tomorrow... there's to be an Extraordinary Meeting of the nobility, and they are talking of a levy of ten men per thousand.
Where is the manifesto?
"There he is, always losing everything!" remarked the countess.
It is becoming dangerous to speak French in the streets.
"What a darling our Papa is!" she cried, kissing him, and she again looked at Pierre with the unconscious coquetry that had returned to her with her better spirits.
Fedya Obolenski is younger than I, and he's going too.
Petya stopped short, flushed till he perspired, but still got out the words, "when our Fatherland is in danger."
Because it is better for me to come less often... because...
"So this is what the Emperor is!" thought Petya.
"Yes, and this is not a time for discussing," he continued, "but for acting: there is war in Russia!
"He is the enemy of mankind!" cried another.
Prince Andrew is in a position to know...
I have said and still say that the theater of war is Poland and the enemy will never get beyond the Niemen.
Yes, he writes that the French were beaten at... at... what river is it?
"And Alpatych is being sent to Smolensk?" asked Princess Mary.
'One man though undone is but one,' as the proverb says, but with thirteen in your family and all the property...
Still, as the prince is unwell my advice is that they should go to Moscow.
Noticing him, an officer said: The town is being abandoned.
"Russia is done for!" he cried.
Smolensk is being abandoned.
He is my refuge!
The old man was still sitting in the ornamental garden, like a fly impassive on the face of a loved one who is dead, tapping the last on which he was making the bast shoe, and two little girls, running out from the hot house carrying in their skirts plums they had plucked from the trees there, came upon Prince Andrew.
It is disgraceful, a stain on our army, and as for him, he ought, it seems to me, not to live.
If he reports that our losses were great, it is not true; perhaps about four thousand, not more, and not even that; but even were they ten thousand, that's war!
There is a rumor that you are thinking of peace.
It is clear that the man who advocates the conclusion of a peace, and that the Minister should command the army, does not love our sovereign and desires the ruin of us all.
For the Minister is leading these visitors after him to Moscow in a most masterly way.
He is said to be more Napoleon's man than ours, and he is always advising the Minister.
This is painful, but, loving my benefactor and sovereign, I submit.
That life of the salons is unchanging.
Now, is it suitable that Count Kutuzov, the oldest general in Russia, should preside at that tribunal?
Prince Kutuzov is field marshal!
"But, Prince, they say he is blind!" said he, reminding Prince Vasili of his own words.
He is a second autocrat, he concluded with a victorious smile.
It is said that the Emperor was reluctant to give Kutuzov those powers.
Oh, a very wise man is Prince Kutuzov!
He is as right as other historians who look for the explanation of historic events in the will of one man; he is as right as the Russian historians who maintain that Napoleon was drawn to Moscow by the skill of the Russian commanders.
A good chessplayer having lost a game is sincerely convinced that his loss resulted from a mistake he made and looks for that mistake in the opening, but forgets that at each stage of the game there were similar mistakes and that none of his moves were perfect.
How much more complex than this is the game of war, which occurs under certain limits of time, and where it is not one will that manipulates lifeless objects, but everything results from innumerable conflicts of various wills!
He is a very shrewd and garrulous fellow.
"He is a little better today," said he.
One can make out something of what he is saying.
His head is clearer.
Come in, he is asking for you...
What use will peace be when he is no longer here?
No, he is no more!
His excellency Prince Andrew himself gave me orders to move all the people away and not leave them with the enemy, and there is an order from the Tsar about it too.
Anyone who stays is a traitor to the Tsar.
"The power is in your hands," Dron rejoined sadly.
What is it you have got into your heads, eh?...
He had managed people for a long time and knew that the chief way to make them obey is to show no suspicion that they can possibly disobey.
He is gone and no one will hinder you, she said to herself, and sinking into a chair she let her head fall on the window sill.
"Besides, is it for me, for me who desired his death, to condemn anyone?" she thought.
"Your position is doubly terrible, dear princess," said Mademoiselle Bourienne after a pause.
Is it possible to plan or think of anything now?
Is it not all the same? she thought, and did not reply.
Is it true, as they tell me, that I can't even go away?
As it is, some go three days without eating.
"The landlord's grain is all safe," replied Dron proudly.
Give them that corn if there is enough of it.
I give this order in my brother's name; and tell them that what is ours is theirs.
"What is a trick?" asked Princess Mary in surprise.
I know it is, only listen to me for God's sake!
That is our common misfortune, and I shall grudge nothing to help you.
Ours is a common misfortune and we will share it together.
All that is mine is yours, she concluded, scanning the faces before her.
If you think something more is wanted, tell me!
What is he thinking now?
Is there any hay here?
"The French," replied Ilyin jestingly, "and here is Napoleon himself"-- and he pointed to Lavrushka.
"And is there a large force of you here?" said another, a short man, coming up.
Is it a holiday?
"The one in pink is mine, so keep off!" said Ilyin on seeing Dunyasha running resolutely toward him.
Well, is she pretty?
Ah, friend--my pink one is delicious; her name is Dunyasha....
Who is your Elder here?
Well, what is it?
Kutuzov swayed his head, as much as to say: "How is one man to deal with it all?" and again listened to Denisov.
He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness.
'When wood is chopped the chips will fly.'
I know your path is the path of honor!
It is not difficult to capture a fortress but it is difficult to win a campaign.
But believe me, my dear boy, there is nothing stronger than those two: patience and time, they will do it all.
What pleasure is there to be so caustique?
'What pleasure is there to be' is not Russian!
"Ah, here he is!" she added.
And he is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean.
Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now.
You don't think Moscow is in danger?
I am going because... well, because everyone is going: and besides--I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon.
Natalie is quite well again now, isn't she?
He joined Obolenski's Cossacks and went to Belaya Tserkov where the regiment is being formed.
Natalie has recovered her looks and is brighter.
* It is the talk of all Moscow.
What is 'the talk of all Moscow'?
She is going to their estate near Moscow either today or tomorrow morning, with her nephew.
"Well, and how is she?" asked Pierre.
She is well, but sad.
It is quite a romance.
Catiche is one and Princess Bolkonskaya another.
What is going to happen?
How is it that we are staying on?
Everything is quiet in the city and there is not the slightest danger.
He is a hypocrite, a rascal who has himself roused the people to riot.
This is what his cajolery has brought us to!
As soon as Leppich is ready, get together a crew of reliable and intelligent men for his car and send a courier to General Kutuzov to let him know.
It is essential for him to combine his movements with those of the commander-in-chief.
What is it for? he kept asking.
What is your pleasure?
If it is said that he expected to end the campaign by occupying Moscow as he had ended a previous campaign by occupying Vienna, there is much evidence to the contrary.
So the histories say, and it is all quite wrong, as anyone who cares to look into the matter can easily convince himself.
Not only did the Russians not fortify the position on the field of Borodino to the left of, and at a right angle to, the highroad (that is, the position on which the battle took place), but never till the twenty- fifth of August, 1812, did they think that a battle might be fought there.
The battle of Borodino was not fought on a chosen and entrenched position with forces only slightly weaker than those of the enemy, but, as a result of the loss of the Shevardino Redoubt, the Russians fought the battle of Borodino on an open and almost unentrenched position, with forces only half as numerous as the French; that is to say, under conditions in which it was not merely unthinkable to fight for ten hours and secure an indecisive result, but unthinkable to keep an army even from complete disintegration and flight.
Ah, I also wanted to ask you where our position is exactly? said Pierre.
Drive past Tatarinova, a lot of digging is going on there.
"May I ask you," said Pierre, "what village that is in front?"
It was ours yesterday, but now it is his.
Our right flank is over there"--he pointed sharply to the right, far away in the broken ground--"That's where the Moskva River is, and we have thrown up three redoubts there, very strong ones.
Yesterday our left flank was there at Shevardino, you see, where the oak is, but now we have withdrawn our left wing--now it is over there, do you see that village and the smoke?
His having moved his troops there is only a ruse; he will probably pass round to the right of the Moskva.
"This is what you must do," said Boris.
Well, you can do that later, but the chief thing is the left flank.
But where is Prince Bolkonski's regiment?
"To tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state our left flank is in," said Boris confidentially lowering his voice.
It is not at all what Count Bennigsen intended.
It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the intentions of the French!
Yes, exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong.
And it is all so simple, pale, and crude in the cold white light of this morning which I feel is dawning for me.
Princess Mary says it is a trial sent from above.
What is the trial for, when he is not here and will never return?
He is not here!
For whom then is the trial intended?
"Yes--that is, how do you mean?" said Pierre.
It is very sound: one can't permit the land to be pillaged and accustom the troops to marauding.
He had no thought of betraying us, he tried to do the best he could, he thought out everything, and that is why he is unsuitable.
He is unsuitable now, just because he plans out everything very thoroughly and accurately as every German has to.
Well, say your father has a German valet, and he is a splendid valet and satisfies your father's requirements better than you could, then it's all right to let him serve.
While Russia was well, a foreigner could serve her and be a splendid minister; but as soon as she is in danger she needs one of her own kin.
He is an honest and very punctilious German.
"I don't understand what is meant by 'a skillful commander,'" replied Prince Andrew ironically.
"On the feeling that is in me and in him," he pointed to Timokhin, "and in each soldier."
The fact is that those men with whom you have ridden round the position not only do not help matters, but hinder.
For me tomorrow means this: a Russian army of a hundred thousand and a French army of a hundred thousand have met to fight, and the thing is that these two hundred thousand men will fight and the side that fights more fiercely and spares itself least will win.
* "Oh, yes, the only aim is to weaken the enemy, so of course one cannot take into account the loss of private individuals."
As it is we have played at war--that's what's vile!
