Author Archives: ebpd

Girl, Wash Your Face: Stop Believing the Lies About Who You Are so You Can Become Who You Were Meant to Be by Rachel Hollis

Category: Fitness & Dieting Health>>Girl, Wash Your Face: Stop Believing the Lies About Who You Are so You Can Become Who You Were Meant to Be by Rachel Hollis

Girl, Wash Your Face: Stop Believing the Lies About Who You Are so You Can Become Who You Were Meant by Rachel Hollis.

As the founder of the lifestyle website TheChicSite.com and CEO of her own media company, Rachel Hollis developed an immense online community by sharing tips for better living while fearlessly revealing the messiness of her own life. Now, in this challenging and inspiring new book, Rachel exposes the twenty lies and misconceptions that too often hold us back from living joyfully and productively, lies we’ve told ourselves so often we don’t even hear them anymore.

With painful honesty and fearless humor, Rachel unpacks and examines the falsehoods that once left her feeling overwhelmed and unworthy, and reveals the specific practical strategies that helped her move past them. In the process, she encourages, entertains, and even kicks a little butt, all to convince you to do whatever it takes to get real and become the joyous, confident woman you were meant to be.

 

With unflinching faith and rock-hard tenacity, Girl, Wash Your Face shows you how to live with passion and hustle–and how to give yourself grace without giving up.

Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House by Michael Wolff kindle

Category: Kindle>>Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House by Michael Wolff kindle

With extraordinary access to the West Wing, Michael Wolff reveals what happened behind-the-scenes in the first nine months of the most controversial presidency of our time in Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House.

Since Donald Trump was sworn in as the 45th President of the United States, the country―and the world―has witnessed a stormy, outrageous, and absolutely mesmerizing presidential term that reflects the volatility and fierceness of the man elected Commander-in-Chief.

This riveting and explosive account of Trump’s administration provides a wealth of new details about the chaos in the Oval Office, including:
— What President Trump’s staff really thinks of him
— What inspired Trump to claim he was wire-tapped by President Obama
— Why FBI director James Comey was really fired
— Why chief strategist Steve Bannon and Trump’s son-in-law Jared Kushner couldn’t be in the same room
— Who is really directing the Trump administration’s strategy in the wake of Bannon’s firing
— What the secret to communicating with Trump is
— What the Trump administration has in common with the movie The Producers

Never before in history has a presidency so divided the American people. Brilliantly reported and astoundingly fresh, Fire and Fury shows us how and why Donald Trump has become the king of discord and disunion

[PDF] [EPUB] Meditations by Marcus Aurelius Read Download

Category: Non Fiction>>[PDF] [EPUB] Meditations by Marcus Aurelius Read Download

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INTRODUCTION

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name was M. Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed descent from Numa, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of emperors came of the blood of the most pious of early kings. His father, Annius Verus, had held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, of the same name, had been thrice Consul. Both his parents died young, but Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On his father’s death Marcus was adopted by his grandfather, the consular Annius Verus, and there was deep love between these two. On the very first page of his book Marcus gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadrian divined the fine character of the lad, whom he

used to call not Verus but Verissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to equestrian rank when six years of age, and at the age of eight made him a member of the ancient Salian priesthood. The boy’s aunt, Annia Galeria Faustina, was married to Antoninus Pius, afterwards emperor. Hence it came about that Antoninus, having no son, adopted Marcus, changing his name to that which he is known by, and betrothed him to his daughter Faustina. His education was conducted with all care.

The ablest teachers were engaged for him, and he was trained in the strict doctrine of the Stoic philosophy, which was his great delight. He was taught to dress plainly and to live simply, to avoid all softness and luxury. His body was trained to hardihood by wrestling, hunting, and outdoor games; and though his constitution was weak, he showed great personal courage to encounter the fiercest boars. At the same time he was kept from the extravagancies of his day. The great excitement in Rome was the strife of the Factions, as they were called, in the circus. The racing drivers used to adopt one of four colours—red, blue, white, or green—and their partisans showed an eagerness in supporting them which nothing could surpass. Riot and corruption went in the train of the racing chariots; and from all these things Marcus held severely aloof.

In 140 Marcus was raised to the consulship, and in 145 his betrothal was consummated by marriage. Two years later Faustina brought him a daughter; and soon after the tribunate and other imperial honours were conferred upon him.
Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus assumed the imperial state. He at once associated with himself L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had adopted as a younger son at the same time with Marcus, giving him the name of Lucius Aurelius Verus. Henceforth the two are colleagues in the empire, the junior being trained as it were to succeed. No sooner was Marcus settled upon the throne than wars broke out on all sides. In the east, Vologeses III. of Parthia began a long-meditated revolt by destroying a whole Roman Legion and invading Syria (162). Verus was sent off in hot haste to quell this rising; and he fulfilled his trust by plunging into drunkenness

and debauchery, while the war was left to his officers. Soon after Marcus had to face a more serious danger at home in the coalition of several powerful tribes on the northern frontier. Chief among those were the Marcomanni or Marchmen, the Quadi (mentioned in this book), the Sarmatians, the Catti, the Jazyges. In Rome itself there
was pestilence and starvation, the one brought from the east by Verus’s legions, the other caused by floods which had destroyed vast quantities of grain. After all had been done possible to allay famine and to supply pressing needs—Marcus being forced even to sell the imperial jewels to find money—both emperors set forth to a struggle which was to continue more or less during the rest of Marcus’s reign. During these wars, in 169, Verus died. We have no means of following the campaigns in detail; but thus much is certain, that in the end the Romans succeeded in crushing the barbarian tribes, and effecting a settlement which made the empire more secure.

Marcus was himself commander-in-chief, and victory was due no less to his own ability than to his wisdom in choice of lieutenants, shown conspicuously in the case of Pertinax. There were several important battles fought in these campaigns; and one of them has become celebrated for the legend of the Thundering Legion. In a battle against the Quadi in 174, the day seemed to be going in favour of the foe, when on a sudden arose a great storm of thunder and rain the lightning struck the barbarians with terror, and they turned to rout. In later days this storm was said to have been sent in answer to the prayers of a legion which contained many Christians, and the name Thundering Legion should be given to it on this account. The title of Thundering Legion is known at an earlier date, so this part of the story at least cannot be true; but the aid of the storm is acknowledged by one of the scenes carved on Antonine’s Column at Rome, which commemorates these wars.

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John Ray Grisham Wiki, Net Worth, Wife, Family, Biography & More

Category: Biographies & Memoirs>>John Ray Grisham Wiki, Net Worth, Wife, Family, Biography & More

John Ray Grisham Wiki, Age, Wife, Family, Biography & More

john_grisham_Wiki_biography

 

Today we are going to discussed the biography/ Wiki of Top selling author.John Ray Grisham Jr. (born February 8, 1955) is an American novelist, attorney, politician and activist, best known for his popular legal thrillers. His books have been translated into 42 languages and published worldwide.

John Ray was earlier interested in accounting but suddenly developed his interest to law, so therefore he graduated from law at the University of Mississippi, in 1981. He practiced criminal law for about a decade and served in the House as an attorney and Mississippi legislator before becoming a best-selling author. His novels were
chosen for the films also, which turned his life.

His first novel, A Time to Kill, was published in June 1989, four years after he began writing it. As of 2012, his books have sold approximately over 300 million copies worldwide. Grisham is one of only three authors to sell 2 million copies on a first printing, the other two being Tom Clancy and J. K. Rowling.

Grisham’s first bestseller, The Firm, sold more than seven million copies. The book was adapted into a 1993 feature film of the same name, starring Tom Cruise, and a 2012 TV series which “continues the story of attorney Mitchell McDeere and his family 10 years after the events of the film and novel.”

Eight of his other novels have also been adapted into films: The Chamber, The Client, A Painted House, The Pelican Brief, The Rainmaker, The Runaway Jury, Skipping,Christmas, and A Time to Kill.

Contents
Biography/Wiki
Family
Career
Salary/Net Worth
Awards and honors

Biography/Wiki of John Ray Grisham

Family Grisham, the second of five siblings, was born in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to Wanda (née Skidmore) and John Ray Grisham.His father worked as a construction worker and a cotton farmer, while his mother was a homemaker. At the age of four, his family move to Southaven, Mississippi.

As a child, his dream was to become a baseball player. Grisham parents were not much educated , therefore his mother encouraged him to study.He also mention his various experiences he had in various jobs at his early age.From working in a nursery to highway jobs, ultimately he realizes the importance of college while doing various jobs.

Wife/Children :
Grisham married Renee Jones on May 8, 1981. The couple have two children together: Shea and Ty. Ty played college baseball for the University of Virginia.

jogn_grisham_wife_daughter

Career :
Grisham practiced law for about a decade and then he entered politics and won election as a Democrat in the Mississippi House of Representatives from 1983–90, at an annual salary of US$ 8,000.

Grisham represented the seventh district, which included DeSoto County. By his second term at the Mississippi state legislature, he was the vice-chairman of the Apportionment and Elections Committee and a member of several other committees.

But grisham has fully developed his interest in writing and his second book was huge success. ‘The Firm’ and therefore he gave up practicing law.The Firm (1991) – The blockbuster that made Grisham a household name, The Firm is a story of a young lawyer that gets mixed up with the mob after taking a job offer that seems too good to be true. However, it is also an analysis of greed and how our upbringings can lead us to make choices that may affect our lives.

John Grisham Net worth:
New York top Seller John Grisham has a net worth of $350 million. Grisham earns $50-80 million per year in book royalties and advances. During his career, John Grisham has sold over 300 million copies of his books world wide.

Interesting Facts :

  • John Grisham’s changed his course three times from  accounting to law degree. He graduated in 1981  general civil litigation with a JD degree.
  • John Grisham was elected to the Mississippi House of Representatives in 1983. He later became the Vice Chairman Apportionment and Elections Committee.
  • His first book A Time to Kill was rejected more than 25 times. Wynwood Press took a chance and printed a first run of 5000 copies in 1989.
  • John Grisham was already working on his next book The Firm, the day after completing work on A Time to Kill.
  • John left his law career and politics and opted writing as his career.
  • The Firm was published in 1991 and was the bestselling novel of the same year. The book stayed at number one for 47 weeks on The New York Times’ bestseller’s list.
  • The film right to The Firm earned John Grisham a $600,000 paycheck.
  • John Grisham has written a total of 24 legal thrillers (as of 2014) including The Client (1993), The Runaway Jury (1996), The Partner (1997), The Street Lawyer (1998), The Testament (1999), The Summons (2002), The Last Juror (2004), The Broker (2005), The Appeal (2008), The Associate (2009), The Confession (2010), and The Litigators (2011).
  • 11 of John Grisham’s books have been adapted into films, and some into tv series also.
  • Although John Grisham quit practicing law to pursue his writing career, he returned in 1996 to fight for a railroad worker’s family. The worker had been killed on the job and Grisham successfully argued the case, winning the family more than $680,000.
  • John Grisham, Tom Clancy, and J.K. Rowling are the only authors to sell 2 million copies of a book on its first printing.

Awards and honors
2005 Peggy V. Helmerich Distinguished Author Award.
2007 Galaxy British Lifetime Achievement Award.
2009 Library of Congress Creative Achievement Award for Fiction.
2011 The inaugural Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction for The Confession.
2014 Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction for Sycamore Row.

Complete list of books by John Grisham

Novels
A Time to Kill (1989)
The Firm (1991)
The Pelican Brief (1992)
The Client (1993)
The Chamber (1994)
The Rainmaker (1995)
The Runaway Jury (1996)
The Partner (1997)
The Street Lawyer (1998)
The Testament (1999)
The Brethren (2000)
A Painted House† (2001)
Skipping Christmas† (2001)
The Summons (2002)
The King of Torts (2003)
Bleachers† (2003)
The Last Juror (2004)
The Broker (2005)
The Innocent Man (2006)
Playing for Pizza† (2007)
The Appeal (2008)
The Associate (2009)
The Confession (2010)
Theodore Boone: Kid Lawyer (2010)
The Litigators (2011)
Theodore Boone: The Abduction (2011)
Calico Joe† (2012)
The Racketeer (2012)
Theodore Boone: The Accused (2012)
Sycamore Row (2013)
Theodore Boone: The Activist (2013)
Gray Mountain (2014)
Theodore Boone: The Fugitive (2015)
Rogue Lawyer (2015)
Theodore Boone: The Scandal (2016)
The Whistler (2016)
Camino Island† (June 2017)
The Rooster Bar (2017)
The Reckoning (2018)

Dracula by Irish Bram Stoker pdf , Epub Download Free

Category: Horror>>Dracula by Irish Bram Stoker pdf , Epub Download Free

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Dracula is an 1897 Gothic horror novel by Irish author Bram Stoker. It introduced Count Dracula, and established many conventions of subsequent vampire fantasy. The novel tells the story of Dracula’s attempt to move from Transylvania to England so that he may find new blood and spread the undead curse, and of the battle between Dracula and a small group of men and a woman led by Professor Abraham Van Helsing.

Dracula has been assigned to many literary genres including vampire literature, horror fiction, the gothic novel, and invasion literature. The novel has spawned numerous theatrical, film, and television interpretations.

Plot
Stoker’s handwritten notes on the characters in the novel
The story is told in epistolary format, as a series of letters, diary entries, newspaper articles, and ships’ log entries, whose narrators are the novel’s protagonists, and occasionally supplemented with newspaper clippings relating events not directly witnessed. The events portrayed in the novel take place chronologically and largely in England and Transylvania during the 1890s and all transpire within the same year between 3 May and 6 November. A short note is located at the end of the final chapter written 7 years after the events outlined in the novel.

The tale begins with Jonathan Harker, a newly qualified English solicitor, visiting Count Dracula in the Carpathian Mountains on the border of Transylvania, Bukovina, and Moldavia, to provide legal support for a real estate transaction overseen by Harker’s employer, Mr Peter Hawkins of Exeter. At first enticed by Dracula’s gracious manners, Harker soon realizes that he is Dracula’s prisoner. Wandering the Count’s castle against Dracula’s admonition, Harker encounters three female vampires, called “the sisters”, from whom he is rescued by Dracula. Harker soon realizes that Dracula himself is also a vampire. After the preparations are made, Dracula leaves Transylvania and abandons Harker to the sisters. Harker barely escapes from the castle with his life.

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China Rich Girlfriend: A Novel (Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy) Kindle Edition

Category: Kindle Non Fiction>>China Rich Girlfriend: A Novel (Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy) Kindle Edition

China Rich Girlfriend kindle
It’s the eve of Rachel Chu’s wedding, and she ought to be over the moon. She has an immaculate Asscher-cut precious stone, a wedding dress she adores, and a life partner willing to impede his interfering relatives and surrender one of the greatest fortunes in Asia keeping in mind the end goal to wed her. In any case, Rachel grieves the way that her birthfather, a man she never knew, won’t be there to walk her down the path.

China Rich Girlfriend by Kevin Kwan

At that point a possibility mischance uncovers his character. Abruptly, Rachel is drawn into a confounding universe of Shanghai magnificence, an existence where individuals go to chapel in a penthouse, where colorful autos race down the avenue, and where individuals aren’t simply insane rich … they’re China rich.