Such magnanimity and sensibility are like the magnanimity and sensibility of a lady who faints when she sees a calf being killed: she is so kindhearted that she can't look at blood, but enjoys eating the calf served up with sauce.
Then all these Westphalians and Hessians whom Napoleon is leading would not follow him into Russia, and we should not go to fight in Austria and Prussia without knowing why.
War is not courtesy but the most horrible thing in life; and we ought to understand that and not play at war.
As it is now, war is the favorite pastime of the idle and frivolous.
The military calling is the most highly honored.
But what is war?
What is needed for success in warfare?
The habits of the military class are the absence of freedom, that is, discipline, idleness, ignorance, cruelty, debauchery, and drunkenness.
And in spite of all this it is the highest class, respected by everyone.
And I know that this is our last meeting!
And I?... and he is still alive and gay!
Well, what is Paris saying? he asked, suddenly changing his former stern expression for a most cordial tone.
This is the battle you have so longed for.
It is essential for us; it will give us all we need: comfortable quarters and a speedy return to our country.
It is too soon for him to see a field of battle.
The commander of the artillery of the 3rd Corps, General Fouche, will place the howitzers of the 3rd and 8th Corps, sixteen in all, on the flanks of the battery that is to bombard the entrenchment on the left, which will have forty guns in all directed against it.
During the cannonade Prince Poniatowski is to advance through the wood on the village and turn the enemy's position.
In the disposition it is said first that the batteries placed on the spot chosen by Napoleon, with the guns of Pernetti and Fouche; which were to come in line with them, 102 guns in all, were to open fire and shower shells on the Russian fleches and redoubts.
But in the disposition it is said that, after the fight has commenced in this manner, orders will be given in accordance with the enemy's movements, and so it might be supposed that all necessary arrangements would be made by Napoleon during the battle.
The matter is in my hands and is clear and definite in my head.
The wine is drawn and must be drunk.
This cold is tiresome.
They talk about medicine--what is the good of medicine when it can't cure a cold!
It is organized for that, it is its nature.
Our body is like a perfect watch that should go for a certain time; the watchmaker cannot open it, he can only adjust it by fumbling, and that blindfold....
Yes, our body is just a machine for living, that is all.
"Do you know, Rapp, what military art is?" asked he.
It is the art of being stronger than the enemy at a given moment.
We can get a view from there and in our battery it is still bearable, said the adjutant.
"Is the general here?" asked the adjutant on reaching the knoll.
The sergeant ran up to the officer and in a frightened whisper informed him (as a butler at dinner informs his master that there is no more of some wine asked for) that there were no more charges.
In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake.
Yes, it was like a dream in which a man fancies that a ruffian is coming to attack him, and raises his arm to strike that ruffian a terrible blow which he knows should annihilate him, but then feels that his arm drops powerless and limp like a rag, and the horror of unavoidable destruction seizes him in his helplessness.
The battle is won, and there is nothing extraordinary in the capture of Murat.
Still, it is better to wait before we rejoice.
"All the points of our position are in the enemy's hands and we cannot dislodge them for lack of troops, the men are running away and it is impossible to stop them," he reported.
Tell General Barclay from me that his information is incorrect and that the real course of the battle is better known to me, the commander-in-chief, than to him.
"Ah, here he is, my hero!" said Kutuzov to a portly, handsome, dark- haired general who was just ascending the knoll.
"On the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always the most stubborn who remain victors," replied Raevski, "and in my opinion..."
"Here it comes... this one is coming our way again!" he thought, listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke.
Why is he here? said Prince Andrew to himself.
Yes, it is he!
Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully connected with me, thought Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping what he saw before him.
"What is the connection of that man with my childhood and life?" he asked himself without finding an answer.
But now it is too late.
"Our fire is mowing them down by rows, but still they hold on," said the adjutant.
And he fell back into that artificial realm of imaginary greatness, and again--as a horse walking a treadmill thinks it is doing something for itself--he submissively fulfilled the cruel, sad, gloomy, and inhuman role predestined for him.
To speak of what would have happened had Napoleon sent his Guards is like talking of what would happen if autumn became spring.
Not that sort of victory which is defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the Russians at Borodino.
Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind.
To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of history.
But however small the units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others, or to assume a beginning of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of many men is expressed by the actions of any one historic personage, is in itself false.
It is merely necessary to select some larger or smaller unit as the subject of observation--as criticism has every right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be arbitrarily selected.
Men leave their customary pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive movement which first increases and then slackens.
But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger.
Whenever I look at my watch and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring church; but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock reach ten, I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is caused by the position of the hands of the watch.
But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds.
A commander-in-chief is never dealing with the beginning of any event--the position from which we always contemplate it.
Moment by moment the event is imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous, uninterrupted shaping of events the commander-in-chief is in the midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries, contingencies, authorities, projects, counsels, threats, and deceptions and is continually obliged to reply to innumerable questions addressed to him, which constantly conflict with one another.
A commander-in-chief's business, it would seem, is simply to choose one of these projects.
For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to cross to the Kaluga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from Miloradovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire.
From all this talk he saw only one thing: that to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the battle would still not take place.
Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless!
The question I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one.
The question is that of saving Russia.
Is it better to give up Moscow without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as Moscow?
That is the question on which I want your opinion, and he sank back in his chair.
Moving troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military history supports that view.
"Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken crockery," said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table.
At that very time, in circumstances even more important than retreating without a battle, namely the evacuation and burning of Moscow, Rostopchin, who is usually represented as being the instigator of that event, acted in an altogether different manner from Kutuzov.
"It is disgraceful to run away from danger; only cowards are running away from Moscow," they were told.
It is impossible to suppose that Rostopchin had scared them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had committed in conquered countries.
A woman sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward!
"Well, yes," said she, "it may be that he has other sentiments for me than those of a father, but that is not a reason for me to shut my door on him.
But the question is again a twofold one: firstly...
It is done in all the brothels, and with these words Marya Dmitrievna, turning up her wide sleeves with her usual threatening gesture and glancing sternly round, moved across the room.
That is all I have to say, and concealing his unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his daughter's and move away.
Une maitresse-femme! * That's what is called putting things squarely.
She consulted a Russian priest as to the possibility of divorce and remarriage during a husband's lifetime, and the priest told her that it was impossible, and to her delight showed her a text in the Gospel which (as it seemed to him) plainly forbids remarriage while the husband is alive.
"But it says plainly: 'Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced...'" said the old princess.
Oh, Mamma, how is it you don't understand that the Holy Father, who has the right to grant dispensations...
"Yes, she is right," thought the old princess, all her convictions dissipated by the appearance of His Highness.
She is right, but how is it that we in our irrecoverable youth did not know it?
How is it you are on foot?
"Thank God, there is no more of that!" he thought, covering up his head again.
Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded to it!
Yes, that is he!
It is my benefactor.
How sorry I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive again!
"It is dawn," thought Pierre.
"To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man's freedom to the law of God," the voice had said.
The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden.
The hardest thing (Pierre went on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to unite the meaning of all.
Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts together is what we need!
Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness.
We must harness, it is time to harness....
"What is it?" asked Pierre.
An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye.
"But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the town," said Pierre, "and that the position..."
"And who is that?" he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.
That's a tradesman, that is to say, he's the restaurant keeper, Vereshchagin.
"Oh, so that is Vereshchagin!" said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.
The young man is in prison and I expect it will go hard with him.
And the point is that we knew whom he had it from.
But the point is that the count was much annoyed.
He attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match for him.
"That is for me to know, but not for you to ask," shouted Rostopchin.
"If he is accused of circulating Napoleon's proclamation it is not proved that he did so," said Pierre without looking at Rostopchin, "and Vereshchagin..."
"Vereshchagin is a renegade and a traitor who will be punished as he deserves," said he with the vindictive heat with which people speak when recalling an insult.
My head is sometimes in a whirl.
Oh, by the by!" he shouted through the doorway after Pierre, "is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers of the Society of Jesus?"
Simplicity is submission to God.
Suffering is necessary... the meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married...
The Rostovs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is, till the eve of the enemy's entry into the city.
Above all, they were gay because there was a war near Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being given out, everybody was escaping--going away somewhere, and in general something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting, especially to the young.
"Here is our commanding officer... ask him," and he pointed to a stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.
The club is closed and the police are leaving.
"Papa, is it all right--I've invited some of the wounded into the house?" said Natasha.
"Of course it is," he answered absently.
"What a young lady she is!" remarked the major-domo.
"Is he very ill?" she asked.
Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow--the rabble, that is the poor people, and the price of commodities.
"Well, Vasilich, is everything ready?" asked the count, and stroking his bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and nodded to them.
What is it, gentlemen? he added, turning to the officer.
What is this, my dear?
I hear that the luggage is being unloaded.
What business is it of yours? muttered the count angrily.
"What business is it of yours?" cried the count.
Is the army retreating or will there be another battle?
The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so to say, have now assembled in council.
No one knows what is coming.
'Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!'
I have just been told that nothing is ready yet.
I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a small chiffonier and a dressing table.
"Mamma, it's impossible: see what is going on in the yard!" she cried.
Only look what is going on in the yard...
My dear, you order what is right....
They can have my trap, or else what is to become of them?
"Whose caleche is that?" she inquired, leaning out of the carriage window.
The wounded prince: he spent the night in our house and is going with us.
But who is it?
They say he is dying, replied the maid with a sigh.
"Mamma," said Sonya, "Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded.
He is going with us.
"Natasha does not know yet, but he is going with us," said Sonya.
You say he is dying?
If everything is ready let us start.
Is it something very bad for me?
What is it? persisted Natasha with her quick intuition.
Yes, it really is Bezukhov in a coachman's coat, with a queer-looking old boy.
This is wonderful! she cried, holding out her hand to him.
"What is the matter, Count?" asked the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone.
But what is the matter with you, Count?
This is how it happened.
Makar Alexeevich, the brother of my late master--may the kingdom of heaven be his--has remained here, but he is in a weak state as you know, said the old servant.
Is the cabman to be discharged, your honor?
"Look here," he added, taking Gerasim by a button of his coat and looking down at the old man with moist, shining, and ecstatic eyes, "I say, do you know that there is going to be a battle tomorrow?"
Here it is then at last, that famous city.
"A town captured by the enemy is like a maid who has lost her honor," thought he (he had said so to Tuchkov at Smolensk).
Here is this capital at my feet.
"Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men," he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and forming up.
From the height of the Kremlin--yes, there is the Kremlin, yes--I will give them just laws; I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember their conqueror with love.
Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the city so long in appearing? he wondered.
But one has only to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it.
There is no longer the measured quiet sound of throbbing activity, like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant sounds of disorder.
All is neglected and foul.
They have almost all died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is now no more.
There is no getting them together.
When one's head is gone one doesn't weep for one's hair!
What is it? he asked, but his comrade was already galloping off past Vasili the Beatified in the direction from which the screams came.
Is that what you're here for?
Nothing's cleared away down there and Vasilich is worn out.
Robbery is not permitted to anybody now a days! shouted the publican, picking up his cap.
He must keep order, keep the law, that's what the government is there for.
That's what the government is for.
"Your honor..." replied the shopman in the frieze coat, "your honor, in accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of riot, but as his highest excellence said..."
"The count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued concerning you," said the superintendent of police.
One need only admit that public tranquillity is in danger and any action finds a justification.
Who is to blame for it?
And this is what they have let it come to!
"Is my carriage ready?" asked Rostopchin, stepping back from the window.
"It is, your excellency," replied the adjutant.
But it is a turbulent crowd, your excellency--I hardly managed to get away from it.
This is what they have done with Russia!
This is what they have done with me! thought he, full of an irrepressible fury that welled up within him against the someone to whom what was happening might be attributed.
"Here is that mob, the dregs of the people," he thought as he gazed at the crowd: "this rabble they have roused by their folly!
"Is the carriage ready?" he asked again.
He is waiting at the porch, said the adjutant.
He'll show you what law is! the mob were saying as if reproving one another for their lack of confidence.
"Where is he?" he inquired.
This man, Vereshchagin, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing.
One God is above us both....
"The mob is terrible--disgusting," he said to himself in French.
One God is above us both!--Vereshchagin's words suddenly recurred to him, and a disagreeable shiver ran down his back.
To a man not swayed by passion that welfare is never certain, but he who commits such a crime always knows just where that welfare lies.
Is that their Tsar himself?
No masters of the houses being found anywhere, the French were not billeted on the inhabitants as is usual in towns but lived in it as in a camp.
When water is spilled on dry ground both the dry ground and the water disappear and mud results; and in the same way the entry of the famished army into the rich and deserted city resulted in fires and looting and the destruction of both the army and the wealthy city.
In peacetime it is only necessary to billet troops in the villages of any district and the number of fires in that district immediately increases.
Moscow was burned by its inhabitants, it is true, but by those who had abandoned it and not by those who remained in it.
Pierre's physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his mental state.
But that is all the same!
'It is not I but the hand of Providence that punishes thee,' I shall say, thought he, imagining what he would say when killing Napoleon.
He is an unfortunate madman who did not know what he was doing.
"Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen," said he.
That is all I can say.
That is enough for me.
That is all I ask.
Here is one I got at Wagram" (he touched his side) "and a second at Smolensk"--he showed a scar on his cheek--"and this leg which as you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great battle of la Moskowa.
Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow?
A man who doesn't know Paris is a savage.
Paris is Talma, la Duchenois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards," and noticing that his conclusion was weaker than what had gone before, he added quickly: "There is only one Paris in the world.
What a wretched idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in Moscow.
"The Emperor," Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and embarrassed, "is the Emperor...?"
He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius--that's what the Emperor is!
It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so....
When I understood what he wanted--when I saw that he was preparing a bed of laurels for us, you know, I said to myself: 'That is a monarch,' and I devoted myself to him!
Oh yes, mon cher, he is the greatest man of the ages past or future.
Is he in Moscow?
"The colonel of those Wurttembergers is delightful," he suddenly said.
What is the German for 'shelter'?
The German for shelter is Unterkunft.
It is for life and death.
"Yes, my dear friend," he began, "such is fortune's caprice.
I must tell you, mon cher," he continued in the sad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, "that our name is one of the most ancient in France."
But all that is only life's setting, the real thing is love--love!
"There now, how good it is, what more does one need?" thought he.
It's more to the left, why, Little Mytishchi is over there, and this is right on the other side.
"Moscow it is, brothers," said he.
"Look, Natasha, how dreadfully it is burning!" said she.
Is Timokhin here? he asked.
"But perhaps that's my shirt on the table," he thought, "and that's my legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing itself out, and 'piti-piti-piti' and 'ti-ti' and 'piti-piti-piti'...?
I experienced that feeling of love which is the very essence of the soul and does not require an object.
It is possible to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved by divine love.
That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that I loved that man.
It is the very essence of the soul.
"Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is," thought Prince Andrew, trying to drive that face from his imagination.
My youngest daughter is left behind.
But this is a monster and neither a man nor a father!
This is what we have brought away....
The icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost.
Which is your house? he asked.
Perhaps it's his brat that the fellow is looking for.
There is your child!
Whose child is it? they asked him.
"He says 'a woman,' and Mary Nikolievna is a lady," remarked a house serf.
"And ask him who he is," he added.
"She is bringing me my daughter whom I have just saved from the flames," said he.
They say the poor countess is very ill.
The doctor says it is angina pectoris.
The count is pathetic, they say.
Oh, it would be a terrible loss, she is an enchanting woman.
I sent to ask for news, and hear that she is a little better.
Oh, she is certainly the most charming woman in the world, she went on, with a smile at her own enthusiasm.
She is very unfortunate! added Anna Pavlovna.
"Your information may be better than mine," Anna Pavlovna suddenly and venomously retorted on the inexperienced young man, "but I know on good authority that this doctor is a very learned and able man.
He is private physician to the Queen of Spain.
This icon of the Venerable Sergius, the servant of God and zealous champion of old of our country's weal, is offered to Your Imperial Majesty.
It is very difficult for events to be reflected in their real strength and completeness amid the conditions of court life and far from the scene of action.
He writes that he is regretfully abandoning Moscow.
Russia will shudder to learn of the abandonment of the city in which her greatness is centered and in which lie the ashes of your ancestors!
Yes, sire, and Moscow is now in ashes.
I see, Colonel, from all that is happening, that Providence requires great sacrifices of us...
"How is that?" the Emperor interrupted him, frowning sternly.
"Sire!" said he, "Your Majesty is at this moment signing the glory of the nation and the salvation of Europe!"
We are at home on Thursdays--today is Thursday, so please come and see us quite informally, said the governor, taking leave of him.
Everything seemed to him pleasant and easy during that first part of his stay in Voronezh and, as usually happens when a man is in a pleasant state of mind, everything went well and easily.
She is here in Voronezh with her aunt.
What a charming girl she is, really!
And she is not at all so plain, either.
Well then, remember, this is not a joke!
One is sorry for the husband, really....
What is it, my dear?
You see, Aunt, Mamma has long wanted me to marry an heiress, but the very idea of marrying for money is repugnant to me.
"All the same, Aunt, it is impossible," he rejoined with a sigh, after a short pause.
And besides, she is now in mourning.
There is always a right way of doing things, replied the governor's wife.
Either black is particularly becoming to her or she really has greatly improved without my having noticed it.
When a pause occurred during his short visit, Nicholas, as is usual when there are children, turned to Prince Andrew's little son, caressing him and asking whether he would like to be an hussar.
He had pictured each of those young ladies as almost all honest-hearted young men do, that is, as a possible wife, adapting her in his imagination to all the conditions of married life: a white dressing gown, his wife at the tea table, his wife's carriage, little ones, Mamma and Papa, their relations to her, and so on--and these pictures of the future had given him pleasure.
"There is one thing I wanted to tell you, Princess," said Rostov.
Sonya, dovey, everything is as it used to be.
What is it? asked Natasha.
"Oh, I don't know, it is all so strange," replied Sonya, clutching at her head.
"He is a Russian spy," Davout interrupted, addressing another general who was present, but whom Pierre had not noticed.
But who, after all, is doing this?
Who then is it?
Don't fret, friend--'suffer an hour, live for an age!' that's how it is, my dear fellow.
My name is Platon, and the surname is Karataev, he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre to address him.
How is one to help feeling sad?
The great thing is to live in harmony....
That's how it is, dear fellow.
Our luck is like water in a dragnet: you pull at it and it bulges, but when you've drawn it out it's empty!
He did not sing like a trained singer who knows he is listened to, but like the birds, evidently giving vent to the sounds in the same way that one stretches oneself or walks about to get rid of stiffness, and the sounds were always high-pitched, mournful, delicate, and almost feminine, and his face at such times was very serious.
Sometimes Pierre, struck by the meaning of his words, would ask him to repeat them, but Platon could never recall what he had said a moment before, just as he never could repeat to Pierre the words of his favorite song: native and birch tree and my heart is sick occurred in it, but when spoken and not sung, no meaning could be got out of it.
"How is the prince?" she asked.
His excellency is staying in the same house with them.
"Then he is alive," thought Princess Mary, and asked in a low voice: "How is he?"
The servants say he is still the same.