Support the Author, Buy the Book

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From the earliest starting point this book was soooooooo great. I delighted in the principal book. Be that as it may, this book came join in the festivities out the door. We get the opportunity to see and find out about Rachel’s dad’s side of the family. We additionally become acquainted with his sibling who was such a great amount of enjoyable to peruse about. Furthermore, Astrid’s story line by and by was so mind blowing I needed her to have her own book so I could commit all my opportunity to her. In general however the book was only the best. I adored all the substituting points of view. I had a feeling that it extremely made the book extraordinary.

[PDF] [Mobi] The Alchemist Read, Download

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[PDF] [MOBI] The Alchemist Download by Paulo Coelho. Download free ebook of The Alchemist soft copy.

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Full Book Name: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
Author Name: Paulo Coelho
Book Genre: Fiction, Classics, Fantasy, Philosophy, Novels, Spirituality
ISBN # 0061122416
Date of Publication: 1988–
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[Mobi+pdf] Modern Man in Search of a Soul by C.G. Jung

Category: Public Domain Books>>[Mobi+pdf] Modern Man in Search of a Soul by C.G. Jung
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A provocative and enlightening look at spiritual unease and its contribution to the void in modern civilization Considered by many to be one of the most important books in the field of psychology, Modern Man in Search of a Soul is a comprehensive introduction to the thought of Carl Gustav Jung. In this book, Jung examines some of the most contested and crucial areas in the field of analytical psychology, including dream analysis, the primitive unconscious, and the relationship between psychology and religion. Additionally, Jung looks at the differences between his theories and those of Sigmund Freud, providing a valuable basis for anyone interested in the fundamentals of psychoanalysis.

of Janet, Flournoy and Freud—that after all this, the actuality of the unconscious should still be a matter for controversy. Since it is my intention to deal exclusively with questions of practical treatment, I will not attempt in this place a defence of the hypothesis of the unconscious, though it is obvious enough that dream-analysis stands or falls with this hypothesis. Without it the dream appears to be merely a freak of nature, a meaningless conglomerate of memory-fragments left over from the happenings of the day. Were the dream nothing more than this, there would be no excuse for the present discussion. We must recognize the unconscious if we are to treat of dream-analysis at all, for we do not resort to it as a mere exercise of the wits, but as a method for uncovering hitherto unconscious psychic contents which are causally related to the neurosis and therefore of importance in its treatment. Anyone who deems this hypothesis unacceptable must simply rule out the question of the practicability of dream-analysis.But since, according to our hypothesis, the unconscious plays a causal part in the neurosis, and since dreams are the direct expression of unconscious psychic activity, the attempt to analyse and interpret dreams is entirely justified from a scientific standpoint. Quite apart from therapeutic results, we may expect this line of endeavour to give us scientific insight into psychic causality. For the practitioner, however, scientific discoveries can at most be a gratifying by-product of his efforts in the field of therapy. He will not feel called upon to apply dream-analysis to his patients on the chance that it may throw light upon the problem of psychic causality. He may believe, of course, that the insight so gained is of therapeutic value—in which case he will regard dream-analysis as one of his professional duties. It is well known that the Freudian school is of the opinion that important therapeutic effects are achieved by throwing light upon the unconscious causal factors—that is, by explaining them to the

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  • Full Book Name: Modern Man in Search of a Soul
  • Author Name: C.G. Jung
  • Book Genre: Psychology, Nonfiction, Philosophy, Spirituality, Favorites
  • ISBN # 9780156612067
  • Date of Publication: 1933–
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Read & Download The Confessions of Saint Augustine by St. Augustine pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Non Fiction>>Read & Download The Confessions of Saint Augustine by St. Augustine pdf, Epub, Kindle

The Confessions of Saint Augustine, by Saint Augustine

Produced by Robert S. Munday

THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT AUGUSTINE

By Saint Augustine

Bishop of Hippo

Translated by E. B. Pusey (Edward Bouverie)

AD 401

BOOK I

Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is Thy power, and Thy wisdom infinite. And Thee would man praise; man, but a particle of Thy creation; man, that bears about him his mortality, the witness of
his sin, the witness that Thou resistest the proud: yet would man praise Thee; he, but a particle of Thy creation. Thou awakest us to delight in
Thy praise; for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless,
until it repose in Thee. Grant me, Lord, to know and understand which is first, to call on Thee or to praise Thee? and, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? for who can call on Thee, not knowing Thee? for he that knoweth Thee not, may call on Thee as other than Thou art. Or, is it rather, that we call on Thee that we may know Thee? but how shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? or how shall they believe without a preacher? and they that seek the Lord shall praise Him: for they that seek shall find Him, and they that find shall praise Him.I will seek Thee, Lord, by calling on Thee; and will call on Thee,believing in Thee; for to us hast Thou been preached. My faith, Lord, shall call on Thee, which Thou hast given me, wherewith Thou hast inspired me, through the Incarnation of Thy Son, through the ministry of the Preacher.

And how shall I call upon my God, my God and Lord, since, when I call for Him, I shall be calling Him to myself? and what room is there within me, whither my God can come into me? whither can God come into me, God who made heaven and earth? is there, indeed, O Lord my God, aught in me that can contain Thee? do then heaven and earth, which Thou hast made, and wherein Thou hast made me, contain Thee? or, because nothing which exists could exist without Thee, doth therefore whatever exists contain Thee? Since, then, I too exist, why do I seek that Thou shouldest enter into me, who were not, were Thou not in me? Why? because I am not gone down in hell, and yet Thou art there also. For if I go down into hell,Thou art there. I could not be then, O my God, could not be at all,wert Thou not in me; or, rather, unless I were in Thee, of whom are all things, by whom are all things, in whom are all things? Even so, Lord, even so. Whither do I call Thee, since I am in Thee? or whence canst Thou enter into me? for whither can I go beyond heaven and earth, that thence my God should come into me, who hath said, I fill the heaven and the earth.

Do the heaven and earth then contain Thee, since Thou fillest them? Or dost Thou fill them and yet overflow, since they do not contain Thee? And whither, when the heaven and the earth are filled, pourest Thou forth the remainder of Thyself? or hast Thou no need that aught contain
Thee, who contain est all things, since what Thou fillest Thou fillest by containing it? for the vessels which Thou fillest uphold Thee not, since, though they were broken, Thou wert not poured out. And when Thou
art poured out on us, Thou art not cast down, but Thou upliftest us; Thou art not dissipated, but Thou gatherest us. But Thou who fillest all things, fillest Thou them with Thy whole self? or, since all things
cannot contain Thee wholly, do they contain part of Thee? and all at
once the same part? or each its own part, the greater more, the smaller
less? And is, then one part of Thee greater, another less? or, art Thou
wholly every where, while nothing contains Thee wholly?
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THE YELLOW WALLPAPER By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Category: Public Domain Books>>THE YELLOW WALLPAPER By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

THE YELLOW WALLPAPER By Charlotte Perkins GilmanTHE YELLOW WALLPAPER By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.

A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!

Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.

Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?

John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.

John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.

John is a physician, and perhaps—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.

You see, he does not believe I am sick!

And what can one do?

If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous epression a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do?

My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.

So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again.

Personally, I disagree with their ideas.

Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.

But what is one to do?

I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.

I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.

So I will let it alone and talk about the house.

The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.

There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.

There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.

There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and co-heirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.

That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid; but I don’t care—there is something strange about the house—I can feel it.

I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the window.

I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.

But John says if I feel so I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself,—before him, at least,—and that makes
me very tired.

I don’t like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.

He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another.

He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.

I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.

He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get. “Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear,” said he, “and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time.” So we took the nursery, at the top of the house.

It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.

The paint and paper look as if a boys’ school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.

It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions.

The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow,strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.

It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.

There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word.

We have been here two weeks, and I haven’t felt like writing before, since that first day.

I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.

John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.

I am glad my case is not serious!

But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.

John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him.

Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!

I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already!

Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able—to dress and entertain, and order things.

It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!

And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous.

I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wallpaper!

At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous
patient than to give way to such fancies.

He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of
the stairs, and so on.

“You know the place is doing you good,” he said, “and really, dear, I don’t care to renovate the house just for a three months’ rental.”

“Then do let us go downstairs,” I said, “there are such pretty rooms there.”

Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar if I wished, and have it whitewashed into
the bargain.

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.

It is as airy and comfortable a room as any one need wish, and, of course,
I
would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.

I’m really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.

Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.

Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down
there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try.

I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.

But I find I get pretty tired when I try.

It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.

I wish I could get well faster.

But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it knew what a vicious influence it had!

There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down.

I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd,unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other.

I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in a toy-store.

I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big old bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.

I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe.

The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children have made here.

The wallpaper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother—they must have had perseverance as well as hatred.

Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed, which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.

But I don’t mind it a bit—only the paper.

There comes John’s sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing.

She is a perfect, and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!

But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.

There is one that commands the road, a lovely, shaded, winding road, and one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.

This wallpaper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.

But in the places where it isn’t faded, and where the sun is just so, I can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to sulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.

There’s sister on the stairs!

Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired out.John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.

Of course I didn’t do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.

But it tired me all the same.

John says if I don’t pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.

But I don’t want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is just like John and my brother, only more so!

Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.

I don’t feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything,and I’m getting dreadfully fretful and querulous.

I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time.

Of course I don’t when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.
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FAIRY TALES By The Brothers Grimm

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PREPARER’S NOTE

The text is based on translations from
the Grimms’ Kinder und Hausmarchen by
Edgar Taylor and Marian Edwardes.

CONTENTS:

THE GOLDEN BIRD
HANS IN LUCK
JORINDA AND JORINDEL
THE TRAVELLING MUSICIANS
OLD SULTAN
THE STRAW, THE COAL, AND THE BEAN
BRIAR ROSE
THE DOG AND THE SPARROW
THE TWELVE DANCING PRINCESSES
THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE
THE WILLOW-WREN AND THE BEAR
THE FROG-PRINCE
CAT AND MOUSE IN PARTNERSHIP
THE GOOSE-GIRL
THE ADVENTURES OF CHANTICLEER AND PARTLET
1. HOW THEY WENT TO THE MOUNTAINS TO EAT NUTS
2. HOW CHANTICLEER AND PARTLET WENT TO VISIT MR KORBES
RAPUNZEL
FUNDEVOGEL
THE VALIANT LITTLE TAILOR
HANSEL AND GRETEL
THE MOUSE, THE BIRD, AND THE SAUSAGE
MOTHER HOLLE
LITTLE RED-CAP [LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD] THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM
TOM THUMB
RUMPELSTILTSKIN
CLEVER GRETEL
THE OLD MAN AND HIS GRANDSON
THE LITTLE PEASANT
FREDERICK AND CATHERINE
SWEETHEART ROLAND
SNOWDROP
THE PINK
CLEVER ELSIE
THE MISER IN THE BUSH
ASHPUTTEL
THE WHITE SNAKE
THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN LITTLE KIDS
THE QUEEN BEE
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER
THE JUNIPER-TREE
the juniper-tree.
THE TURNIP
CLEVER HANS
THE THREE LANGUAGES
THE FOX AND THE CAT
THE FOUR CLEVER BROTHERS
LILY AND THE LION
THE FOX AND THE HORSE
THE BLUE LIGHT
THE RAVEN
THE GOLDEN GOOSE
THE WATER OF LIFE
THE TWELVE HUNTSMEN
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN MOUNTAIN
DOCTOR KNOWALL
THE SEVEN RAVENS
THE WEDDING OF MRS FOX
FIRST STORY
SECOND STORY
THE SALAD
THE STORY OF THE YOUTH WHO WENT FORTH TO LEARN WHAT FEAR WAS
KING GRISLY-BEARD
IRON HANS
CAT-SKIN
SNOW-WHITE AND ROSE-RED

THE BROTHERS GRIMM FAIRY TALES

THE GOLDEN BIRD

A certain king had a beautiful garden, and in the garden stood a tree which bore golden apples. These apples were always counted, and about the time when they began to grow ripe it was found that every night one of them was gone. The king became very angry at this, and ordered the gardener to keep watch all night under the tree. The gardener set his eldest son to watch; but about twelve o’clock he fell asleep, and in
the morning another of the apples was missing. Then the second son was ordered to watch; and at midnight he too fell asleep, and in the morning another apple was gone. Then the third son offered to keep watch; but the gardener at first would not let him, for fear some harm should come
to him: however, at last he consented, and the young man laid himself under the tree to watch. As the clock struck twelve he heard a rustling
noise in the air, and a bird came flying that was of pure gold; and as it was snapping at one of the apples with its beak, the gardener’s son
jumped up and shot an arrow at it. But the arrow did the bird no harm; only it dropped a golden feather from its tail, and then flew away.
The golden feather was brought to the king in the morning, and all the council was called together. Everyone agreed that it was worth more than
all the wealth of the kingdom: but the king said, ‘One feather is of no use to me, I must have the whole bird.’

Then the gardener’s eldest son set out and thought to find the golden bird very easily; and when he had gone but a little way, he came to a wood, and by the side of the wood he saw a fox sitting; so he took his bow and made ready to shoot at it. Then the fox said, ‘Do not shoot me,for I will give you good counsel; I know what your business is, and that you want to find the golden bird. You will reach a village in the evening; and when you get there, you will see two inns opposite to each other, one of which is very pleasant and beautiful to look at: go not in
there, but rest for the night in the other, though it may appear to you to be very poor and mean.’ But the son thought to himself, ‘What can such a beast as this know about the matter?’ So he shot his arrow at the fox; but he missed it, and it set up its tail above its back and ran into the wood. Then he went his way, and in the evening came to the village where the two inns were; and in one of these were people singing, and dancing, and feasting; but the other looked very dirty,and poor. ‘I should be very silly,’ said he, ‘if I went to that shabby
house, and left this charming place’; so he went into the smart house, and ate and drank at his ease, and forgot the bird, and his country too.

Time passed on; and as the eldest son did not come back, and no tidings were heard of him, the second son set out, and the same thing happened to him. He met the fox, who gave him the good advice: but when he came to the two inns, his eldest brother was standing at the window where the merrymaking was, and called to him to come in; and he could not withstand the temptation, but went in, and forgot the golden bird and his country in the same manner.

Time passed on again, and the youngest son too wished to set out into the wide world to seek for the golden bird; but his father would not listen to it for a long while, for he was very fond of his son, and was afraid that some ill luck might happen to him also, and prevent his coming back. However, at last it was agreed he should go, for he would not rest at home; and as he came to the wood, he met the fox, and heard the same good counsel. But he was thankful to the fox, and did not attempt his life as his brothers had done; so the fox said, ‘Sit upon my tail, and you will travel faster.’ So he sat down, and the fox began to run, and away they went over stock and stone so quick that their hair
whistled in the wind.

When they came to the village, the son followed the fox’s counsel, and without looking about him went to the shabby inn and rested there all night at his ease. In the morning came the fox again and met him as he was beginning his journey, and said, ‘Go straight forward, till you come to a castle, before which lie a whole troop of soldiers fast asleep and snoring: take no notice of them, but go into the castle and pass on and on till you come to a room, where the golden bird sits in a wooden cage; close by it stands a beautiful golden cage; but do not try to take the
bird out of the shabby cage and put it into the handsome one, otherwise you will repent it.’ Then the fox stretched out his tail again, and the young man sat himself down, and away they went over stock and stone till their hair whistled in the wind.