"The doctor says that he is not in danger," said the countess, but as she spoke she raised her eyes with a sigh, and her gesture conveyed a contradiction of her words.
Is this his son? said the countess, turning to little Nicholas who was coming in with Dessalles.
There will be room for everybody, this is a big house.
"This is my niece," said the count, introducing Sonya--"You don't know her, Princess?"
"Where is he?" she asked again, addressing them all.
Natasha is with him, answered Sonya, flushing.
But how is his wound?
What is his general condition?
Is it long since he grew worse?
I don't know why, but you will see what he is like.
In his words, his tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible in one who is alive.
He is always talking about you!
Is he quite well?
"Is it about Nicholas?" he asked.
She had learned to knit stockings since Prince Andrew had casually mentioned that no one nursed the sick so well as old nurses who knit stockings, and that there is something soothing in the knitting of stockings.
What is love? he thought.
Everything is, everything exists, only because I love.
Everything is united by it alone.
Yes, death is an awakening!
"Is it over?" said Princess Mary when his body had for a few minutes lain motionless, growing cold before them.
Where is he now?...
Man's mind cannot grasp the causes of events in their completeness, but the desire to find those causes is implanted in man's soul.
But we need only penetrate to the essence of any historic event--which lies in the activity of the general mass of men who take part in it--to be convinced that the will of the historic hero does not control the actions of the mass but is itself continually controlled.
There is, and can be, no cause of an historical event except the one cause of all causes.
The discovery of these laws is only possible when we have quite abandoned the attempt to find the cause in the will of some one man, just as the discovery of the laws of the motion of the planets was possible only when men abandoned the conception of the fixity of the earth.
They ascribe the glory of that achievement of genius to different men and dispute as to whom the honor is due.
But it is hard to understand why military writers, and following them others, consider this flank march to be the profound conception of some one man who saved Russia and destroyed Napoleon.
So it is impossible to understand by what reasoning the historians reach the conclusion that this maneuver was a profound one.
Just as it is impossible to say when it was decided to abandon Moscow, so it is impossible to say precisely when, or by whom, it was decided to move to Tarutino.
Kutuzov's merit lay, not in any strategic maneuver of genius, as it is called, but in the fact that he alone understood the significance of what had happened.
Such is the present spirit of my nation.
The war went on independently of them, as it had to go: that is, never in the way people devised, but flowing always from the essential attitude of the masses.
Serpukhov is already occupied by an enemy detachment and Tula with its famous arsenal so indispensable to the army, is in danger.
From General Wintzingerode's reports, I see that an enemy corps of ten thousand men is moving on the Petersburg road.
Another corps of several thousand men is moving on Dmitrov.
A third has advanced along the Vladimir road, and a fourth, rather considerable detachment is stationed between Ruza and Mozhaysk.
In view of all this information, when the enemy has scattered his forces in large detachments, and with Napoleon and his Guards in Moscow, is it possible that the enemy's forces confronting you are so considerable as not to allow of your taking the offensive?
On the contrary, he is probably pursuing you with detachments, or at most with an army corps much weaker than the army entrusted to you.
I need only advise anything and his Highness is sure to do the opposite, replied Bennigsen.
What a nuisance it is! thought the officer, and he rode round the whole camp.
But where is it?
"Oh, it is really too late," said Count Orlov, looking at the camp.
As often happens when someone we have trusted is no longer before our eyes, it suddenly seemed quite clear and obvious to him that the sergeant was an impostor, that he had lied, and that the whole Russian attack would be ruined by the absence of those two regiments, which he would lead away heaven only knew where.
It is quite light.
"The word attack is always on your tongue, but you don't see that we are unable to execute complicated maneuvers," said he to Miloradovich who asked permission to advance.
They are asking to attack and making plans of all kinds, but as soon as one gets to business nothing is ready, and the enemy, forewarned, takes measures accordingly.
"That's how everything is done with us, all topsy-turvy!" said the Russian officers and generals after the Tarutino battle, letting it be understood that some fool there is doing things all wrong but that we ourselves should not have done so, just as people speak today.
That is an essential condition.
But if the aim of the battle was what actually resulted and what all the Russians of that day desired--to drive the French out of Russia and destroy their army--it is quite clear that the battle of Tarutino, just because of its incongruities, was exactly what was wanted at that stage of the campaign.
Moscow, abounding in provisions, arms, munitions, and incalculable wealth, is in Napoleon's hands.
Napoleon's position is most brilliant.
The city police is established on its former footing, and better order already prevails in consequence of its activity.
Several churches of different denominations are open, and divine service is performed in them unhindered.
Tranquillity is returning to this capital and order is being restored in it.
Any violence to them or to their property is promptly punished.
(2) Such supplies will be bought from them at such prices as seller and buyer may agree on, and if a seller is unable to obtain a fair price he will be free to take his goods back to his village and no one may hinder him under any pretense.
This is what the army authorities were reporting:
There is a band of thieves in our district who ought to be arrested by a strong force--October 11.
To study the skillful tactics and aims of Napoleon and his army from the time it entered Moscow till it was destroyed is like studying the dying leaps and shudders of a mortally wounded animal.
He is a man who never forgets anything.
'Monsieur Kiril is a man of education, who speaks French.
He is a Russian seigneur who has had misfortunes, but he is a man.
It is for your sake I mention it, Monsieur Kiril.
A promise is own brother to performance!
I said Friday and here it is, ready, said Platon, smiling and unfolding the shirt he had sewn.
"You see, dear man, this is not a sewing shop, and I had no proper tools; and, as they say, one needs a tool even to kill a louse," said Platon with one of his round smiles, obviously pleased with his work.
The absence of suffering, the satisfaction of one's needs and consequent freedom in the choice of one's occupation, that is, of one's way of life, now seemed to Pierre to be indubitably man's highest happiness.
"But he is dying," Pierre again began.
What does it matter whether it is St. Nicholas or St. Blasius?
"And all that is me, all that is within me, and it is all I!" thought Pierre.
And this silence about Dokhturov is the clearest testimony to his merit.
It is natural for a man who does not understand the workings of a machine to imagine that a shaving that has fallen into it by chance and is interfering with its action and tossing about in it is its most important part.
The man who does not understand the construction of the machine cannot conceive that the small connecting cogwheel which revolves quietly is one of the most essential parts of the machine, and not the shaving which merely harms and hinders the working.
"But this is very important, from General Dokhturov," said Bolkhovitinov, entering the open door which he had found by feeling in the dark.
Napoleon is at Forminsk, said Bolkhovitinov, unable to see in the dark who was speaking but guessing by the voice that it was not Konovnitsyn.
He is very ill.
Perhaps this is only a rumor.
"Here is the dispatch," said Bolkhovitinov.
Well, what is it?
He knew that an apple should not be plucked while it is green.
It will fall of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled, the tree is harmed, and your teeth are set on edge.
But that's not what is needed now.
That Napoleon agreed with Mouton, and that the army retreated, does not prove that Napoleon caused it to retreat, but that the forces which influenced the whole army and directed it along the Mozhaysk (that is, the Smolensk) road acted simultaneously on him also.
But that native land was too far off, and for a man going a thousand miles it is absolutely necessary to set aside his final goal and to say to himself: "Today I shall get to a place twenty-five miles off where I shall rest and spend the night," and during the first day's journey that resting place eclipses his ultimate goal and attracts all his hopes and desires.
There is a certain limit of time in less than which no amount of heat can melt the snow.
Kutuzov alone used all his power (and such power is very limited in the case of any commander-in-chief) to prevent an attack.
What is the use of that, when a third of their army has melted away on the road from Moscow to Vyazma without any battle?
All historians agree that the external activity of states and nations in their conflicts with one another is expressed in wars, and that as a direct result of greater or less success in war the political strength of states and nations increases or decreases.
An army has suffered defeat, and at once a people loses its rights in proportion to the severity of the reverse, and if its army suffers a complete defeat the nation is quite subjugated.
So according to history it has been found from the most ancient times, and so it is to our own day.
To strain the facts to fit the rules of history: to say that the field of battle at Borodino remained in the hands of the Russians, or that after Moscow there were other battles that destroyed Napoleon's army, is impossible.
One of the most obvious and advantageous departures from the so-called laws of war is the action of scattered groups against men pressed together in a mass.
But such a war does not fit in under any rule and is directly opposed to a well-known rule of tactics which is accepted as infallible.
Momentum (quantity of motion) is the product of mass and velocity.
In military affairs the strength of an army is the product of its mass and some unknown x.
That unknown quantity is the spirit of the army, that is to say, the greater or lesser readiness to fight and face danger felt by all the men composing an army, quite independently of whether they are, or are not, fighting under the command of a genius, in two--or three-line formation, with cudgels or with rifles that repeat thirty times a minute.
The spirit of an army is the factor which multiplied by the mass gives the resulting force.
Ten men, battalions, or divisions, fighting fifteen men, battalions, or divisions, conquer--that is, kill or take captive--all the others, while themselves losing four, so that on the one side four and on the other fifteen were lost.
To lead men forward under fire more discipline (obtainable only by movement in masses) is needed than is needed to resist attacks.
But this rule which leaves out of account the spirit of the army continually proves incorrect and is in particularly striking contrast to the facts when some strong rise or fall in the spirit of the troops occurs, as in all national wars.
All that he now wanted to know was what troops these were and to learn that he had to capture a "tongue"--that is, a man from the enemy column.
But it is not presupposable that it is the lieutenant colonel himself, said the esaul, who was fond of using words the Cossacks did not know.
"Michael Feoklitych," said he to the esaul, "this is again fwom that German, you know.
He"--he indicated Petya--"is serving under him."
"It is a very suitable spot," said the esaul.
"The hollow is impassable--there's a swamp there," said the esaul.
"Who is he?" asked Petya.
His name is Vincent Bosse.
He is warming himself there by the bonfire.
* "Tell me, is Colonel Gerard here?"
* When an officer is making his round, sentinels don't ask him for the password....
I am asking you if the colonel is here.
"Is that you, Clement?" he asked.
Oh, this is delightful!
"Well, is ev'wything weady?" asked Denisov.
While imprisoned in the shed Pierre had learned not with his intellect but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from superfluity.
And now during these last three weeks of the march he had learned still another new, consolatory truth--that nothing in this world is terrible.
He had learned that as there is no condition in which man can be happy and entirely free, so there is no condition in which he need be unhappy and lack freedom.
Why is it howling? thought Pierre.
Everything changes and moves and that movement is God.
To love life is to love God.
Harder and more blessed than all else is to love this life in one's sufferings, in innocent sufferings.
"That is life," said the old teacher.
"How simple and clear it is," thought Pierre.
How is it I did not know it before?
God is in the midst, and each drop tries to expand so as to reflect Him to the greatest extent.
Berthier wrote to his Emperor (we know how far commanding officers allow themselves to diverge from the truth in describing the condition of an army) and this is what he said:
In such a state of affairs, whatever your ultimate plans may be, the interest of Your Majesty's service demands that the army should be rallied at Smolensk and should first of all be freed from ineffectives, such as dismounted cavalry, unnecessary baggage, and artillery material that is no longer in proportion to the present forces.
This state of things is continually becoming worse and makes one fear that unless a prompt remedy is applied the troops will no longer be under control in case of an engagement.
* "I have acted the Emperor long enough; it is time to act the general."
And lastly, the final departure of the great Emperor from his heroic army is presented to us by the historians as something great and characteristic of genius.
For the "great" man nothing is wrong, there is no atrocity for which a "great" man can be blamed.
Grand is good, not grand is bad.
Grand is the characteristic, in their conception, of some special animals called "heroes."
And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que c'est grand, *(2) and his soul is tranquil.
* "It is great."
* (2) That it is great.
And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one's own nothingness and immeasurable meanness.
And there is no greatness where simplicity, goodness, and truth are absent.
Who has not asked himself how it is that the French were not all captured or destroyed when our three armies surrounded them in superior numbers, when the disordered French, hungry and freezing, surrendered in crowds, and when (as the historians relate) the aim of the Russians was to stop the French, to cut them off, and capture them all?
History (or what is called by that name) replying to these questions says that this occurred because Kutuzov and Tormasov and Chichagov, and this man and that man, did not execute such and such maneuvers...
But even if we admitted that Kutuzov, Chichagov, and others were the cause of the Russian failures, it is still incomprehensible why, the position of the Russian army being what it was at Krasnoe and at the Berezina (in both cases we had superior forces), the French army with its marshals, kings, and Emperor was not captured, if that was what the Russians aimed at.
The explanation of this strange fact given by Russian military historians (to the effect that Kutuzov hindered an attack) is unfounded, for we know that he could not restrain the troops from attacking at Vyazma and Tarutino.
If the aim of the Russians consisted in cutting off and capturing Napoleon and his marshals--and that aim was not merely frustrated but all attempts to attain it were most shamefully baffled--then this last period of the campaign is quite rightly considered by the French to be a series of victories, and quite wrongly considered victorious by Russian historians.
It is only possible to capture prisoners if they agree to be captured, just as it is only possible to catch a swallow if it settles on one's hand.
When seeing a dying animal a man feels a sense of horror: substance similar to his own is perishing before his eyes.
But pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.
There he is lying back in an armchair in his velvet cloak, leaning his head on his thin pale hand.
His chest is dreadfully hollow and his shoulders raised.
Natasha knows that he is struggling with terrible pain.
What is that pain like?
Now there is nothing... nobody.
You know that for me there is nothing in life but you, and to suffer with you is the greatest happiness for me, and he took her hand and pressed it as he had pressed it that terrible evening four days before his death.
Go, go, she... is calling... and weeping like a child and quickly shuffling on his feeble legs to a chair, he almost fell into it, covering his face with his hands.
Natasha, he is no more, no more!
She is much better.
"Is she like him?" thought Natasha.
But she is quite original, strange, new, and unknown.
What is in her heart?
All that is good.
What is her mind like?
Yes, she is splendid!
The chief cause of the wastage of Napoleon's army was the rapidity of its movement, and a convincing proof of this is the corresponding decrease of the Russian army.
Not only did his contemporaries, carried away by their passions, talk in this way, but posterity and history have acclaimed Napoleon as grand, while Kutuzov is described by foreigners as a crafty, dissolute, weak old courtier, and by Russians as something indefinite--a sort of puppet useful only because he had a Russian name.
And in a history recently written by order of the Highest Authorities it is said that Kutuzov was a cunning court liar, frightened of the name of Napoleon, and that by his blunders at Krasnoe and the Berezina he deprived the Russian army of the glory of complete victory over the French. *
He alone said that the loss of Moscow is not the loss of Russia.
In reply to Lauriston's proposal of peace, he said: There can be no peace, for such is the people's will.
The fifth of November was the first day of what is called the battle of Krasnoe.
The victory is complete and Russia will not forget you!
It is hard for you, but still you are at home while they--you see what they have come to, said he, pointing to the prisoners.
"There are gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you foul-mouthed devils, you brutes, I'll give it to you!" shouted he, hitting the first man who came in his way a swinging blow on the back.
"What a lot of those Frenchies were taken today, and the fact is that not one of them had what you might call real boots on," said a soldier, starting a new theme.
Is the fire only for you?
How is it? said the man--a singer and a wag--whom Morel was embracing.
To that question, "What for?" a simple answer was now always ready in his soul: "Because there is a God, that God without whose will not one hair falls from a man's head."
"Yes, he is a very, very kind man when he is not under the influence of bad people but of people such as myself," thought she.
"It's a pleasure to talk to a man like that; he is not like our provincials," he would say.
"If all Russians are in the least like you, it is sacrilege to fight such a nation," he said to Pierre.
Is it possible that he died in the bitter frame of mind he was then in?
Is it possible that the meaning of life was not disclosed to him before he died? thought Pierre.
"Yes," she said, looking at his altered face after he had kissed her hand, "so this is how we meet again.
He glanced once at the companion's face, saw her attentive and kindly gaze fixed on him, and, as often happens when one is talking, felt somehow that this companion in the black dress was a good, kind, excellent creature who would not hinder his conversing freely with Princess Mary.
The countess is in a dreadful state; but it was necessary for Natasha herself to see a doctor.
"Yes, is there a family free from sorrow now?" said Pierre, addressing Natasha.
"Yes, yes, that is really true," Pierre hastily interrupted her.
Why is it true?
"And because," Pierre continued, "only one who believes that there is a God ruling us can bear a loss such as hers and... yours."
Princess Mary--reluctantly as is usual in such cases--began telling of the condition in which she had found Prince Andrew.
Before Pierre left the room Princess Mary told him: "This is the first time she has talked of him like that."
"What I have certainly gained is freedom," he began seriously, but did not continue, noticing that this theme was too egotistic.
When two people quarrel they are always both in fault, and one's own guilt suddenly becomes terribly serious when the other is no longer alive.
Then a patrol arrived and all the men--all those who were not looting, that is--were arrested, and I among them.
We imagine that when we are thrown out of our usual ruts all is lost, but it is only then that what is new and good begins.
While there is life there is happiness.
There is much, much before us.
"What is it, Natasha?" said Princess Mary.
It is time for bed.
"Is it possible to forget?" said she.
That is why I told him...
What a splendid man he is! said Princess Mary.
Really he is quite unlike him-- in everything.
Who is there in Petersburg? he asked involuntarily, though only to himself.
He doesn't know how terrible it is and how dangerous.
Too soon or too late... it is terrible!
But probably he knows it well enough and is only pretending.
"No, she either doesn't understand or is pretending," thought Pierre.
What is surprising is that they should trouble about these things now when it can no longer be of interest to them.
And they actually say he is not honest and takes bribes.
I cannot propose to her at present, but the thought that perhaps she might someday be my wife and that I may be missing that possibility... that possibility... is terrible.
This is what I will say.
What is happening to me?
Doesn't he know that he is a man, just a man, while I...?
If that activity displeases somebody, this is only because it does not agree with his limited understanding of what is good.
If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, the possibility of life is destroyed.
But what is chance?
His attempts to avoid his predestined path are unsuccessful: he is not received into the Russian service, and the appointment he seeks in Turkey comes to nothing.
During the war in Italy he is several times on the verge of destruction and each time is saved in an unexpected manner.
Owing to various diplomatic considerations the Russian armies--just those which might have destroyed his prestige--do not appear upon the scene till he is no longer there.
His childishly rash, uncalled-for, and ignoble departure from Africa, leaving his comrades in distress, is set down to his credit, and again the enemy's fleet twice lets him slip past.
He is needed for the place that awaits him, and so almost apart from his will and despite his indecision, his lack of a plan, and all his mistakes, he is drawn into a conspiracy that aims at seizing power and the conspiracy is crowned with success.
He is pushed into a meeting of the legislature.
But the once proud and shrewd rulers of France, feeling that their part is played out, are even more bewildered than he, and do not say the words they should have said to destroy him and retain their power.
It is not Napoleon who prepares himself for the accomplishment of his role, so much as all those round him who prepare him to take on himself the whole responsibility for what is happening and has to happen.
There is no step, no crime or petty fraud he commits, which in the mouths of those around him is not at once represented as a great deed.
Not only is he great, but so are his ancestors, his brothers, his stepsons, and his brothers-in-law.
Everything is done to deprive him of the remains of his reason and to prepare him for his terrible part.