Before the castle gate all was as the fox had said: so the son went in and found the chamber where the golden bird hung in a wooden cage, and
below stood the golden cage, and the three golden apples that had been lost were lying close by it. Then thought he to himself, ‘It will be a
very droll thing to bring away such a fine bird in this shabby cage’; so he opened the door and took hold of it and put it into the golden cage.
But the bird set up such a loud scream that all the soldiers awoke, and they took him prisoner and carried him before the king. The next morning the court sat to judge him; and when all was heard, it sentenced him to die, unless he should bring the king the golden horse which could run as swiftly as the wind; and if he did this, he was to have the golden bird given him for his own.

So he set out once more on his journey, sighing, and in great despair,when on a sudden his friend the fox met him, and said, ‘You see now what has happened on account of your not listening to my counsel. I will still, however, tell you how to find the golden horse, if you will do as I bid you. You must go straight on till you come to the castle where the horse stands in his stall: by his side will lie the groom fast asleep and snoring: take away the horse quietly, but be sure to put the old,leathern saddle upon him, and not the golden one that is close by it.’Then the son sat down on the fox’s tail, and away they went over stock and stone till their hair whistled in the wind.

All went right, and the groom lay snoring with his hand upon the golden saddle. But when the son looked at the horse, he thought it a great pity to put the leathern saddle upon it. ‘I will give him the good one,’said he; ‘I am sure he deserves it.’ As he took up the golden saddle the groom awoke and cried out so loud, that all the guards ran in and took him prisoner, and in the morning he was again brought before the court
to be judged, and was sentenced to die. But it was agreed, that, if he could bring thither the beautiful princess, he should live, and have the bird and the horse given him for his own.

Then he went his way very sorrowful; but the old fox came and said, ‘Why did not you listen to me? If you had, you would have carried away both the bird and the horse; yet will I once more give you counsel. Go straight on, and in the evening you will arrive at a castle. At twelve
o’clock at night the princess goes to the bathing-house: go up to her and give her a kiss, and she will let you lead her away; but take care
you do not suffer her to go and take leave of her father and mother.’Then the fox stretched out his tail, and so away they went over stock
and stone till their hair whistled again.

As they came to the castle, all was as the fox had said, and at twelve o’clock the young man met the princess going to the bath and gave her the
kiss, and she agreed to run away with him, but begged with many tears that he would let her take leave of her father. At first he refused,
but she wept still more and more, and fell at his feet, till at last he consented; but the moment she came to her father’s house the guards
awoke and he was taken prisoner again.

Then he was brought before the king, and the king said, ‘You shall never have my daughter unless in eight days you dig away the hill that stops the view from my window.’ Now this hill was so big that the whole world could not take it away: and when he had worked for seven days, and had done very little, the fox came and said. ‘Lie down and go to sleep; I will work for you.’ And in the morning he awoke and the hill was gone; so he went merrily to the king, and told him that now that it was removed he must give him the princess.

Then the king was obliged to keep his word, and away went the young man and the princess; and the fox came and said to him, ‘We will have all three, the princess, the horse, and the bird.’ ‘Ah!’ said the young man, ‘that would be a great thing, but how can you contrive it?’

‘If you will only listen,’ said the fox, ‘it can be done. When you come to the king, and he asks for the beautiful princess, you must say, “Here she is!” Then he will be very joyful; and you will mount the golden horse that they are to give you, and put out your hand to take leave of them; but shake hands with the princess last. Then lift her quickly on to the horse behind you; clap your spurs to his side, and gallop away as
fast as you can.’

All went right: then the fox said, ‘When you come to the castle where the bird is, I will stay with the princess at the door, and you will ride in and speak to the king; and when he sees that it is the right horse, he will bring out the bird; but you must sit still, and say that you want to look at it, to see whether it is the true golden bird; and when you get it into your hand, ride away.’

This, too, happened as the fox said; they carried off the bird, the princess mounted again, and they rode on to a great wood. Then the fox came, and said, ‘Pray kill me, and cut off my head and my feet.’ But the young man refused to do it: so the fox said, ‘I will at any rate give you good counsel: beware of two things; ransom no one from the gallows, and sit down by the side of no river.’ Then away he went. ‘Well,’ thought the young man, ‘it is no hard matter to keep that advice.’

He rode on with the princess, till at last he came to the village where he had left his two brothers. And there he heard a great noise and uproar; and when he asked what was the matter, the people said, ‘Two men are going to be hanged.’ As he came nearer, he saw that the two men were his brothers, who had turned robbers; so he said, ‘Cannot they in any way be saved?’ But the people said ‘No,’ unless he would bestow all his money upon the rascals and buy their liberty. Then he did not stay to think about the matter, but paid what was asked, and his brothers were
given up, and went on with him towards their home.

And as they came to the wood where the fox first met them, it was so cool and pleasant that the two brothers said, ‘Let us sit down by the side of the river, and rest a while, to eat and drink.’ So he said, ‘Yes,’ and forgot the fox’s counsel, and sat down on the side of the river; and while he suspected nothing, they came behind, and threw him down the bank, and took the princess, the horse, and the bird, and went home to the king their master, and said. ‘All this have we won by our labour.’ Then there was great rejoicing made; but the horse would not
eat, the bird would not sing, and the princess wept.

The youngest son fell to the bottom of the river’s bed: luckily it was nearly dry, but his bones were almost broken, and the bank was so steep that he could find no way to get out. Then the old fox came once more, and scolded him for not following his advice; otherwise no evil would have befallen him: ‘Yet,’ said he, ‘I cannot leave you here, so lay hold of my tail and hold fast.’ Then he pulled him out of the river, and said to him, as he got upon the bank, ‘Your brothers have set watch to kill you, if they find you in the kingdom.’ So he dressed himself as a poor man, and came secretly to the king’s court, and was scarcely within the doors when the horse began to eat, and the bird to sing, and the princess left off weeping. Then he went to the king, and told him all his brothers’ roguery; and they were seized and punished, and he had the princess given to him again; and after the king’s death he was heir to his kingdom.

A long while after, he went to walk one day in the wood, and the old fox met him, and besought him with tears in his eyes to kill him, and cut off his head and feet. And at last he did so, and in a moment the fox was changed into a man, and turned out to be the brother of the princess, who had been lost a great many many years.

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THE PRINCE by Nicolo Machiavelli pdf, Epub, kindleTHE PRINCE by Nicolo Machiavelli

Translated by W. K. Marriott

Nicolo Machiavelli, born at Florence on 3rd May 1469. From 1494 to 1512 held an official post at Florence which included diplomatic missions to various European courts. Imprisoned in Florence, 1512; later exiled and returned to San Casciano. Died at Florence on 22nd June 1527.

INTRODUCTION

Nicolo Machiavelli was born at Florence on 3rd May 1469. He was the second son of Bernardo di Nicolo Machiavelli, a lawyer of some repute,and of Bartolommea di Stefano Nelli, his wife. Both parents were members of the old Florentine nobility.

His life falls naturally into three periods, each of which singularly enough constitutes a distinct and important era in the history of Florence. His youth was concurrent with the greatness of Florence as an Italian power under the guidance of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Il Magnifico.The downfall of the Medici in Florence occurred in 1494, in which year Machiavelli entered the public service. During his official career Florence was free under the government of a Republic, which lasted until 1512, when the Medici returned to power, and Machiavelli lost his office. The Medici again ruled Florence from 1512 until 1527, when they were once more driven out. This was the period of achiavelli’s literary activity and increasing influence; but he died, within a few weeks of the expulsion of the Medici, on 22nd June 1527, in his fifty-eighth year, without having regained office.

YOUTH — Aet. 1-25–1469-94

Although there is little recorded of the youth of Machiavelli, the Florence of those days is so well known that the early environment of this representative citizen may be easily imagined. Florence has been described as a city with two opposite currents of life, one directed by the fervent and austere Savonarola, the other by the splendour-loving Lorenzo. Savonarola’s influence upon the young Machiavelli must have been slight, for although at one time he wielded immense power over the fortunes of Florence, he only furnished Machiavelli with a subject of a gibe in “The Prince,” where he is cited as an example of an unarmed prophet who came to a bad end. Whereas the magnificence of the Medicean rule during the life of Lorenzo appeared to have impressed Machiavelli strongly, for he frequently recurs to it in his writings, and it is to Lorenzo’s grandson that he dedicates “The Prince.”

Machiavelli, in his “History of Florence,” gives us a picture of the young men among whom his youth was passed. He writes: “They were freer than their forefathers in dress and living, and spent more in other kinds of excesses, consuming their time and money in idleness, gaming,and women; their chief aim was to appear well dressed and to speak with wit and acuteness, whilst he who could wound others the most cleverly was thought the wisest.” In a letter to his son Guido, Machiavelli shows why youth should avail itself of its opportunities for study, and leads us to infer that his own youth had been so occupied. He writes: “I have received your letter, which has given me the greatest pleasure, especially because you tell me you are quite restored in health, than which I could have no better news; for if God grant life to you, and to me, I hope to make a good man of you if you are willing to do your share.” Then, writing of a new patron, he continues: “This will turn out well for you, but it is necessary for you to study; since, then, you have no longer the excuse of illness, take pains to study letters and music, for you see what honour is done to me for the little skill I have. Therefore, my son, if you wish to please me, and to bring success and honour to yourself, do right and study, because others will help you if you help yourself.”

OFFICE — Aet. 25-43–1494-1512

The second period of Machiavelli’s life was spent in the service of the free Republic of Florence, which flourished, as stated above, from the expulsion of the Medici in 1494 until their return in 1512. After
serving four years in one of the public offices he was appointed Chancellor and Secretary to the Second Chancery, the Ten of Liberty and Peace. Here we are on firm ground when dealing with the events of
Machiavelli’s life, for during this time he took a leading part in the affairs of the Republic, and we have its decrees, records, and dispatches to guide us, as well as his own writings. A mere
recapitulation of a few of his transactions with the statesmen and soldiers of his time gives a fair indication of his activities, and supplies the sources from which he drew the experiences and characters
which illustrate “The Prince.”

His first mission was in 1499 to Catherina Sforza, “my lady of Forli” of “The Prince,” from whose conduct and fate he drew the moral that it is far better to earn the confidence of the people than to rely on
fortresses. This is a very noticeable principle in Machiavelli, and is urged by him in many ways as a matter of vital importance to princes.

In 1500 he was sent to France to obtain terms from Louis XII for continuing the war against Pisa: this king it was who, in his conduct of affairs in Italy, committed the five capital errors in statecraft
summarized in “The Prince,” and was consequently driven out. He, also, it was who made the dissolution of his marriage a condition of support to Pope Alexander VI; which leads Machiavelli to refer those who urge
that such promises should be kept to what he has written concerning the faith of princes.

Machiavelli’s public life was largely occupied with events arising out of the ambitions of Pope Alexander VI and his son, Cesare Borgia, the Duke Valentino, and these characters fill a large space of “The Prince.”
Machiavelli never hesitates to cite the actions of the duke for the benefit of usurpers who wish to keep the states they have seized; he can, indeed, find no precepts to offer so good as the pattern of Cesare
Borgia’s conduct, insomuch that Cesare is acclaimed by some critics as the “hero” of “The Prince.” Yet in “The Prince” the duke is in point of fact cited as a type of the man who rises on the fortune of others, and
falls with them; who takes every course that might be expected from a prudent man but the course which will save him; who is prepared for all eventualities but the one which happens; and who, when all his abilities
fail to carry him through, exclaims that it was not his fault, but an extraordinary and unforeseen fatality.

On the death of Pius III, in 1503, Machiavelli was sent to Rome to watch the election of his successor, and there he saw Cesare Borgia cheated into allowing the choice of the College to fall on Giuliano delle Rovere
(Julius II), who was one of the cardinals that had most reason to fear the duke. Machiavelli, when commenting on this election, says that he who thinks new favours will cause great personages to forget old
injuries deceives himself. Julius did not rest until he had ruined Cesare.

It was to Julius II that Machiavelli was sent in 1506, when that pontiff was commencing his enterprise against Bologna; which he brought to a successful issue, as he did many of his other adventures, owing chiefly
to his impetuous character. It is in reference to Pope Julius that Machiavelli moralizes on the resemblance between Fortune and women, and concludes that it is the bold rather than the cautious man that will win
and hold them both.

It is impossible to follow here the varying fortunes of the Italian states, which in 1507 were controlled by France, Spain, and Germany, with results that have lasted to our day; we are concerned with those
events, and with the three great actors in them, so far only as they impinge on the personality of Machiavelli. He had several meetings with Louis XII of France, and his estimate of that monarch’s character has
already been alluded to. Machiavelli has painted Ferdinand of Aragon as the man who accomplished great things under the cloak of religion, but who in reality had no mercy, faith, humanity, or integrity; and who,
had he allowed himself to be influenced by such motives, would have been ruined. The Emperor Maximilian was one of the most interesting men of the age, and his character has been drawn by many hands; but
Machiavelli, who was an envoy at his court in 1507-8, reveals the secret of his many failures when he describes him as a secretive man, without force of character–ignoring the human agencies necessary to carry
his schemes into effect, and never insisting on the fulfilment of his wishes.

The remaining years of Machiavelli’s official career were filled with events arising out of the League of Cambrai, made in 1508 between the three great European powers already mentioned and the pope, with the
object of crushing the Venetian Republic. This result was attained in the battle of Vaila, when Venice lost in one day all that she had won in eight hundred years. Florence had a difficult part to play during these
events, complicated as they were by the feud which broke out between the pope and the French, because friendship with France had dictated the entire policy of the Republic. When, in 1511, Julius II finally formed
the Holy League against France, and with the assistance of the Swiss drove the French out of Italy, Florence lay at the mercy of the Pope, and had to submit to his terms, one of which was that the Medici should
be restored. The return of the Medici to Florence on 1st September 1512, and the consequent fall of the Republic, was the signal for the dismissal of Machiavelli and his friends, and thus put an end to his public career, for, as we have seen, he died without regaining office.

On the return of the Medici, Machiavelli, who for a few weeks had vainly hoped to retain his office under the new masters of Florence, was dismissed by decree dated 7th November 1512. Shortly after this he was
accused of complicity in an abortive conspiracy against the Medici,imprisoned, and put to the question by torture. The new Medicean pope,Leo X, procured his release, and he retired to his small property at San
Casciano, near Florence, where he devoted himself to literature. In a letter to Francesco Vettori, dated 13th December 1513, he has left a very interesting description of his life at this period, which
elucidates his methods and his motives in writing “The Prince.” After describing his daily occupations with his family and neighbours, he writes: “The evening being come, I return home and go to my study; at
the entrance I pull off my peasant-clothes, covered with dust and dirt,and put on my noble court dress, and thus becomingly re-clothed I pass into the ancient courts of the men of old, where, being lovingly
received by them, I am fed with that food which is mine alone; where I do not hesitate to speak with them, and to ask for the reason of their actions, and they in their benignity answer me; and for four hours I feel no weariness, I forget every trouble, poverty does not dismay,
death does not terrify me; I am possessed entirely by those great men.
And because Dante says:

Knowledge doth come of learning well retained,
Unfruitful else,

I have noted down what I have gained from their conversation, and have composed a small work on ‘Principalities,’ where I pour myself out as fully as I can in meditation on the subject, discussing what a
principality is, what kinds there are, how they can be acquired, how they can be kept, why they are lost: and if any of my fancies ever pleased you, this ought not to displease you: and to a prince,
especially to a new one, it should be welcome: therefore I dedicate it to his Magnificence Giuliano. Filippo Casavecchio has seen it; he will be able to tell you what is in it, and of the discourses I have had with
him; nevertheless, I am still enriching and polishing it.”