And when he is ready so too are the forces.
That city is taken; the Russian army suffers heavier losses than the opposing armies had suffered in the former war from Austerlitz to Wagram.
A countermovement is then accomplished from east to west with a remarkable resemblance to the preceding movement from west to east.
Paris, the ultimate goal, is reached.
Napoleon himself is no longer of any account; all his actions are evidently pitiful and mean, but again an inexplicable chance occurs.
The man who ten years before and a year later was considered an outlawed brigand is sent to an island two days' sail from France, which for some reason is presented to him as his dominion, and guards are given to him and millions of money are paid him.
That act is performed.
The last role is played.
And some years pass during which he plays a pitiful comedy to himself in solitude on his island, justifying his actions by intrigues and lies when the justification is no longer needed, and displaying to the whole world what it was that people had mistaken for strength as long as an unseen hand directed his actions.
The goal is reached.
And the child is afraid of bees and declares that bees exist to sting people.
But the ultimate purpose of the bee is not exhausted by the first, the second, or any of the processes the human mind can discern.
The higher the human intellect rises in the discovery of these purposes, the more obvious it becomes, that the ultimate purpose is beyond our comprehension.
And so it is with the purpose of historic characters and nations.
She is so kind and Mamma is so fond of her!
"She is a very admirable and excellent young woman," said she, "and you must go and call on her.
She is a very admirable young woman and you always liked her, but now suddenly you have got some notion or other in your head.
But this is not at all an interesting or cheerful subject.
Sometimes it is hard.
Yes, he is poor now and I am rich....
I have had so little happiness in life that every loss is hard for me to bear....
Only when he had understood the peasants' tastes and aspirations, had learned to talk their language, to grasp the hidden meaning of their words, and felt akin to them did he begin boldly to manage his serfs, that is, to perform toward them the duties demanded of him.
What I want is that our children should not have to go begging.
"And fairness, of course," he added, "for if the peasant is naked and hungry and has only one miserable horse, he can do no good either for himself or for me."
But what is the matter with you, Mary? he suddenly asked.
Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?
"Is it just sentimentality, old wives' tales, or is she right?" he asked himself.
"Is it just sentimentality, old wives' tales, or is she right?" he asked himself.
"You know," said Natasha, "you have read the Gospels a great deal--there is a passage in them that just fits Sonya."
She is one that hath not; why, I don't know.
Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don't know, but from her is taken away, and everything has been taken away.
She is a sterile flower, you know--like some strawberry blossoms.
Why is he cross with me?
"Perhaps he is not asleep; I'll have an explanation with him," she said to herself.
"Mary, dear, I think he is asleep--he was so tired," said Sonya, meeting her in the large sitting room (it seemed to Countess Mary that she crossed her path everywhere).
Mary, is that you?
It is not beauty that endears, it's love that makes us see beauty.
It is only Malvinas and women of that kind who are loved for their beauty.
Here is our logic.
I am sure it is Pierre.
"It is he, it is he, Nicholas!" said Countess Mary, re-entering the room a few minutes later.
Since their marriage Natasha and her husband had lived in Moscow, in Petersburg, on their estate near Moscow, or with her mother, that is to say, in Nicholas' house.
She felt that the allurements instinct had formerly taught her to use would now be merely ridiculous in the eyes of her husband, to whom she had from the first moment given herself up entirely--that is, with her whole soul, leaving no corner of it hidden from him.
The subject which wholly engrossed Natasha's attention was her family: that is, her husband whom she had to keep so that he should belong entirely to her and to the home, and the children whom she had to bear, bring into the world, nurse, and bring up.
These questions, then as now, existed only for those who see nothing in marriage but the pleasure married people get from one another, that is, only the beginnings of marriage and not its whole significance, which lies in the family.
Discussions and questions of that kind, which are like the question of how to get the greatest gratification from one's dinner, did not then and do not now exist for those for whom the purpose of a dinner is the nourishment it affords; and the purpose of marriage is the family.
If the purpose of marriage is the family, the person who wishes to have many wives or husbands may perhaps obtain much pleasure, but in that case will not have a family.
If the purpose of food is nourishment and the purpose of marriage is the family, the whole question resolves itself into not eating more than one can digest, and not having more wives or husbands than are needed for the family--that is, one wife or one husband.
At home Natasha placed herself in the position of a slave to her husband, and the whole household went on tiptoe when he was occupied--that is, was reading or writing in his study.
The entire household was governed according to Pierre's supposed orders, that is, by his wishes which Natasha tried to guess.
Thus in a time of trouble ever memorable to him after the birth of their first child who was delicate, when they had to change the wet nurse three times and Natasha fell ill from despair, Pierre one day told her of Rousseau's view, with which he quite agreed, that to have a wet nurse is unnatural and harmful.
But how is Petya?
Is it true she's in love with that...
"Now, Nicholas," she added, turning to her husband, "I can't understand how it is you don't see the charm of these delicious marvels."
He says his hand is just made for a baby's seat.
From broken remarks about Natasha and his father, from the emotion with which Pierre spoke of that dead father, and from the careful, reverent tenderness with which Natasha spoke of him, the boy, who was only just beginning to guess what love is, derived the notion that his father had loved Natasha and when dying had left her to his friend.
But until death came she had to go on living, that is, to use her vital forces.
She is like a mad woman when you are away.
Is that weally still going on?
"What is that, mon cher ami?" asked the countess, who had finished her tea and evidently needed a pretext for being angry after her meal.
He is a most estimable man.
Well, and what harm is there in that? and she rose (everybody else got up too) and with a severe expression sailed back to her table in the sitting room.
It is always the first thing that tells me all is well.
How like he is growing, Mary! he added, addressing Countess Mary.
Everybody sees that things are going so badly that they cannot be allowed to go on so and that it is the duty of all decent men to counteract it as far as they can.
"Why this," began Pierre, not sitting down but pacing the room, sometimes stopping short, gesticulating, and lisping: "the position in Petersburg is this: the Emperor does not look into anything.
Well, everything is going to ruin!
All that is young and honest is crushed!
Everything is strained to such a degree that it will certainly break, said Pierre (as those who examine the actions of any government have always said since governments began).
To encourage culture and philanthropy is all very well of course.
The aim is excellent but in the present circumstances something else is needed.
That is not enough, I told them.
Something else is needed.
One is lured by women, another by honors, a third by ambition or money, and they go over to that camp.
What I say is widen the scope of our society, let the mot d'ordre be not virtue alone but independence and action as well!
Not merely is it not hostile to government, but it is a society of true conservatives--a society of gentlemen in the full meaning of that word.
It is only to prevent some Pugachev or other from killing my children and yours, and Arakcheev from sending me off to some Military Settlement.
The Tugendbund is an alliance of virtue: it is love, mutual help... it is what Christ preached on the Cross.
It is not at all what you suppose; but that is what the German Tugendbund was, and what I am proposing.
The Tugendbund is all vewy well for the sausage eaters, but I don't understand it and can't even pwonounce it, interposed Denisov in a loud and resolute voice.
I agwee that evewything here is wotten and howwible, but the Tugendbund I don't understand.
You say that everything here is rotten and that an overthrow is coming: I don't see it.
But you also say that our oath of allegiance is a conditional matter, and to that I reply: 'You are my best friend, as you know, but if you formed a secret society and began working against the government- -be it what it may--I know it is my duty to obey the government.
What is a 'ticket'?
But he is impossible: such a child!
Of course he is right there," said Countess Mary, "but he forgets that we have other duties nearer to us, duties indicated to us by God Himself, and that though we might expose ourselves to risks we must not risk our children."
He is such an exceptional boy.
He is constantly alone with his thoughts.
He is a fine lad, a fine lad!
Well, what business is it of mine what goes on there-- whether Arakcheev is bad, and all that?
Is it for my own pleasure that I am at the farm or in the office from morning to night?
What will become of us if she dies, as I always fear when her face is like that? thought he, and placing himself before the icon he began to say his evening prayers.
Natasha and Pierre, left alone, also began to talk as only a husband and wife can talk, that is, with extraordinary clearness and rapidity, understanding and expressing each other's thoughts in ways contrary to all rules of logic, without premises, deductions, or conclusions, and in a quite peculiar way.
"Mary is so splendid," she said.
It is as if she saw straight into their souls.
"How like his father he is," Pierre interjected.
"For instance, he is collecting a library and has made it a rule not to buy a new book till he has read what he had already bought--Sismondi and Rousseau and Montesquieu," he added with a smile.
Yes, and for me nothing else is serious.
When I am taken up by a thought, all else is mere amusement.
But I succeeded in uniting them all; and then my idea is so clear and simple.
What I say is: 'Join hands, you who love the right, and let there be but one banner--that of active virtue.'
Prince Sergey is a fine fellow and clever.
"Now who could decide whether he is really cleverer than all the others?" she asked herself, and passed in review all those whom Pierre most respected.
What he would have approved of is our family life.
And one couldn't love more, but this is something special....
"What nonsense it is," Natasha suddenly exclaimed, "about honeymoons, and that the greatest happiness is at first!
On the contrary, now is the best of all.
My whole idea is that if vicious people are united and constitute a power, then honest folk must do the same.
"He is good and kind and I am fond of him!" he thought of Dessalles.
History is the life of nations and of humanity.
In 1789 a ferment arises in Paris; it grows, spreads, and is expressed by a movement of peoples from west to east.
For a reply to these questions the common sense of mankind turns to the science of history, whose aim is to enable nations and humanity to know themselves.
He conquered everybody everywhere--that is, he killed many people because he was a great genius.
It would be a mistake to think that this is ironic--a caricature of the historical accounts.
If the purpose of history be to give a description of the movement of humanity and of the peoples, the first question--in the absence of a reply to which all the rest will be incomprehensible--is: what is the power that moves peoples?
All that may be so and mankind is ready to agree with it, but it is not what was asked.
History seems to assume that this force is self-evident and known to everyone.
But in spite of every desire to regard it as known, anyone reading many historical works cannot help doubting whether this new force, so variously understood by the historians themselves, is really quite well known to everybody.
The answers given by this kind of historian to the question of what force causes events to happen are satisfactory only as long as there is but one historian to each event.
As soon as historians of different nationalities and tendencies begin to describe the same event, the replies they give immediately lose all meaning, for this force is understood by them all not only differently but often in quite contradictory ways.
Writers of universal history who deal with all the nations seem to recognize how erroneous is the specialist historians' view of the force which produces events.
In their exposition, an historic character is first the product of his time, and his power only the resultant of various forces, and then his power is itself a force producing events.
This curious contradiction is not accidental.
This condition is never observed by the universal historians, and so to explain the resultant forces they are obliged to admit, in addition to the insufficient components, another unexplained force affecting the resultant action.
The historian evidently decomposes Alexander's power into the components: Talleyrand, Chateaubriand, and the rest--but the sum of the components, that is, the interactions of Chateaubriand, Talleyrand, Madame de Stael, and the others, evidently does not equal the resultant, namely the phenomenon of millions of Frenchmen submitting to the Bourbons.
And in the same way the universal historians sometimes, when it pleases them and fits in with their theory, say that power is the result of events, and sometimes, when they want to prove something else, say that power produces events.
Of the immense number of indications accompanying every vital phenomenon, these historians select the indication of intellectual activity and say that this indication is the cause.
Undoubtedly some relation exists between all who live contemporaneously, and so it is possible to find some connection between the intellectual activity of men and their historical movements, just as such a connection may be found between the movements of humanity and commerce, handicraft, gardening, or anything else you please.
But why intellectual activity is considered by the historians of culture to be the cause or expression of the whole historical movement is hard to understand.
A locomotive is moving.
The peasant is irrefutable.
The man who explains the movement of the locomotive by the smoke that is carried back has noticed that the wheels do not supply an explanation and has taken the first sign that occurs to him and in his turn has offered that as an explanation.
The only conception that can explain the movement of the locomotive is that of a force commensurate with the movement observed.
The only conception that can explain the movement of the peoples is that of some force commensurate with the whole movement of the peoples.
And the only such conception known to historians is that of power.
This conception is the one handle by means of which the material of history, as at present expounded, can be dealt with, and anyone who breaks that handle off, as Buckle did, without finding some other method of treating historical material, merely deprives himself of the one possible way of dealing with it.
They can be used and can circulate and fulfill their purpose without harm to anyone and even advantageously, as long as no one asks what is the security behind them.
As gold is gold only if it is serviceable not merely for exchange but also for use, so universal historians will be valuable only when they can reply to history's essential question: what is power?
This reply is quite satisfactory if we believe that the power was given him by God.
But as soon as we do not admit that, it becomes essential to determine what is this power of one man over others.
And that is how power is understood by the science of jurisprudence, that exchange bank of history which offers to exchange history's understanding of power for true gold.
Power is the collective will of the people transferred, by expressed or tacit consent, to their chosen rulers.
In the domain of jurisprudence, which consists of discussions of how a state and power might be arranged were it possible for all that to be arranged, it is all very clear; but when applied to history that definition of power needs explanation.
From this fundamental difference between the view held by history and that held by jurisprudence, it follows that jurisprudence can tell minutely how in its opinion power should be constituted and what power-- existing immutably outside time--is, but to history's questions about the meaning of the mutations of power in time it can answer nothing.
In international relations, is the will of the people also transferred to their conqueror?
If the conditions under which power is entrusted consist in the wealth, freedom, and enlightenment of the people, how is it that Louis XIV and Ivan the Terrible end their reigns tranquilly, while Louis XVI and Charles I are executed by their people?
And what is the time limit for such reactions?
Historians of the third class assume that the will of the people is transferred to historic personages conditionally, but that the conditions are unknown to us.
If the whole activity of the leaders serves as the expression of the people's will, as some historians suppose, then all the details of the court scandals contained in the biographies of a Napoleon or a Catherine serve to express the life of the nation, which is evident nonsense; but if it is only some particular side of the activity of an historical leader which serves to express the people's life, as other so-called "philosophical" historians believe, then to determine which side of the activity of a leader expresses the nation's life, we have first of all to know in what the nation's life consists.
Is the ferment of the peoples of the west at the end of the eighteenth century and their drive eastward explained by the activity of Louis XIV, XV, and XVI, their mistresses and ministers, and by the lives of Napoleon, Rousseau, Diderot, Beaumarchais, and others?
Is the movement of the Russian people eastward to Kazan and Siberia expressed by details of the morbid character of Ivan the Terrible and by his correspondence with Kurbski?
Is the movement of the peoples at the time of the Crusades explained by the life and activity of the Godfreys and the Louis-es and their ladies?
If we unite both these kinds of history, as is done by the newest historians, we shall have the history of monarchs and writers, but not the history of the life of the peoples.
The theory of the transference of the collective will of the people to historic persons may perhaps explain much in the domain of jurisprudence and be essential for its purposes, but in its application to history, as soon as revolutions, conquests, or civil wars occur--that is, as soon as history begins--that theory explains nothing.
The herd goes in that direction because the animal in front leads it and the collective will of all the other animals is vested in that leader.
If the animals leading the herd change, this happens because the collective will of all the animals is transferred from one leader to another, according to whether the animal is or is not leading them in the direction selected by the whole herd.
Such is the reply historians who assume that the collective will of the people is delegated to rulers under conditions which they regard as known.
If the animals in front are continually changing and the direction of the whole herd is constantly altered, this is because in order to follow a given direction the animals transfer their will to the animals that have attracted our attention, and to study the movements of the herd we must watch the movements of all the prominent animals moving on all sides of the herd.
Power is the collective will of the people transferred to one person.
Under what condition is the will of the people delegated to one person?
That is, power is power: in other words, power is a word the meaning of which we do not understand.
And experience tells us that power is not merely a word but an actually existing phenomenon.
Not to speak of the fact that no description of the collective activity of men can do without the conception of power, the existence of power is proved both by history and by observing contemporary events.
Experience shows us that whatever event occurs it is always related to the will of one or of several men who have decreed it.
The historians, in accord with the old habit of acknowledging divine intervention in human affairs, want to see the cause of events in the expression of the will of someone endowed with power, but that supposition is not confirmed either by reason or by experience.
On the other hand, even if we admitted that words could be the cause of events, history shows that the expression of the will of historical personages does not in most cases produce any effect, that is to say, their commands are often not executed, and sometimes the very opposite of what they order occurs.
Power, from the standpoint of experience, is merely the relation that exists between the expression of someone's will and the execution of that will by others.
If the Deity issues a command, expresses His will, as ancient history tells us, the expression of that will is independent of time and is not caused by anything, for the Divinity is not controlled by an event.
For an order to be certainly executed, it is necessary that a man should order what can be executed.
But to know what can and what cannot be executed is impossible, not only in the case of Napoleon's invasion of Russia in which millions participated, but even in the simplest event, for in either case millions of obstacles may arise to prevent its execution.
Every order executed is always one of an immense number unexecuted.
Apart from that, the chief source of our error in this matter is due to the fact that in the historical accounts a whole series of innumerable, diverse, and petty events, such for instance as all those which led the French armies to Russia, is generalized into one event in accord with the result produced by that series of events.
To understand in what this dependence consists it is necessary to reinstate another omitted condition of every command proceeding not from the Deity but from a man, which is, that the man who gives the command himself takes part in the event.
This relation of the commander to those he commands is just what is called power.
For common action people always unite in certain combinations, in which regardless of the difference of the aims set for the common action, the relation between those taking part in it is always the same.
Of all the combinations in which men unite for collective action one of the most striking and definite examples is an army.
Every army is composed of lower grades of the service--the rank and file--of whom there are always the greatest number; of the next higher military rank--corporals and noncommissioned officers of whom there are fewer, and of still-higher officers of whom there are still fewer, and so on to the highest military command which is concentrated in one person.
A similar relation of people to one another is seen in every combination of men for common activity--in agriculture, trade, and every administration.
This relation of the men who command to those they command is what constitutes the essence of the conception called power.
Having restored the condition of time under which all events occur, we find that a command is executed only when it is related to a corresponding series of events.
Restoring the essential condition of relation between those who command and those who execute, we find that by the very nature of the case those who command take the smallest part in the action itself and that their activity is exclusively directed to commanding.
When an event is taking place people express their opinions and wishes about it, and as the event results from the collective activity of many people, some one of the opinions or wishes expressed is sure to be fulfilled if but approximately.
When one of the opinions expressed is fulfilled, that opinion gets connected with the event as a command preceding it.
How is it that millions of men commit collective crimes--make war, commit murder, and so on?
With the present complex forms of political and social life in Europe can any event that is not prescribed, decreed, or ordered by monarchs, ministers, parliaments, or newspapers be imagined?
Is there any collective action which cannot find its justification in political unity, in patriotism, in the balance of power, or in civilization?
Only by watching closely moment by moment the movement of that flow and comparing it with the movement of the ship do we convince ourselves that every bit of it is occasioned by the forward movement of the ship, and that we were led into error by the fact that we ourselves were imperceptibly moving.
When the ship moves in one direction there is one and the same wave ahead of it, when it turns frequently the wave ahead of it also turns frequently.
(1) What is power?
(1) Power is the relation of a given person to other individuals, in which the more this person expresses opinions, predictions, and justifications of the collective action that is performed, the less is his participation in that action.