The “little book” suffered many vicissitudes before attaining the form in which it has reached us. Various mental influences were at work during its composition; its title and patron were changed; and for some
unknown reason it was finally dedicated to Lorenzo de’ Medici. Although Machiavelli discussed with Casavecchio whether it should be sent or presented in person to the patron, there is no evidence that Lorenzo
ever received or even read it: he certainly never gave Machiavelli any employment. Although it was plagiarized during Machiavelli’s lifetime, “The Prince” was never published by him, and its text is still
disputable.

Machiavelli concludes his letter to Vettori thus: “And as to this little thing [his book], when it has been read it will be seen that during the fifteen years I have given to the study of statecraft I have neither
slept nor idled; and men ought ever to desire to be served by one who has reaped experience at the expense of others. And of my loyalty none could doubt, because having always kept faith I could not now learn how
to break it; for he who has been faithful and honest, as I have, cannot change his nature; and my poverty is a witness to my honesty.”

Before Machiavelli had got “The Prince” off his hands he commenced his “Discourse on the First Decade of Titus Livius,” which should be read concurrently with “The Prince.” These and several minor works occupied
him until the year 1518, when he accepted a small commission to look after the affairs of some Florentine merchants at Genoa. In 1519 the Medicean rulers of Florence granted a few political concessions to
her citizens, and Machiavelli with others was consulted upon a new constitution under which the Great Council was to be restored; but on one pretext or another it was not promulgated.

In 1520 the Florentine merchants again had recourse to Machiavelli to settle their difficulties with Lucca, but this year was chiefly remarkable for his re-entry into Florentine literary society, where he
was much sought after, and also for the production of his “Art of War.”It was in the same year that he received a commission at the instance of Cardinal de’ Medici to write the “History of Florence,” a task
which occupied him until 1525. His return to popular favour may have determined the Medici to give him this employment, for an old writer observes that “an able statesman out of work, like a huge whale, will
endeavour to overturn the ship unless he has an empty cask to play with.”

When the “History of Florence” was finished, Machiavelli took it to Rome for presentation to his patron, Giuliano de’ Medici, who had in the meanwhile become pope under the title of Clement VII. It is somewhat
remarkable that, as, in 1513, Machiavelli had written “The Prince” for the instruction of the Medici after they had just regained power in Florence, so, in 1525, he dedicated the “History of Florence” to the
head of the family when its ruin was now at hand. In that year the battle of Pavia destroyed the French rule in Italy, and left Francis I a prisoner in the hands of his great rival, Charles V. This was followed
by the sack of Rome, upon the news of which the popular party at Florence threw off the yoke of the Medici, who were once more banished.

Machiavelli was absent from Florence at this time, but hastened his return, hoping to secure his former office of secretary to the “Ten of Liberty and Peace.” Unhappily he was taken ill soon after he reached
Florence, where he died on 22nd June 1527.

THE MAN AND HIS WORKS

No one can say where the bones of Machiavelli rest, but modern Florence has decreed him a stately cenotaph in Santa Croce, by the side of her most famous sons; recognizing that, whatever other nations may have
found in his works, Italy found in them the idea of her unity and the germs of her renaissance among the nations of Europe. Whilst it is idle to protest against the world-wide and evil signification of his name,
it may be pointed out that the harsh construction of his doctrine which this sinister reputation implies was unknown to his own day, and that the researches of recent times have enabled us to interpret him more
reasonably. It is due to these inquiries that the shape of an “unholy necromancer,” which so long haunted men’s vision, has begun to fade.

Machiavelli was undoubtedly a man of great observation, acuteness, and industry; noting with appreciative eye whatever passed before him, and with his supreme literary gift turning it to account in his enforced
retirement from affairs. He does not present himself, nor is he depicted by his contemporaries, as a type of that rare combination, the successful statesman and author, for he appears to have been
only moderately prosperous in his several embassies and political employments. He was misled by Catherina Sforza, ignored by Louis XII, overawed by Cesare Borgia; several of his embassies were quite barren of
results; his attempts to fortify Florence failed, and the soldiery that he raised astonished everybody by their cowardice. In the conduct of his own affairs he was timid and time-serving; he dared not appear by the
side of Soderini, to whom he owed so much, for fear of compromising himself; his connection with the Medici was open to suspicion, and Giuliano appears to have recognized his real forte when he set him to
write the “History of Florence,” rather than employ him in the state.And it is on the literary side of his character, and there alone, thatwe find no weakness and no failure.

Although the light of almost four centuries has been focused on “The Prince,” its problems are still debatable and interesting, because they are the eternal problems between the ruled and their rulers. Such as
they are, its ethics are those of Machiavelli’s contemporaries; yet they cannot be said to be out of date so long as the governments of Europe rely on material rather than on moral forces. Its historical incidents
and personages become interesting by reason of the uses which Machiavelli makes of them to illustrate his theories of government and conduct.

Leaving out of consideration those maxims of state which still furnish some European and eastern statesmen with principles of action, “The Prince” is bestrewn with truths that can be proved at every turn. Men
are still the dupes of their simplicity and greed, as they were in the days of Alexander VI. The cloak of religion still conceals the vices which Machiavelli laid bare in the character of Ferdinand of Aragon.
Men will not look at things as they really are, but as they wish them to be–and are ruined. In politics there are no perfectly safe courses; prudence consists in choosing the least dangerous ones. Then–to pass to
a higher plane–Machiavelli reiterates that, although crimes may win an empire, they do not win glory. Necessary wars are just wars, and the arms of a nation are hallowed when it has no other resource but to
fight.

It is the cry of a far later day than Machiavelli’s that government should be elevated into a living moral force, capable of inspiring the people with a just recognition of the fundamental principles of society;
to this “high argument” “The Prince” contributes but little. Machiavelli always refused to write either of men or of governments otherwise than as he found them, and he writes with such skill and insight that his
work is of abiding value. But what invests “The Prince” with more than a merely artistic or historical interest is the incontrovertible truth that it deals with the great principles which still guide nations and
rulers in their relationship with each other and their neighbours.

In translating “The Prince” my aim has been to achieve at all costs an
exact literal rendering of the original, rather than a fluent paraphrase
adapted to the modern notions of style and expression. Machiavelli was
no facile phrasemonger; the conditions under which he wrote obliged him
to weigh every word; his themes were lofty, his substance grave, his
manner nobly plain and serious. “Quis eo fuit unquam in partiundis
rebus, in definiendis, in explanandis pressior?” In “The Prince,” it may
be truly said, there is reason assignable, not only for every word, but
for the position of every word. To an Englishman of Shakespeare’s time
the translation of such a treatise was in some ways a comparatively easy
task, for in those times the genius of the English more nearly resembled
that of the Italian language; to the Englishman of to-day it is not so
simple. To take a single example: the word “intrattenere,” employed by
Machiavelli to indicate the policy adopted by the Roman Senate towards
the weaker states of Greece, would by an Elizabethan be correctly
rendered “entertain,” and every contemporary reader would understand
what was meant by saying that “Rome entertained the Aetolians and the
Achaeans without augmenting their power.” But to-day such a phrase would
seem obsolete and ambiguous, if not unmeaning: we are compelled to say
that “Rome maintained friendly relations with the Aetolians,” etc.,
using four words to do the work of one. I have tried to preserve the
pithy brevity of the Italian so far as was consistent with an absolute
fidelity to the sense. If the result be an occasional asperity I can
only hope that the reader, in his eagerness to reach the author’s
meaning, may overlook the roughness of the road that leads him to it.

The following is a list of the works of Machiavelli:

Principal works. Discorso sopra le cose di Pisa, 1499; Del modo di
trattare i popoli della Valdichiana ribellati, 1502; Del modo tenuto dal
duca Valentino nell’ ammazzare Vitellozzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da Fermo,
etc., 1502; Discorso sopra la provisione del danaro, 1502; Decennale
primo (poem in terza rima), 1506; Ritratti delle cose dell’ Alemagna,
1508-12; Decennale secondo, 1509; Ritratti delle cose di Francia, 1510;
Discorsi sopra la prima deca di T. Livio, 3 vols., 1512-17; Il Principe,
1513; Andria, comedy translated from Terence, 1513 (?); Mandragola,
prose comedy in five acts, with prologue in verse, 1513; Della
lingua (dialogue), 1514; Clizia, comedy in prose, 1515 (?); Belfagor
arcidiavolo (novel), 1515; Asino d’oro (poem in terza rima), 1517; Dell’
arte della guerra, 1519-20; Discorso sopra il riformare lo stato di
Firenze, 1520; Sommario delle cose della citta di Lucca, 1520; Vita
di Castruccio Castracani da Lucca, 1520; Istorie fiorentine, 8 books,
1521-5; Frammenti storici, 1525.

Other poems include Sonetti, Canzoni, Ottave, and Canti carnascialeschi.

Editions. Aldo, Venice, 1546; della Tertina, 1550; Cambiagi, Florence, 6
vols., 1782-5; dei Classici, Milan, 10 1813; Silvestri, 9 vols., 1820-2;
Passerini, Fanfani, Milanesi, 6 vols. only published, 1873-7.

Minor works. Ed. F. L. Polidori, 1852; Lettere familiari, ed. E.
Alvisi, 1883, 2 editions, one with excisions; Credited Writings, ed.
G. Canestrini, 1857; Letters to F. Vettori, see A. Ridolfi, Pensieri
intorno allo scopo di N. Machiavelli nel libro Il Principe, etc.; D.
Ferrara, The Private Correspondence of Nicolo Machiavelli, 1929.

DEDICATION

To the Magnificent Lorenzo Di Piero De’ Medici:

Those who strive to obtain the good graces of a prince are
accustomed to come before him with such things as they hold most
precious, or in which they see him take most delight; whence one
often sees horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones, and
similar ornaments presented to princes, worthy of their greatness.

Desiring therefore to present myself to your Magnificence with
some testimony of my devotion towards you, I have not found among
my possessions anything which I hold more dear than, or value so
much as, the knowledge of the actions of great men, acquired by
long experience in contemporary affairs, and a continual study of
antiquity; which, having reflected upon it with great and
prolonged diligence, I now send, digested into a little volume, to
your Magnificence.

And although I may consider this work unworthy of your
countenance, nevertheless I trust much to your benignity that it
may be acceptable, seeing that it is not possible for me to make a
better gift than to offer you the opportunity of understanding in
the shortest time all that I have learnt in so many years, and
with so many troubles and dangers; which work I have not
embellished with swelling or magnificent words, nor stuffed with
rounded periods, nor with any extrinsic allurements or adornments
whatever, with which so many are accustomed to embellish their
works; for I have wished either that no honour should be given it,
or else that the truth of the matter and the weightiness of the
theme shall make it acceptable.

Nor do I hold with those who regard it as a presumption if a man
of low and humble condition dare to discuss and settle the
concerns of princes; because, just as those who draw landscapes
place themselves below in the plain to contemplate the nature of
the mountains and of lofty places, and in order to contemplate the
plains place themselves upon high mountains, even so to understand
the nature of the people it needs to be a prince, and to
understand that of princes it needs to be of the people.

Take then, your Magnificence, this little gift in the spirit in
which I send it; wherein, if it be diligently read and considered
by you, you will learn my extreme desire that you should attain
that greatness which fortune and your other attributes promise.
And if your Magnificence from the summit of your greatness will
sometimes turn your eyes to these lower regions, you will see how
unmeritedly I suffer a great and continued malignity of fortune.

THE PRINCE

CHAPTER I — HOW MANY KINDS OF PRINCIPALITIES THERE ARE, AND BY WHAT
MEANS THEY ARE ACQUIRED

All states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been
and are either republics or principalities.

Principalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long
established; or they are new.

The new are either entirely new, as was Milan to Francesco Sforza, or
they are, as it were, members annexed to the hereditary state of the
prince who has acquired them, as was the kingdom of Naples to that of
the King of Spain.

Such dominions thus acquired are either accustomed to live under a
prince, or to live in freedom; and are acquired either by the arms of
the prince himself, or of others, or else by fortune or by ability.

Read & Download Heart of darkness By Joseph Conrad pdf, Epub, Kindle

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HEART OF DARKNESS By Joseph Conrad

I
The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness.The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest,and the greatest, town on earth.

The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.

Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns–and even convictions. The Lawyer–the best of old fellows–had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.

Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, “followed the sea” with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal
current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled–the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the _Golden Hind_ returning with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen’s Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale,
to the _Erebus_ and _Terror_, bound on other conquests–and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith–the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of men on ‘Change; captains, admirals, the dark “interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned “generals” of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all
had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth!… The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires.

The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman light-house, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway–a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

“And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.”

He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them–the ship; and so is their country–the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent,and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.

His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow.It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow–“I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago–the other day …. Light came out of this river since–you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker–may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine–what d’ye call ‘em?–trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries–a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too–used to build,
apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here–the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina–and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,–precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay–cold, fog, tempests,
disease, exile, and death–death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes–he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga–perhaps too
much dice, you know–coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him–all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination
of the abomination–you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”

He paused.

“Mind,” he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower–“Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency–the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force–nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to
be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind–as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea–something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to….”

He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other–then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently–there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, “I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit,” that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences.

“I don’t want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,” he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would like best to hear; “yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me–and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too–and pitiful–not extraordinary in any way–not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.

“I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas–a regular dose of the East–six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship–I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn’t even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too.

“Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, ‘When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I
remember. Well, I haven’t been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour’s off. Other places were scattered about the hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and… well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one yet–the biggest, the most blank, so to speak–that I had a hankering after.

“True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery–a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window,
it fascinated me as a snake would a bird–a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river.Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can’t trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water–steamboats! Why shouldn’t I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me.

“You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; but I have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it’s cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say.

“I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn’t have believed it of myself; but, then–you see–I felt somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said ‘My dear fellow,’ and did nothing. Then–would you believe it?–I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work–to get a job.Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. She wrote: ‘It will be delightful. I am ready to do anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a
very high personage in the Administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with,’ etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy.

“I got my appointment–of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the Company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens. Fresleven–that was the fellow’s name, a Dane–thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to
hammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn’t surprise me in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man–I was told the chief’s son–in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man–and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades. Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven’s remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn’t let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not
been touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens I don’t know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hope for it.

“I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours I was crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulchre. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty in finding the Company’s offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody I met was full of it. They were going to run an over-sea empire, and make no end of coin by trade.

“A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped through one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first door I came to. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs, knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at me–still knitting with downcast eyes–and only just as I began to think of getting out of her way, as
you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded me into a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast amount of red–good to see at any time, because one knows that some
real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager-beer. However, I wasn’t going into any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the centre. And the river was there–fascinating–deadly–like a snake.Ough! A door opened, a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted
in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French. _Bon Voyage_.

“In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-room with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to.

“I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy–I don’t know–something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched
white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me.Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me, too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for
a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old
eyes. _Ave!_ Old knitter of black wool. _Morituri te salutant_. Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again–not half, by a long way.

“There was yet a visit to the doctor. ‘A simple formality,’ assured me the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows.Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, some clerk I suppose–there must have been clerks in the business, though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead–came from somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, with inkstains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. It was a
little too early for the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermouths he glorified the Company’s business, and by and by I expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,’ he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose.

“The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while. ‘Good, good for there,’ he mumbled, and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool. ‘I always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going
out there,’ he said. ‘And when they come back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them,’ he remarked; ‘and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.’ He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. ‘So you are going out there. Famous. Interesting, too.’ He gave me a searching glance, and made another note. ‘Ever any madness in your family?’ he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. I felt very annoyed. ‘Is that question in the interests of science, too?’ ‘It would be,’ he said, without taking notice of my irritation, ‘interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot, but…’ ‘Are you an alienist?’ I interrupted. ‘Every doctor should be–a little,’ answered
that original, imperturbably. ‘I have a little theory which you messieurs who go out there must help me to prove. This is my share in the advantages my country shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency. The mere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman coming under my observation…’ I hastened to assure him I was not in the least typical.
‘If I were,’ said I, ‘I wouldn’t be talking like this with you.’ ‘What you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. _Adieu_. How do you English say, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. _Adieu_. In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.’… He lifted a warning forefinger…. ‘_Du calme, du calme_.’

“One thing more remained to do–say good-bye to my excellent aunt. I found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea–the last decent cup of tea for many days–and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you would expect a lady’s drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by the fireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to me I had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature–a piece of good fortune for the Company–a man you don’t get
hold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a two-penny-half-penny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached! It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital–you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet. She talked about ‘weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways,’ till, upon my word, she
made me quite uncomfortable. I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit.

“‘You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer is worthy of his hire,’ she said, brightly. It’s queer how out of touch with truth women are.They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

“After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on–and I left. In the street–I don’t know why–a queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. Odd thing that I, who used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours’ notice, with less thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment–I won’t say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by saying that, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the centre of a continent, I were about to set off for the centre of the earth.

“I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you–smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, ‘Come and find out.’
This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there greyish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background. We pounded along,stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks to levy
toll in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost in it; landed more soldiers–to take care of the custom-house clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; but we passed various places–trading places–with names like Gran’ Bassam, Little Popo; names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister back-cloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the
uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening. They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque
masks–these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long.Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn’t even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars
going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long six-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech–and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in
the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives–he called them enemies!–hidden out of sight somewhere.

“We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dying of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed to
writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares.

“It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river.We anchored off the seat of the government. But my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made a start for a place thirty miles higher up.

“I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was a young man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait.As we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the shore. ‘Been living there?’ he asked. I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Fine lotthese government chaps–are they not?’ he went on, speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. ‘It is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomes of that kind when it goes upcountry?’ I said to him I expected to see that soon. ‘So-o-o!’ he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he continued. ‘The other day I took up a man who hanged himself on the road. He was a Swede, too.’ ‘Hanged himself! Why, in God’s name?’ I cried. He kept on looking out watchfully. ‘Who knows? The sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.’

“At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-up earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others with iron roofs, amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence of glare. ‘There’s your Company’s station,’ said the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the
rocky slope. ‘I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.’

“I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonation
shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway. The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on.

“A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report
from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill. They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages.
Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle.He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a part
of the great cause of these high and just proceedings.

“Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off.I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes–that’s only one way of resisting–without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men–men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen.

“I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don’t know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn’t one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up.
At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into the gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound–as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.

“Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair.Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.

“They were dying slowly–it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now–nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air–and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees.
Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young–almost a boy–but you know with them it’s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede’s ship’s biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held–there was no other movement and no other glance. He had
tied a bit of white worsted round his neck–Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge–an ornament–a charm–a propitiatory act? Was there any
idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas.

“Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone.

“I didn’t want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towards the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear.

“I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company’s chief accountant, and that all the book-keeping was done at this station. He had come out for a moment, he said, ‘to get a breath of fresh air. The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk-life. I wouldn’t have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly connected with the memories of that time.Moreover, I respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser’s dummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That’s backbone. His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character. He had been out nearly
three years; and, later, I could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly, ‘I’ve been teaching one of the native women about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.’ Thus this man had verily accomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were in apple-pie order.

“Everything else in the station was in a muddle–heads, things, buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire sent into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory.

“I had to wait in the station for ten days–an eternity. I lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into the accountant’s office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there, too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise. When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalid agent from
upcountry) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. ‘The groans of this sick person,’ he said, ‘distract my attention. And
without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.’

“One day he remarked, without lifting his head, ‘In the interior you will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.’ On my asking who Mr. Kurtz was, he
said he was a first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly, laying down his pen, ‘He is a very
remarkable person.’ Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at present in charge of a trading-post, a very important one, in the
true ivory-country, at ‘the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together…’ He began to write again. The sick
man was too ill to groan. The flies buzzed in a great peace.“Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of
feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking
together, and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard ‘giving it up’ tearfully for the twentieth time
that day…. He rose slowly. ‘What a frightful row,’ he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to
me, ‘He does not hear.’ ‘What! Dead?’ I asked, startled. ‘No, not yet,’he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the
head to the tumult in the station-yard, ‘When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages–hate them to the
death.’ He remained thoughtful for a moment. ‘When you see Mr. Kurtz’ he went on, ‘tell him from me that everything here’–he glanced at the
deck–’ is very satisfactory. I don’t like to write to him–with those messengers of ours you never know who may get hold of your letter–at
that Central Station.’ He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. ‘Oh, he will go far, very far,’ he began again. ‘He
will be a somebody in the Administration before long. They, above–the
Council in Europe, you know–mean him to be.’

“He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the homeward-bound agent was lying finished and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct
transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree-tops of the grove of death.

“Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for a two-hundred-mile tramp.

“No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; a stamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through the long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a
solitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a long time ago. Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to travelling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for
them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone, too. Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There’s something pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of
sixty pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60-lb. load. Camp,cook, sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an empty water-gourd and his long staff lying by his side. A great silence around and above.
Perhaps on some quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild–and perhaps with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country. Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform,
camping on the path with an armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive–not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can’t say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead,
upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement. I had a white companion, too,
not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoying, you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man’s head while he is coming to. I couldn’t help asking him once what
he meant by coming there at all. ‘To make money, of course. What do you think?’ he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried in
a hammock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with the carriers. They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night–quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of
eyes before me, and the next morning I started the hammock off in front all right. An hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush–man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for me to kill somebody, but there wasn’t the shadow of a carrier near. I remembered the old doctor–‘It would be interesting for science to watch the mental changes
of individuals, on the spot.’ I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose. On the fifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub and forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three others enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the gate
it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see the flabby devil was running that show. White men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. One of them, a stout, excitable chap with black moustaches, informed me with great volubility and many digressions, as soon as I told him who I was, that
my steamer was at the bottom of the river. I was thunderstruck. What, how, why? Oh, it was ‘all right.’ The ‘manager himself’ was there. All quite correct. ‘Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!’–‘you must,’ he said in agitation, ‘go and see the general manager at once. He is waiting!’

“I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I see it now, but I am not sure–not at all. Certainly the affair was too stupid–when I think of it–to be altogether natural. Still… But at the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The steamer was sunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer
skipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked myself what I was to do there, now my boat was lost. As a matter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. I had to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station, took some months.

“My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me to sit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. He was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something
stealthy–a smile–not a smile–I remember it, but I can’t explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it got intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts–nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust–just
uneasiness–nothing more. You have no idea how effective such a… a… faculty can be. He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no learning, and no intelligence. His
position had come to him–why? Perhaps because he was never ill… He had served three terms of three years out there… Because triumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale–pompously. Jack ashore–with a difference–in externals only.This one could gather from his casual talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going–that’s all. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell what could control such a man. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made one pause–for out there there were no external checks. Once when various tropical diseases had laid low almost every ‘agent’ in the station, he was heard to say, ‘Men who come out here should have no entrails.’ He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied you had seen things–but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal-times by the constant quarrels of the white men about
precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be made, for which a special house had to be built. This was the station’s mess-room. Where he sat was the first place–the rest were nowhere. One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his ‘boy’–an overfed young negro from the coast–to treat the white men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence.

“He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on the road. He could not wait. Had to start without me. The up-river stations had to be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on–and so on,
and so on. He paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situation was
‘very grave, very grave.’ There were rumours that a very important station was in jeopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was
not true. Mr. Kurtz was… I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the
coast. ‘Ah! So they talk of him down there,’ he murmured to himself.Then he began again, assuring me Mr. Kurtz was the best agent he had, an
exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company; therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said, ‘very, very uneasy.’
Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal, exclaimed, ‘Ah, Mr. Kurtz!’ broke the stick of sealing-wax and seemed dumfounded by the
accident. Next thing he wanted to know ‘how long it would take to’…I interrupted him again. Being hungry, you know, and kept on my feet
too. I was getting savage. ‘How can I tell?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even seen the wreck yet–some months, no doubt.’ All this talk seemed to me
so futile. ‘Some months,’ he said. ‘Well, let us say three months before we can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.’ I flung out
of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of verandah) muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a chattering idiot.
Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite for the
‘affair.’

“I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine
of the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were
praying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By Jove! I’ve never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion.

“Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. One evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don’t know what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with moustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was ‘behaving splendidly,
splendidly,’ dipped about a quart of water and tore back again.noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail.

“I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like a box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flame had leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything–and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire in some way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him,
later, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sick and trying to recover himself; afterwards he arose and went out–and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As I approached the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, ‘take advantage of this unfortunate accident.’ One of the men was the manager.
I wished him a good evening. ‘Did you ever see anything like it–eh? it is incredible,’ he said, and walked off. The other man remained. He was a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the manager’s spy upon them.As to me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk, and
by and by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station. He struck a match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself.
Just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. The business intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks–so I had been
informed; but there wasn’t a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more than a year–waiting. It seems he could not make bricks without something, I don’t know what–straw maybe.Anyway, it could not be found there and as it was not likely to be sent
from Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for. An act of special creation perhaps. However, they were all waiting–all the sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them–for something; and upon my word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it,
though the only thing that ever came to them was disease–as far as I could see. They beguiled the time by back-biting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it, of course. It was as unreal as
everything else–as the philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as their government, as their show of work. The only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages. They intrigued
and slandered and hated each other only on that account–but as to effectually lifting a little finger–oh, no. By heavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out. Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into a
kick.

“I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at
something–in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposed to know there–putting leading questions as to my
acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs–with curiosity–though he tried to keep up a
bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn’t
possibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full
only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless
prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in
oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background was sombre–almost black. The movement
of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister.

“It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pint champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my
question he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this–in this very station more than a year ago–while waiting for means to go to his trading post.
‘Tell me, pray,’ said I, ‘who is this Mr. Kurtz?’

“‘The chief of the Inner Station,’ he answered in a short tone, looking away. ‘Much obliged,’ I said, laughing. ‘And you are the brickmaker of
the Central Station. Every one knows that.’ He was silent for a while.‘He is a prodigy,’ he said at last. ‘He is an emissary of pity and
science and progress, and devil knows what else. We want,’ he began to declaim suddenly, ‘for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by
Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.’ ‘Who says that?’ I asked. ‘Lots of them,’ he replied. ‘Some
even write that; and so _he_ comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.’ ‘Why ought I to know?’ I interrupted, really surprised. He paid
no attention. ‘Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he will be assistant-manager, two years more and… but I dare-say you
know what he will be in two years’ time. You are of the new gang–the gang of virtue. The same people who sent him specially also recommended
you. Oh, don’t say no. I’ve my own eyes to trust.’ Light dawned upon me.My dear aunt’s influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected
effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. ‘Do you read the Company’s confidential correspondence?’ I asked. He hadn’t a word
to say. It was great fun. ‘When Mr. Kurtz,’ I continued, severely, ‘is General Manager, you won’t have the opportunity.’

“He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon had risen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on
the glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere. ‘What a row the brute
makes!’ said the indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. ‘Serve him right. Transgression–punishment–bang! Pitiless,
pitiless. That’s the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the manager…’ He noticed my
companion, and became crestfallen all at once. ‘Not in bed yet,’ he said, with a kind of servile heartiness; ‘it’s so natural. Ha!
Danger–agitation.’ He vanished. I went on to the riverside, and the other followed me. I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, ‘Heap
of muffs–go to.’ The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating,discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily
believe they took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through that dim stir,
through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one’s very heart–its mystery, its greatness, the
amazing reality of its concealed life. The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend my
pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing itself under my arm.‘My dear sir,’ said the fellow, ‘I don’t want to be misunderstood, and
especially by you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I wouldn’t like him to get a false idea of my
disposition….’

“I let him run on, this _papier-mache_ Mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would find
nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don’t you see, had been planning to be assistant-manager by and by under the present man,
and I could see that the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had my
shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some big river animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud,
by Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The moon
had spread over everything a thin layer of silver–over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than
the wall of a temple, over the great river I could see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur.
All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensity
looking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were we who had strayed in here? Could we handle that dumb thing, or would it
handle us? I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn’t talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could
see a little ivory coming out from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about it, too–God knows! Yet somehow
it didn’t bring any image with it–no more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed it in the same way one of you
might believe there are inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in Mars.
If you asked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would get shy and mutter something about ‘walking on all-fours.’ If you as much
as smiled, he would–though a man of sixty–offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near
enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it
appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies–which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world–what I want
to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by
letting the young fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretence as
the rest of the bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehow would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not
see–you understand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do
you see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream–making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey
the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being
captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams….”

He was silent for a while.

“… No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence–that which makes
its truth, its meaning–its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream–alone….”

He paused again as if reflecting, then added:

“Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me,
whom you know….”

It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the river.

“… Yes–I let him run on,” Marlow began again, “and think what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat I was leaning against, while he talked fluently about ‘the necessity for every man to get on.’ ‘And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.’ Mr. Kurtz was a ‘universal genius,’ but even a genius would find it easier to work with ‘adequate tools–intelligent men.’ He did not make bricks–why, there was a
physical impossibility in the way–as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because ‘no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.’ Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work–to stop the hole. Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them down at the coast–cases–piled up–burst–split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station-yard on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death.
You could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down–and there wasn’t one rivet to be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger, a long negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast. And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods–ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat.