Morally the wielder of power appears to cause the event; physically it is those who submit to the power.
Or in other words, the conception of a cause is inapplicable to the phenomena we are examining.
The presence of the problem of man's free will, though unexpressed, is felt at every step of history.
If the will of every man were free, that is, if each man could act as he pleased, all history would be a series of disconnected incidents.
If in a thousand years even one man in a million could act freely, that is, as he chose, it is evident that one single free act of that man's in violation of the laws governing human action would destroy the possibility of the existence of any laws for the whole of humanity.
If there be a single law governing the actions of men, free will cannot exist, for then man's will is subject to that law.
This consciousness is a source of self-cognition quite apart from and independent of reason.
A man is only conscious of himself as a living being by the fact that he wills, that is, is conscious of his volition.
A man's will seems to him to be limited just because he is not conscious of it except as free.
But learning just as certainly that his will is subject to laws, he does not and cannot believe this.
He feels that however impossible it may be, it is so, for without this conception of freedom not only would he be unable to understand life, but he would be unable to live for a single moment.
Man is the creation of an all-powerful, all-good, and all-seeing God.
That is a question for theology.
What is man's responsibility to society, the conception of which results from the conception of freedom?
That is a question for jurisprudence.
That is a question for ethics.
That is a question for history.
In our time the majority of so-called advanced people--that is, the crowd of ignoramuses--have taken the work of the naturalists who deal with one side of the question for a solution of the whole problem.
They do not see that the role of the natural sciences in this matter is merely to serve as an instrument for the illumination of one side of it.
The subject for history is not man's will itself but our presentation of it.
In actual life each historic event, each human action, is very clearly and definitely understood without any sense of contradiction, although each event presents itself as partly free and partly compulsory.
The degree of freedom and inevitability governing the actions of these people is clearly defined for us.
The proportion of freedom to inevitability decreases and increases according to the point of view from which the action is regarded, but their relation is always one of inverse proportion.
A sinking man who clutches at another and drowns him; or a hungry mother exhausted by feeding her baby, who steals some food; or a man trained to discipline who on duty at the word of command kills a defenseless man-- seem less guilty, that is, less free and more subject to the law of necessity, to one who knows the circumstances in which these people were placed, and more free to one who does not know that the man was himself drowning, that the mother was hungry, that the soldier was in the ranks, and so on.
In all these cases the conception of freedom is increased or diminished and the conception of compulsion is correspondingly decreased or increased, according to the point of view from which the action is regarded.
All cases without exception in which our conception of freedom and necessity is increased and diminished depend on three considerations:
It is the reason why the life and activity of people who lived centuries ago and are connected with me in time cannot seem to me as free as the life of a contemporary, the consequences of which are still unknown to me.
The farther I go back in memory, or what is the same thing the farther I go forward in my judgment, the more doubtful becomes my belief in the freedom of my action.
When we do not at all understand the cause of an action, whether a crime, a good action, or even one that is simply nonmoral, we ascribe a greater amount of freedom to it.
If we have a large range of examples, if our observation is constantly directed to seeking the correlation of cause and effect in people's actions, their actions appear to us more under compulsion and less free the more correctly we connect the effects with the causes.
On these three considerations alone is based the conception of irresponsibility for crimes and the extenuating circumstances admitted by all legislative codes.
Every human action is inevitably conditioned by what surrounds him and by his own body.
To conceive of a man being free we must imagine him outside space, which is evidently impossible.
For if I examine an action committed a second ago I must still recognize it as not being free, for it is irrevocably linked to the moment at which it was committed.
The moment in which the first movement was made is irrevocable, and at that moment I could make only one movement, and whatever movement I made would be the only one.
To imagine it as free, it is necessary to imagine it in the present, on the boundary between the past and the future--that is, outside time, which is impossible.
(3) However much the difficulty of understanding the causes may be increased, we never reach a conception of complete freedom, that is, an absence of cause.
However inaccessible to us may be the cause of the expression of will in any action, our own or another's, the first demand of reason is the assumption of and search for a cause, for without a cause no phenomenon is conceivable.
But even if--imagining a man quite exempt from all influences, examining only his momentary action in the present, unevoked by any cause--we were to admit so infinitely small a remainder of inevitability as equaled zero, we should even then not have arrived at the conception of complete freedom in man, for a being uninfluenced by the external world, standing outside of time and independent of cause, is no longer a man.
(3) However accessible may be the chain of causation of any action, we shall never know the whole chain since it is endless, and so again we never reach absolute inevitability.
But besides this, even if, admitting the remaining minimum of freedom to equal zero, we assumed in some given case--as for instance in that of a dying man, an unborn babe, or an idiot--complete absence of freedom, by so doing we should destroy the very conception of man in the case we are examining, for as soon as there is no freedom there is also no man.
And so the conception of the action of a man subject solely to the law of inevitability without any element of freedom is just as impossible as the conception of a man's completely free action.
In the first case, if inevitability were possible without freedom we should have reached a definition of inevitability by the laws of inevitability itself, that is, a mere form without content.
We should in fact have reached those two fundamentals of which man's whole outlook on the universe is constructed--the incomprehensible essence of life, and the laws defining that essence.
Reason says: (1) space with all the forms of matter that give it visibility is infinite, and cannot be imagined otherwise.
(2) Time is infinite motion without a moment of rest and is unthinkable otherwise.
Freedom not limited by anything is the essence of life, in man's consciousness.
Inevitability without content is man's reason in its three forms.
Freedom is the thing examined.
Inevitability is what examines.
Freedom is the content.
Inevitability is the form.
Apart from these two concepts which in their union mutually define one another as form and content, no conception of life is possible.
All that we know of the external world of nature is only a certain relation of the forces of nature to inevitability, or of the essence of life to the laws of reason.
All knowledge is merely a bringing of this essence of life under the laws of reason.
Man's free will differs from every other force in that man is directly conscious of it, but in the eyes of reason it in no way differs from any other force.
But just as the subject of every science is the manifestation of this unknown essence of life while that essence itself can only be the subject of metaphysics, even the manifestation of the force of free will in human beings in space, in time, and in dependence on cause forms the subject of history, while free will itself is the subject of metaphysics.
Vital force is only an expression for the unknown remainder over and above what we know of the essence of life.
So also in history what is known to us we call laws of inevitability, what is unknown we call free will.
Free will is for history only an expression for the unknown remainder of what we know about the laws of human life.
The recognition of man's free will as something capable of influencing historical events, that is, as not subject to laws, is the same for history as the recognition of a free force moving the heavenly bodies would be for astronomy.
That assumption would destroy the possibility of the existence of laws, that is, of any science whatever.
If there is even a single body moving freely, then the laws of Kepler and Newton are negatived and no conception of the movement of the heavenly bodies any longer exists.
If any single action is due to free will, then not a single historical law can exist, nor any conception of historical events.
To discover and define those laws is the problem of history.
From the standpoint from which the science of history now regards its subject on the path it now follows, seeking the causes of events in man's freewill, a scientific enunciation of those laws is impossible, for however man's free will may be restricted, as soon as we recognize it as a force not subject to law, the existence of law becomes impossible.
Abandoning the conception of cause, mathematics seeks law, that is, the property common to all unknown, infinitely small, elements.
The same is done by the natural sciences: leaving aside the question of cause, they seek for laws.
Just as prolonged and stubborn is the struggle now proceeding between the old and the new conception of history, and theology in the same way stands on guard for the old view, and accuses the new view of subverting revelation.
On the one hand there is fear and regret for the loss of the whole edifice constructed through the ages, on the other is the passion for destruction.
As in the question of astronomy then, so in the question of history now, the whole difference of opinion is based on the recognition or nonrecognition of something absolute, serving as the measure of visible phenomena.
Yes, and Jonathan is at school.
I'll accept it now that it is certain.
Is it something new for the trip?
Is the ranch far from here?
We have some cold days, but mostly it is warm.
It is casual dress.
It is your affair, not mine.
Those colored suns are exactly in the same place they were when we came, and if there is no sunset there can be no night.
What is it, do you s'pose?
"What curious animal is that which is eating the grass on my lawn?" enquired the man's voice.
"What is he good for?" was the next question.
They are too young to fly, and the mother bird is making a great fuss about it.
"Where is Lincoln?" asked one.
It is a little speech that I have written for him.
"Well, I know what that is," he said to himself; and he wrote the word _turnip_ on his slate.
It is this: When you oil your beard, don't oil it too much, lest it soil your clothing.
But I am making a simple statement that life is better now than it has ever been.
It is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life.
It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion.
If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what the day has shown."
My earliest distinct recollection of my father is making my way through great drifts of newspapers to his side and finding him alone, holding a sheet of paper before his face.
She is so near to me that it almost seems indelicate to speak of her.
The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me.
I learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, how birds build their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter.
How godlike, how immortal, is he?
But I warn you, if you don't tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist--I really believe he is Antichrist--I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my 'faithful slave,' as you call yourself!
If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10--Annette Scherer.
My daughter is coming for me to take me there.
He is one of the genuine emigres, the good ones.
The baron by all accounts is a poor creature.
"I only said that it would be more to the purpose to make sacrifices when we know what is needed!" said he, trying to be heard above the other voices.
Seeing the position we are in, I think there is little need for discussion.
Millions will pour forth from there"--he pointed to the merchants' hall--"but our business is to supply men and not spare ourselves...
Time is most precious...
The cause of the destruction of the French army in 1812 is clear to us now.
Headquarters are so full of Germans that a Russian cannot exist and there is no sense in anything.
I'm old and weak and this is what you wanted.
If there is anything... come back, Yakov Alpatych!
The enemy is advancing to destroy Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry off our wives and children.