“He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets–and rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now letters went to the coast every week…. ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I write from dictation.’ I demanded rivets. There was a way–for an intelligent man. He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (I stuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn’t disturbed. There was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at night over the station grounds.The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o’ nights for him. All this energy was wasted, though. ‘That animal has a charmed life,’ he said; ‘but you can say this only of brutes in this country. No man–you
apprehend me?–no man here bears a charmed life.’ He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little
askew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curt Good-night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerably
puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days. It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit–to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work–no man does–but I like what is in the work–the chance to find yourself. Your own reality–for yourself, not for others–what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere
show, and never can tell what it really means.

“I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the few mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally despised–on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was the foreman–a boiler-maker by trade–a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come out there), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After work hours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly on a bush to dry.

“I slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘We shall have rivets!’ He scrambled to his feet exclaiming, ‘No! Rivets!’ as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then in a low voice, ‘You… eh?’ I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. ‘Good for you!’ he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck.
A frightful clatter came out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the sleeping station. It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager’s hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished, too.We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet
flowed back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves,
boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested,
ready to topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence. And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty
splashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an icthyosaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in the great river. ‘After all,’ said the
boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, ‘why shouldn’t we get the rivets?’ Why not, indeed! I did not know of any reason why we shouldn’t. ‘They’ll
come in three weeks,’ I said confidently.

“But they didn’t. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, an infliction, a visitation. It came in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing from that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkey; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white
cases, brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station. Five such instalments came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. It was an inextricable mess of things decent in
themselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving.

“This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into
a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don’t know; but the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot.

“In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighbourhood, and his eyes had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation on his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke to no one but his nephew. You could see these two roaming
about all day long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab.

“I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One’s capacity for that kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I said Hang!–and let things slide. I had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then I would give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn’t very interested in him. No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the
top after all and how he would set about his work when there.”
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ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark TwainADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain
CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. Civilizing Huck.–Miss Watson.–Tom Sawyer Waits.

CHAPTER II. The Boys Escape Jim.–Torn Sawyer’s Gang.–Deep-laid Plans.

CHAPTER III. A Good Going-over.–Grace Triumphant.–“One of Tom Sawyers’s
Lies”.

CHAPTER IV. Huck and the Judge.–Superstition.

CHAPTER V. Huck’s Father.–The Fond Parent.–Reform.

CHAPTER VI. He Went for Judge Thatcher.–Huck Decided to Leave.–Political
Economy.–Thrashing Around.

CHAPTER VII. Laying for Him.–Locked in the Cabin.–Sinking the
Body.–Resting.

CHAPTER VIII. Sleeping in the Woods.–Raising the Dead.–Exploring the
Island.–Finding Jim.–Jim’s Escape.–Signs.–Balum.

CHAPTER IX. The Cave.–The Floating House.

CHAPTER X. The Find.–Old Hank Bunker.–In Disguise.

CHAPTER XI. Huck and the Woman.–The Search.–Prevarication.–Going to
Goshen.

CHAPTER XII. Slow Navigation.–Borrowing Things.–Boarding the Wreck.–The
Plotters.–Hunting for the Boat.

CHAPTER XIII. Escaping from the Wreck.–The Watchman.–Sinking.

CHAPTER XIV. A General Good Time.–The Harem.–French.

CHAPTER XV. Huck Loses the Raft.–In the Fog.–Huck Finds the Raft.–Trash.

CHAPTER XVI. Expectation.–A White Lie.–Floating Currency.–Running by
Cairo.–Swimming Ashore.

CHAPTER XVII. An Evening Call.–The Farm in Arkansaw.–Interior
Decorations.–Stephen Dowling Bots.–Poetical Effusions.

CHAPTER XVIII. Col. Grangerford.–Aristocracy.–Feuds.–The
Testament.–Recovering the Raft.–The Wood–pile.–Pork and Cabbage.

CHAPTER XIX. Tying Up Day–times.–An Astronomical Theory.–Running a
Temperance Revival.–The Duke of Bridgewater.–The Troubles of Royalty.

CHAPTER XX. Huck Explains.–Laying Out a Campaign.–Working the
Camp–meeting.–A Pirate at the Camp–meeting.–The Duke as a Printer.

CHAPTER XXI. Sword Exercise.–Hamlet’s Soliloquy.–They Loafed Around
Town.–A Lazy Town.–Old Boggs.–Dead.

CHAPTER XXII. Sherburn.–Attending the Circus.–Intoxication in the
Ring.–The Thrilling Tragedy.

CHAPTER XXIII. Sold.–Royal Comparisons.–Jim Gets Home-sick.

CHAPTER XXIV. Jim in Royal Robes.–They Take a Passenger.–Getting
Information.–Family Grief.

CHAPTER XXV. Is It Them?–Singing the “Doxologer.”–Awful Square–Funeral
Orgies.–A Bad Investment .

CHAPTER XXVI. A Pious King.–The King’s Clergy.–She Asked His
Pardon.–Hiding in the Room.–Huck Takes the Money.

CHAPTER XXVII. The Funeral.–Satisfying Curiosity.–Suspicious of
Huck,–Quick Sales and Small.

CHAPTER XXVIII. The Trip to England.–“The Brute!”–Mary Jane Decides to
Leave.–Huck Parting with Mary Jane.–Mumps.–The Opposition Line.

CHAPTER XXIX. Contested Relationship.–The King Explains the Loss.–A
Question of Handwriting.–Digging up the Corpse.–Huck Escapes.

CHAPTER XXX. The King Went for Him.–A Royal Row.–Powerful Mellow.

CHAPTER XXXI. Ominous Plans.–News from Jim.–Old Recollections.–A Sheep
Story.–Valuable Information.

CHAPTER XXXII. Still and Sunday–like.–Mistaken Identity.–Up a Stump.–In
a Dilemma.

CHAPTER XXXIII. A Nigger Stealer.–Southern Hospitality.–A Pretty Long
Blessing.–Tar and Feathers.

CHAPTER XXXIV. The Hut by the Ash Hopper.–Outrageous.–Climbing the
Lightning Rod.–Troubled with Witches.

CHAPTER XXXV. Escaping Properly.–Dark Schemes.–Discrimination in
Stealing.–A Deep Hole.

CHAPTER XXXVI. The Lightning Rod.–His Level Best.–A Bequest to
Posterity.–A High Figure.

CHAPTER XXXVII. The Last Shirt.–Mooning Around.–Sailing Orders.–The
Witch Pie.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Coat of Arms.–A Skilled Superintendent.–Unpleasant
Glory.–A Tearful Subject.

CHAPTER XXXIX. Rats.–Lively Bed–fellows.–The Straw Dummy.

CHAPTER XL. Fishing.–The Vigilance Committee.–A Lively Run.–Jim Advises
a Doctor.

CHAPTER XLI. The Doctor.–Uncle Silas.–Sister Hotchkiss.–Aunt Sally in
Trouble.

CHAPTER XLII. Tom Sawyer Wounded.–The Doctor’s Story.–Tom
Confesses.–Aunt Polly Arrives.–Hand Out Them Letters .

CHAPTER THE LAST. Out of Bondage.–Paying the Captive.–Yours Truly, Huck
Finn.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

The Widows

Moses and the “Bulrushers”

Miss Watson

Huck Stealing Away

They Tip-toed Along

Jim

Tom Sawyer’s Band of Robbers

Huck Creeps into his Window

Miss Watson’s Lecture

The Robbers Dispersed

Rubbing the Lamp

! ! ! !

Judge Thatcher surprised

Jim Listening

“Pap”

Huck and his Father

Reforming the Drunkard

Falling from Grace

Getting out of the Way

Solid Comfort

Thinking it Over

Raising a Howl

“Git Up”

The Shanty

Shooting the Pig

Taking a Rest

In the Woods

Watching the Boat

Discovering the Camp Fire

Jim and the Ghost

Misto Bradish’s Nigger

Exploring the Cave

In the Cave

Jim sees a Dead Man

They Found Eight Dollars

Jim and the Snake

Old Hank Bunker

“A Fair Fit”

“Come In”

“Him and another Man”

She puts up a Snack

“Hump Yourself”

On the Raft

He sometimes Lifted a Chicken

“Please don’t, Bill”

“It ain’t Good Morals”

“Oh! Lordy, Lordy!”

In a Fix

“Hello, What’s Up?”

The Wreck

We turned in and Slept

Turning over the Truck

Solomon and his Million Wives

The story of “Sollermun”

“We Would Sell the Raft”

Among the Snags

Asleep on the Raft

“Something being Raftsman”

“Boy, that’s a Lie”

“Here I is, Huck”

Climbing up the Bank

“Who’s There?”

“Buck”

“It made Her look Spidery”

“They got him out and emptied Him”

The House

Col. Grangerford

Young Harney Shepherdson

Miss Charlotte

“And asked me if I Liked Her”

“Behind the Wood-pile”

Hiding Day-times

“And Dogs a-Coming”

“By rights I am a Duke!”

“I am the Late Dauphin”

Tail Piece

On the Raft

The King as Juliet

“Courting on the Sly”

“A Pirate for Thirty Years”

Another little Job

Practizing

Hamlet’s Soliloquy

“Gimme a Chaw”

A Little Monthly Drunk

The Death of Boggs

Sherburn steps out

A Dead Head

He shed Seventeen Suits

Tragedy

Their Pockets Bulged

Henry the Eighth in Boston Harbor

Harmless

Adolphus

He fairly emptied that Young Fellow

“Alas, our Poor Brother”

“You Bet it is”

Leaking

Making up the “Deffisit”

Going for him

The Doctor

The Bag of Money

The Cubby

Supper with the Hare-Lip

Honest Injun

The Duke looks under the Bed

Huck takes the Money

A Crack in the Dining-room Door

The Undertaker

“He had a Rat!”

“Was you in my Room?”

Jawing

In Trouble

Indignation

How to Find Them

He Wrote

Hannah with the Mumps

The Auction

The True Brothers

The Doctor leads Huck

The Duke Wrote

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!”

“Jim Lit Out”

The King shakes Huck

The Duke went for Him

Spanish Moss

“Who Nailed Him?”

Thinking

He gave him Ten Cents

Striking for the Back Country

Still and Sunday-like

She hugged him tight

“Who do you reckon it is?”

“It was Tom Sawyer”

“Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?”

A pretty long Blessing

Traveling By Rail

Vittles

A Simple Job

Witches

Getting Wood

One of the Best Authorities

The Breakfast-Horn

Smouching the Knives

Going down the Lightning-Rod

Stealing spoons

Tom advises a Witch Pie

The Rubbage-Pile

“Missus, dey’s a Sheet Gone”

In a Tearing Way

One of his Ancestors

Jim’s Coat of Arms

A Tough Job

Buttons on their Tails

Irrigation

Keeping off Dull Times

Sawdust Diet

Trouble is Brewing

Fishing

Every one had a Gun

Tom caught on a Splinter

Jim advises a Doctor

The Doctor

Uncle Silas in Danger

Old Mrs. Hotchkiss

Aunt Sally talks to Huck

Tom Sawyer wounded

The Doctor speaks for Jim

Tom rose square up in Bed

“Hand out them Letters”

Out of Bondage

Tom’s Liberality

Yours Truly

EXPLANATORY

IN this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro
dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the
ordinary “Pike County” dialect; and four modified varieties of this
last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by
guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and
support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers
would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and
not succeeding.

THE AUTHOR.

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

Scene: The Mississippi Valley Time: Forty to fifty years ago

CHAPTER I.

YOU don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things
which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly–Tom’s Aunt Polly, she
is–and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece–all gold. It was an awful sight of money when
it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round–more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas
she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn’t stand
it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I
would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn’t do nothing but
sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn’t go right to eating, but
you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn’t really anything the matter with them,–that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a
barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so
then I didn’t care no more about him, because I don’t take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn’t. She said it was a mean practice and wasn’t clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They
get down on a thing when they don’t know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn’t stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say,
“Don’t put your feet up there, Huckleberry;” and “Don’t scrunch up like that, Huckleberry–set up straight;” and pretty soon she would
say, “Don’t gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry–why don’t you try to behave?” Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn’t mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn’t particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn’t say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn’t see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn’t try for it. But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn’t do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn’t think
much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn’t no use. I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a
dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I couldn’t make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard
that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that’s on its mind and can’t make itself understood, and so can’t rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn’t no confidence. You do that when you’ve lost a horseshoe that you’ve found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn’t ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you’d killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn’t know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom–boom–boom–twelve licks; and all still again–stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the
trees–something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a “me-yow! me-yow!” down there. That was good! Says I, “me-yow! me-yow!” as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough,
there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

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Read & Download A CHRISTMAS CAROL by Charles Dickens pdf, Epub, Kindle

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A CHRISTMAS CAROL by Charles Dickens

A CHRISTMAS CAROL by Charles Dickens
PREFACE

I HAVE endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my
readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses
pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C. D.
December, 1843.

CONTENTS

Stave I: Marley’s Ghost
Stave II: The First of the Three Spirits
Stave III: The Second of the Three Spirits
Stave IV: The Last of the Spirits
Stave V: The End of It

STAVE I: MARLEY’S GHOST

MARLEY was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was
signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker,and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and
Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a
door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about
a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery
in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands
shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that
Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did.How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were
partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole
assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully
cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral,
and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley
was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going
to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s Father died before the play began, there
would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts,
than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy
spot–say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance–literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley’s name.There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse
door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the
business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the
same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping,
clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire;
secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather
chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no
pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and
snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down”
handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Scrooge, how are you?
When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him
what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of
Scrooge. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would
tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No
eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths
of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Scrooge.

Once upon a time–of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve–old Scrooge sat busy in his
counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside,go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the
pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already–
it had not been light all day–and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like
ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was
so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms.
To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature
lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge’s counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a
dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s
fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept
the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted
that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to
warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

“A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s
nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was
all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

“Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Scrooge’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”

“I do,” said Scrooge. “Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you
to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

“Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you
to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, “Bah!” again; and followed it up
with “Humbug.”

“Don’t be cross, uncle!” said the nephew.

“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas!
Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without
money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books
and having every item in ’em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could
work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips,
should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”

“Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.

“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly, “keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“Keep it!” repeated Scrooge’s nephew. “But you don’t keep it.”

“Let me leave it alone, then,” said Scrooge. “Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done
you!”

“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare
say,” returned the nephew. “Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas
time, when it has come round–apart from theveneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything
belonging to it can be apart from that–as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant
time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent
to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were
fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore,
uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me
good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety,
he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever.

“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Scrooge, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing
your situation! You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir,” he added, turning to his nephew. “I wonder you
don’t go into Parliament.”

“Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow.”

Scrooge said that he would see him–yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression,
and said that he would see him in that extremity first.

“But why?” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “Why?”

“Why did you get married?” said Scrooge.

“Because I fell in love.”

“Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous
than a merry Christmas. “Good afternoon!”

“Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not
coming now?”

“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”

“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!”

“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

“And A Happy New Year!”

“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.

“There’s another fellow,” muttered Scrooge; who overheard him: “my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I’ll retire to Bedlam.”

This lunatic, in letting Scrooge’s nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge’s office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.

“Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe,” said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?”

“Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,” Scrooge replied. “He died seven years ago, this very
night.”

“We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,” said the gentleman, presenting
his credentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word “liberality,” Scrooge
frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.

“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their
useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer.
I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support
the establishments I have mentioned–they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.
Besides–excuse me–I don’t know that.”

“But you might know it,” observed the gentleman.

“It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursuetheir point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers’ and grocers’ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor’s household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow’s pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped
the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then
indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled
by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with
a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of

“God bless you, merry gentleman!
May nothing you dismay!”

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to
the fog and even more congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his
stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out,
and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?” said Scrooge.

“If quite convenient, sir.”

“It’s not convenient,” said Scrooge, “and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d
think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound?”

The clerk smiled faintly.

“And yet,” said Scrooge, “you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Scrooge, buttoning
his great-coat to the chin. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next
morning.”

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a
twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he
boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in
honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play
at blindman’s-buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and
beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book, went home to bed. He lived in
chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a
lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help
fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses,
and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but
Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew
its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway
of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the
threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it
was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence
in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of
London, even including–which is a bold word–the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be
borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his
seven years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened
that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate
process of change–not a knocker, but Marley’s face.

Marley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a
dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked
at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The
hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly
motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the
face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it
had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished,
turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind
it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall.
But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he
said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant’s
cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to
be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too:
trimming his candle as he went.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad
young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken
it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades: and done it
easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge
thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of
the street wouldn’t have lighted the entry too well,so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with
Scrooge’s dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before
he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection
of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under
the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had
a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown,
which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard,
old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take
his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and
brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.
The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint
Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh’s daughters;
Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams,
Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts;
and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet’s rod, and swallowed up the
whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from
the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley’s head on every one.

“Humbug!” said Scrooge; and walked across the
room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened
to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten
with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with
a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had
begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as
dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound,and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors
below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

“It’s humbug still!” said Scrooge. “I won’t believe it.”

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into
the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, “I know
him; Marley’s Ghost!” and fell again.

The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail,usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses.

“How now!” said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. “What do you want with me?”

“Much!”–Marley’s voice, no doubt about it.

“Who are you?”

“Ask me who I was.”

“Who were you then?” said Scrooge, raising his voice. “You’re particular, for a shade.” He was going to say “to a shade,” but substituted this, as more appropriate.

“In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.”

“Can you–can you sit down?” asked Scrooge, looking
doubtfully at him.

“I can.”

“Do it, then.”

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn’t know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.

“You don’t believe in me,” observed the Ghost.
“I don’t,” said Scrooge.

“What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?”

“I don’t know,” said Scrooge.

“Why do you doubt your senses?”

“Because,” said Scrooge, “a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may
be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre’s voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very
deuce with him. There was something very awful, too, in the spectre’s being provided with an infernal
atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the
Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour
from an oven.

“You see this toothpick?” said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned;
and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision’s stony gaze from himself.

“I do,” replied the Ghost.

“You are not looking at it,” said Scrooge.

“But I see it,” said the Ghost, “notwithstanding.”

“Well!” returned Scrooge, “I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a
legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you! humbug!”

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that
Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was
his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors,
its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast!

Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face.

“Mercy!” he said. “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”

“Man of the worldly mind!” replied the Ghost, “do you believe in me or not?”

“I do,” said Scrooge. “I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?”

“It is required of every man,” the Ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among
his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so
after death. It is doomed to wander through the world–oh, woe is me!–and witness what it cannot
share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

“You are fettered,” said Scrooge, trembling. “Tell me why?”

“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded
it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?”

Scrooge trembled more and more.

“Or would you know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself?
It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since.
It is a ponderous chain!”

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty
or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

“Jacob,” he said, imploringly. “Old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob!”

“I have none to give,” the Ghost replied. “It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed
by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more is
all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked
beyond our counting-house–mark me!–in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our
money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!”

It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches pockets.
Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his
knees.

“You must have been very slow about it, Jacob,” Scrooge observed, in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference.

“Slow!” the Ghost repeated.”Seven years dead,” mused Scrooge. “And travelling
all the time!”

“The whole time,” said the Ghost. “No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse.”

“You travel fast?” said Scrooge.”On the wings of the wind,” replied the Ghost.

“You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years,” said Scrooge.The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of
the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance.

“Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed,” cried the phantom, “not to know, that ages of incessant labour
by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is
all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may
be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of
regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!”

“But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,” faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this
to himself.

“Business!” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. The common
welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings
of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

It held up its chain at arm’s length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it
heavily upon the ground again.

“At this time of the rolling year,” the spectre said, “I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of
fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise
Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to
which its light would have conducted me!”

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake
exceedingly.

“Hear me!” cried the Ghost. “My time is nearly gone.”

“I will,” said Scrooge. “But don’t be hard upon me! Don’t be flowery, Jacob! Pray!”

“How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible
beside you many and many a day.”

It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

“That is no light part of my penance,” pursued the Ghost. “I am here to-night to warn you, that you
have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.”

“You were always a good friend to me,” said Scrooge. “Thank’ee!”

“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Spirits.”

Scrooge’s countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost’s had done.

“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?” he demanded, in a faltering voice.

“It is.”

“I–I think I’d rather not,” said Scrooge.

“Without their visits,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow,
when the bell tolls One.”

“Couldn’t I take ’em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?” hinted Scrooge.

“Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last
stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you
remember what has passed between us!”

When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head,
as before. Scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were brought together
by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him
in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm.

The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little,
so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open.

It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other,
Marley’s Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible
of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and
self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the
bleak, dark night.

Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they
went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley’s Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments)
were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He
had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to
its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below,
upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in
human matters, and had lost the power for ever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and
their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home.

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked,
as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say “Humbug!”
but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues
of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of
the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the
instant.
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Read & Download Et dukkehjem. English by Henrik Ibsen pdf, Epub, kindle

Category: Public Domain Books>>Read & Download Et dukkehjem. English by Henrik Ibsen pdf, Epub, kindle

Title: A Doll’s House

Author: Henrik Ibsen

Posting Date: December 13, 2008 [EBook #2542] Release Date: March, 2001

Language: English

Produced by Martin Adamson

Source : Abebooks

A DOLL’S HOUSE by Henrik Ibsen

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Torvald Helmer.
Nora, his wife.
Doctor Rank.
Mrs. Linde.
Nils Krogstad.
Helmer’s three young children.
Anne, their nurse.
A Housemaid.
A Porter.
(The action takes place in Helmer’s house.)

A DOLL’S HOUSE

ACT I

(SCENE.–A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not
extravagantly. At the back, a door to the right leads to the
entrance-hall, another to the left leads to Helmer’s study. Between the
doors stands a piano. In the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and
beyond it a window. Near the window are a round table, arm-chairs and
a small sofa. In the right-hand wall, at the farther end, another door;
and on the same side, nearer the footlights, a stove, two easy chairs
and a rocking-chair; between the stove and the door, a small table.
Engravings on the walls; a cabinet with china and other small objects;
a small book-case with well-bound books. The floors are carpeted, and a
fire burns in the stove. It is winter.

A bell rings in the hall; shortly afterwards the door is heard to open.
Enter NORA, humming a tune and in high spirits. She is in outdoor dress
and carries a number of parcels; these she lays on the table to the
right. She leaves the outer door open after her, and through it is seen
a PORTER who is carrying a Christmas Tree and a basket, which he gives
to the MAID who has opened the door.)

Nora. Hide the Christmas Tree carefully, Helen. Be sure the children
do not see it until this evening, when it is dressed. (To the PORTER,
taking out her purse.) How much?

Porter. Sixpence.

Nora. There is a shilling. No, keep the change. (The PORTER thanks her,
and goes out. NORA shuts the door. She is laughing to herself, as she
takes off her hat and coat. She takes a packet of macaroons from her
pocket and eats one or two; then goes cautiously to her husband’s door
and listens.) Yes, he is in. (Still humming, she goes to the table on
the right.)

Helmer (calls out from his room). Is that my little lark twittering out
there?

Nora (busy opening some of the parcels). Yes, it is!

Helmer. Is it my little squirrel bustling about?

Nora. Yes!

Helmer. When did my squirrel come home?

Nora. Just now. (Puts the bag of macaroons into her pocket and wipes her
mouth.) Come in here, Torvald, and see what I have bought.

Helmer. Don’t disturb me. (A little later, he opens the door and looks
into the room, pen in hand.) Bought, did you say? All these things? Has
my little spendthrift been wasting money again?

Nora. Yes but, Torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go
a little. This is the first Christmas that we have not needed to
economise.

Helmer. Still, you know, we can’t spend money recklessly. Nora. Yes,
Torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now, mayn’t we? Just a tiny
wee bit! You are going to have a big salary and earn lots and lots of
money.

Helmer. Yes, after the New Year; but then it will be a whole quarter
before the salary is due.

Nora. Pooh! we can borrow until then.

Helmer. Nora! (Goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear.) The
same little featherhead! Suppose, now, that I borrowed fifty pounds
today, and you spent it all in the Christmas week, and then on New
Year’s Eve a slate fell on my head and killed me, and–Nora (putting her
hands over his mouth). Oh! don’t say such horrid things.

Helmer. Still, suppose that happened,–what then?

Nora. If that were to happen, I don’t suppose I should care whether I
owed money or not.

Helmer. Yes, but what about the people who had lent it?

Nora. They? Who would bother about them? I should not know who they
were.

Helmer. That is like a woman! But seriously, Nora, you know what I think
about that. No debt, no borrowing. There can be no freedom or beauty
about a home life that depends on borrowing and debt. We two have kept
bravely on the straight road so far, and we will go on the same way for
the short time longer that there need be any struggle.

Nora (moving towards the stove). As you please, Torvald.

Helmer (following her). Come, come, my little skylark must not droop her
wings. What is this! Is my little squirrel out of temper? (Taking out
his purse.) Nora, what do you think I have got here?

Nora (turning round quickly). Money!

Helmer. There you are. (Gives her some money.) Do you think I don’t know
what a lot is wanted for housekeeping at Christmas-time?

Nora (counting). Ten shillings–a pound–two pounds! Thank you, thank
you, Torvald; that will keep me going for a long time.

Helmer. Indeed it must.

Nora. Yes, yes, it will. But come here and let me show you what I have
bought. And all so cheap! Look, here is a new suit for Ivar, and
a sword; and a horse and a trumpet for Bob; and a doll and dolly’s
bedstead for Emmy,–they are very plain, but anyway she will soon break
them in pieces. And here are dress-lengths and handkerchiefs for the
maids; old Anne ought really to have something better.

Helmer. And what is in this parcel?

Nora (crying out). No, no! you mustn’t see that until this evening.

Helmer. Very well. But now tell me, you extravagant little person, what
would you like for yourself?

Nora. For myself? Oh, I am sure I don’t want anything.

Helmer. Yes, but you must. Tell me something reasonable that you would
particularly like to have.

Nora. No, I really can’t think of anything–unless, Torvald–

Helmer. Well?

Nora (playing with his coat buttons, and without raising her eyes to
his). If you really want to give me something, you might–you might–

Helmer. Well, out with it!

Nora (speaking quickly). You might give me money, Torvald. Only just as
much as you can afford; and then one of these days I will buy something
with it.

Helmer. But, Nora–

Nora. Oh, do! dear Torvald; please, please do! Then I will wrap it up in
beautiful gilt paper and hang it on the Christmas Tree. Wouldn’t that be
fun?

Helmer. What are little people called that are always wasting money?

Nora. Spendthrifts–I know. Let us do as you suggest, Torvald, and then
I shall have time to think what I am most in want of. That is a very
sensible plan, isn’t it?

Helmer (smiling). Indeed it is–that is to say, if you were really to
save out of the money I give you, and then really buy something for
yourself. But if you spend it all on the housekeeping and any number of
unnecessary things, then I merely have to pay up again.

Nora. Oh but, Torvald–

Helmer. You can’t deny it, my dear little Nora. (Puts his arm round
her waist.) It’s a sweet little spendthrift, but she uses up a deal of
money. One would hardly believe how expensive such little persons are!

Nora. It’s a shame to say that. I do really save all I can.

Helmer (laughing). That’s very true,–all you can. But you can’t save
anything!

Nora (smiling quietly and happily). You haven’t any idea how many
expenses we skylarks and squirrels have, Torvald.

Helmer. You are an odd little soul. Very like your father. You always
find some new way of wheedling money out of me, and, as soon as you
have got it, it seems to melt in your hands. You never know where it
has gone. Still, one must take you as you are. It is in the blood; for
indeed it is true that you can inherit these things, Nora.

Nora. Ah, I wish I had inherited many of papa’s qualities.

Helmer. And I would not wish you to be anything but just what you are,
my sweet little skylark. But, do you know, it strikes me that you are
looking rather–what shall I say–rather uneasy today?

Nora. Do I?

Helmer. You do, really. Look straight at me.

Nora (looks at him). Well?

Helmer (wagging his finger at her). Hasn’t Miss Sweet Tooth been
breaking rules in town today?

Nora. No; what makes you think that?

Helmer. Hasn’t she paid a visit to the confectioner’s?

Nora. No, I assure you, Torvald–

Helmer. Not been nibbling sweets?

Nora. No, certainly not.

Helmer. Not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two?

Nora. No, Torvald, I assure you really–

Helmer. There, there, of course I was only joking.

Nora (going to the table on the right). I should not think of going
against your wishes.

Helmer. No, I am sure of that; besides, you gave me your word– (Going
up to her.) Keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself, my darling.
They will all be revealed tonight when the Christmas Tree is lit, no
doubt.

Nora. Did you remember to invite Doctor Rank?

Helmer. No. But there is no need; as a matter of course he will come to
dinner with us. However, I will ask him when he comes in this morning.
I have ordered some good wine. Nora, you can’t think how I am looking
forward to this evening.

Nora. So am I! And how the children will enjoy themselves, Torvald!

Helmer. It is splendid to feel that one has a perfectly safe
appointment, and a big enough income. It’s delightful to think of, isn’t
it?

Nora. It’s wonderful!

Helmer. Do you remember last Christmas? For a full three weeks
beforehand you shut yourself up every evening until long after midnight,
making ornaments for the Christmas Tree, and all the other fine things
that were to be a surprise to us. It was the dullest three weeks I ever
spent!

Nora. I didn’t find it dull.

Helmer (smiling). But there was precious little result, Nora.

Nora. Oh, you shouldn’t tease me about that again. How could I help the
cat’s going in and tearing everything to pieces?

Helmer. Of course you couldn’t, poor little girl. You had the best of
intentions to please us all, and that’s the main thing. But it is a good
thing that our hard times are over.

Nora. Yes, it is really wonderful.

Helmer. This time I needn’t sit here and be dull all alone, and you
needn’t ruin your dear eyes and your pretty little hands–

Nora (clapping her hands). No, Torvald, I needn’t any longer, need I!
It’s wonderfully lovely to hear you say so! (Taking his arm.) Now I will
tell you how I have been thinking we ought to arrange things, Torvald.
As soon as Christmas is over–(A bell rings in the hall.) There’s the
bell. (She tidies the room a little.) There’s some one at the door. What
a nuisance!

Helmer. If it is a caller, remember I am not at home.

Maid (in the doorway). A lady to see you, ma’am,–a stranger.

Nora. Ask her to come in.

Maid (to HELMER). The doctor came at the same time, sir.

Helmer. Did he go straight into my room?

Maid. Yes, sir.

(HELMER goes into his room. The MAID ushers in Mrs. LINDE, who is in
travelling dress, and shuts the door.) Mrs. Linde (in a dejected and
timid voice). How do you do, Nora?

Nora (doubtfully). How do you do–Mrs. Linde. You don’t recognise me, I
suppose.

Nora. No, I don’t know–yes, to be sure, I seem to–(Suddenly.) Yes!
Christine! Is it really you?

Mrs. Linde. Yes, it is I.

Nora. Christine! To think of my not recognising you! And yet how could
I–(In a gentle voice.) How you have altered, Christine!

Mrs. Linde. Yes, I have indeed. In nine, ten long years–

Nora. Is it so long since we met? I suppose it is. The last eight years
have been a happy time for me, I can tell you. And so now you have come
into the town, and have taken this long journey in winter–that was
plucky of you.

Mrs. Linde. I arrived by steamer this morning.

Nora. To have some fun at Christmas-time, of course. How delightful! We
will have such fun together! But take off your things. You are not cold,
I hope. (Helps her.) Now we will sit down by the stove, and be cosy.
No, take this armchair; I will sit here in the rocking-chair. (Takes
her hands.) Now you look like your old self again; it was only the first
moment–You are a little paler, Christine, and perhaps a little thinner.

Mrs. Linde. And much, much older, Nora.

Nora. Perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much.
(Stops suddenly and speaks seriously.) What a thoughtless creature I am,
chattering away like this. My poor, dear Christine, do forgive me.

Mrs. Linde. What do you mean, Nora?

Nora (gently). Poor Christine, you are a widow.

Mrs. Linde. Yes; it is three years ago now.

Nora. Yes, I knew; I saw it in the papers. I assure you, Christine, I
meant ever so often to write to you at the time, but I always put it off
and something always prevented me.

Mrs. Linde. I quite understand, dear.

Nora. It was very bad of me, Christine. Poor thing, how you must have
suffered. And he left you nothing?

Mrs. Linde. No.

Nora. And no children?

Mrs. Linde. No.

Nora. Nothing at all, then.

Mrs. Linde. Not even any sorrow or grief to live upon.

Nora (looking incredulously at her). But, Christine, is that possible?

Mrs. Linde (smiles sadly and strokes her hair). It sometimes happens,
Nora.

Nora. So you are quite alone. How dreadfully sad that must be. I have
three lovely children. You can’t see them just now, for they are out
with their nurse. But now you must tell me all about it.

Mrs. Linde. No, no; I want to hear about you.

Nora. No, you must begin. I mustn’t be selfish today; today I must only
think of your affairs. But there is one thing I must tell you. Do you
know we have just had a great piece of good luck?

Mrs. Linde. No, what is it?

Nora. Just fancy, my husband has been made manager of the Bank!

Mrs. Linde. Your husband? What good luck!

Nora. Yes, tremendous! A barrister’s profession is such an uncertain
thing, especially if he won’t undertake unsavoury cases; and naturally
Torvald has never been willing to do that, and I quite agree with him.
You may imagine how pleased we are! He is to take up his work in the
Bank at the New Year, and then he will have a big salary and lots of
commissions. For the future we can live quite differently–we can do
just as we like. I feel so relieved and so happy, Christine! It will be
splendid to have heaps of money and not need to have any anxiety, won’t
it?

Mrs. Linde. Yes, anyhow I think it would be delightful to have what one
needs.

Nora. No, not only what one needs, but heaps and heaps of money.

Mrs. Linde (smiling). Nora, Nora, haven’t you learned sense yet? In our
schooldays you were a great spendthrift.

Nora (laughing). Yes, that is what Torvald says now. (Wags her finger at
her.) But “Nora, Nora” is not so silly as you think. We have not been in
a position for me to waste money. We have both had to work.

Mrs. Linde. You too?

Nora. Yes; odds and ends, needlework, crotchet-work, embroidery, and
that kind of thing. (Dropping her voice.) And other things as well. You
know Torvald left his office when we were married? There was no prospect
of promotion there, and he had to try and earn more than before. But
during the first year he over-worked himself dreadfully. You see, he had
to make money every way he could, and he worked early and late; but he
couldn’t stand it, and fell dreadfully ill, and the doctors said it was
necessary for him to go south.

Mrs. Linde. You spent a whole year in Italy, didn’t you?

Nora. Yes. It was no easy matter to get away, I can tell you. It
was just after Ivar was born; but naturally we had to go. It was a
wonderfully beautiful journey, and it saved Torvald’s life. But it cost
a tremendous lot of money, Christine.

Mrs. Linde. So I should think.

Nora. It cost about two hundred and fifty pounds. That’s a lot, isn’t
it?

Mrs. Linde. Yes, and in emergencies like that it is lucky to have the
money.

Nora. I ought to tell you that we had it from papa.

Mrs. Linde. Oh, I see. It was just about that time that he died, wasn’t
it?

Nora. Yes; and, just think of it, I couldn’t go and nurse him. I was
expecting little Ivar’s birth every day and I had my poor sick Torvald
to look after. My dear, kind father–I never saw him again, Christine.
That was the saddest time I have known since our marriage.

Mrs. Linde. I know how fond you were of him. And then you went off to
Italy?

Nora. Yes; you see we had money then, and the doctors insisted on our
going, so we started a month later.

Mrs. Linde. And your husband came back quite well?

Nora. As sound as a bell!

Mrs. Linde. But–the doctor?

Nora. What doctor?

Mrs. Linde. I thought your maid said the gentleman who arrived here just
as I did, was the doctor?

Nora. Yes, that was Doctor Rank, but he doesn’t come here
professionally. He is our greatest friend, and comes in at least once
every day. No, Torvald has not had an hour’s illness since then, and our
children are strong and healthy and so am I. (Jumps up and claps her
hands.) Christine! Christine! it’s good to be alive and happy!–But how
horrid of me; I am talking of nothing but my own affairs. (Sits on a
stool near her, and rests her arms on her knees.) You mustn’t be angry
with me. Tell me, is it really true that you did not love your husband?
Why did you marry him?

Mrs. Linde. My mother was alive then, and was bedridden and helpless,
and I had to provide for my two younger brothers; so I did not think I
was justified in refusing his offer.

Nora. No, perhaps you were quite right. He was rich at that time, then?

Mrs. Linde. I believe he was quite well off. But his business was a
precarious one; and, when he died, it all went to pieces and there was
nothing left.

Nora. And then?–

Mrs. Linde. Well, I had to turn my hand to anything I could find–first
a small shop, then a small school, and so on. The last three years have
seemed like one long working-day, with no rest. Now it is at an end,
Nora. My poor mother needs me no more, for she is gone; and the boys
do not need me either; they have got situations and can shift for
themselves.

Nora. What a relief you must feel if–

Mrs. Linde. No, indeed; I only feel my life unspeakably empty. No one to
live for anymore. (Gets up restlessly.) That was why I could not stand
the life in my little backwater any longer. I hope it may be easier here
to find something which will busy me and occupy my thoughts. If only I
could have the good luck to get some regular work–office work of some
kind–

Nora. But, Christine, that is so frightfully tiring, and you look tired
out now. You had far better go away to some watering-place.

Mrs. Linde (walking to the window). I have no father to give me money
for a journey, Nora.

Nora (rising). Oh, don’t be angry with me!

Mrs. Linde (going up to her). It is you that must not be angry with me,
dear. The worst of a position like mine is that it makes one so bitter.
No one to work for, and yet obliged to be always on the lookout for
chances. One must live, and so one becomes selfish. When you told me of
the happy turn your fortunes have taken–you will hardly believe it–I
was delighted not so much on your account as on my own.

Nora. How do you mean?–Oh, I understand. You mean that perhaps Torvald
could get you something to do.

Mrs. Linde. Yes, that was what I was thinking of.

Nora. He must, Christine. Just leave it to me; I will broach the subject
very cleverly–I will think of something that will please him very much.
It will make me so happy to be of some use to you.

Mrs. Linde. How kind you are, Nora, to be so anxious to help me! It is
doubly kind in you, for you know so little of the burdens and troubles
of life.

Nora. I–? I know so little of them?

Mrs. Linde (smiling). My dear! Small household cares and that sort of
thing!–You are a child, Nora.

Nora (tosses her head and crosses the stage). You ought not to be so
superior.

Mrs. Linde. No?

Nora. You are just like the others. They all think that I am incapable
of anything really serious–

Mrs. Linde. Come, come–

Nora.–that I have gone through nothing in this world of cares.

Mrs. Linde. But, my dear Nora, you have just told me all your troubles.

Nora. Pooh!–those were trifles. (Lowering her voice.) I have not told
you the important thing.

Mrs. Linde. The important thing? What do you mean?

Nora. You look down upon me altogether, Christine–but you ought not to.
You are proud, aren’t you, of having worked so hard and so long for your
mother?

Mrs. Linde. Indeed, I don’t look down on anyone. But it is true that I
am both proud and glad to think that I was privileged to make the end of
my mother’s life almost free from care.

Nora. And you are proud to think of what you have done for your
brothers?

Mrs. Linde. I think I have the right to be.

Nora. I think so, too. But now, listen to this; I too have something to
be proud and glad of.

Mrs. Linde. I have no doubt you have. But what do you refer to?

Nora. Speak low. Suppose Torvald were to hear! He mustn’t on any
account–no one in the world must know, Christine, except you.

Mrs. Linde. But what is it?

Nora. Come here. (Pulls her down on the sofa beside her.) Now I will
show you that I too have something to be proud and glad of. It was I who
saved Torvald’s life.

Mrs. Linde. “Saved”? How?

Nora. I told you about our trip to Italy. Torvald would never have
recovered if he had not gone there–

Mrs. Linde. Yes, but your father gave you the necessary funds.

Nora (smiling). Yes, that is what Torvald and all the others think,
but–

Mrs. Linde. But–

Nora. Papa didn’t give us a shilling. It was I who procured the money.

Mrs. Linde. You? All that large sum?

Nora. Two hundred and fifty pounds. What do you think of that?

Mrs. Linde. But, Nora, how could you possibly do it? Did you win a prize
in the Lottery?

Nora (contemptuously). In the Lottery? There would have been no credit
in that.

Mrs. Linde. But where did you get it from, then? Nora (humming and
smiling with an air of mystery). Hm, hm! Aha!

Mrs. Linde. Because you couldn’t have borrowed it.

Nora. Couldn’t I? Why not?

Mrs. Linde. No, a wife cannot borrow without her husband’s consent.

Nora (tossing her head). Oh, if it is a wife who has any head for
business–a wife who has the wit to be a little bit clever–

Mrs. Linde. I don’t understand it at all, Nora.

Nora. There is no need you should. I never said I had borrowed the
money. I may have got it some other way. (Lies back on the sofa.)
Perhaps I got it from some other admirer. When anyone is as attractive
as I am–

Mrs. Linde. You are a mad creature.

Nora. Now, you know you’re full of curiosity, Christine.

Mrs. Linde. Listen to me, Nora dear. Haven’t you been a little bit
imprudent?

Nora (sits up straight). Is it imprudent to save your husband’s life?

Mrs. Linde. It seems to me imprudent, without his knowledge, to–

Nora. But it was absolutely necessary that he should not know! My
goodness, can’t you understand that? It was necessary he should have no
idea what a dangerous condition he was in. It was to me that the doctors
came and said that his life was in danger, and that the only thing to
save him was to live in the south. Do you suppose I didn’t try, first of
all, to get what I wanted as if it were for myself? I told him how much
I should love to travel abroad like other young wives; I tried tears and
entreaties with him; I told him that he ought to remember the condition
I was in, and that he ought to be kind and indulgent to me; I even
hinted that he might raise a loan. That nearly made him angry,
Christine. He said I was thoughtless, and that it was his duty as my
husband not to indulge me in my whims and caprices–as I believe he
called them. Very well, I thought, you must be saved–and that was how I
came to devise a way out of the difficulty–

Mrs. Linde. And did your husband never get to know from your father that
the money had not come from him?

Nora. No, never. Papa died just at that time. I had meant to let him
into the secret and beg him never to reveal it. But he was so ill
then–alas, there never was any need to tell him.

Mrs. Linde. And since then have you never told your secret to your
husband?

Nora. Good Heavens, no! How could you think so? A man who has such
strong opinions about these things! And besides, how painful and
humiliating it would be for Torvald, with his manly independence, to
know that he owed me anything! It would upset our mutual relations
altogether; our beautiful happy home would no longer be what it is now.

Mrs. Linde. Do you mean never to tell him about it?

Nora (meditatively, and with a half smile). Yes–someday, perhaps, after
many years, when I am no longer as nice-looking as I am now. Don’t laugh
at me! I mean, of course, when Torvald is no longer as devoted to me as
he is now; when my dancing and dressing-up and reciting have palled on
him; then it may be a good thing to have something in reserve–(Breaking
off.) What nonsense! That time will never come. Now, what do you think
of my great secret, Christine? Do you still think I am of no use? I can
tell you, too, that this affair has caused me a lot of worry. It has
been by no means easy for me to meet my engagements punctually. I may
tell you that there is something that is called, in business, quarterly
interest, and another thing called payment in installments, and it is
always so dreadfully difficult to manage them. I have had to save a
little here and there, where I could, you understand. I have not been
able to put aside much from my housekeeping money, for Torvald must have
a good table. I couldn’t let my children be shabbily dressed; I have
felt obliged to use up all he gave me for them, the sweet little
darlings!

Mrs. Linde. So it has all had to come out of your own necessaries of
life, poor Nora?

Nora. Of course. Besides, I was the one responsible for it. Whenever
Torvald has given me money for new dresses and such things, I have
never spent more than half of it; I have always bought the simplest
and cheapest things. Thank Heaven, any clothes look well on me, and
so Torvald has never noticed it. But it was often very hard on me,
Christine–because it is delightful to be really well dressed, isn’t it?

Mrs. Linde. Quite so.

Nora. Well, then I have found other ways of earning money. Last winter
I was lucky enough to get a lot of copying to do; so I locked myself up
and sat writing every evening until quite late at night. Many a time I
was desperately tired; but all the same it was a tremendous pleasure to
sit there working and earning money. It was like being a man.

Mrs. Linde. How much have you been able to pay off in that way?

Nora. I can’t tell you exactly. You see, it is very difficult to keep an
account of a business matter of that kind. I only know that I have paid
every penny that I could scrape together. Many a time I was at my wits’
end. (Smiles.) Then I used to sit here and imagine that a rich old
gentleman had fallen in love with me–

Mrs. Linde. What! Who was it?

Nora. Be quiet!–that he had died; and that when his will was opened
it contained, written in big letters, the instruction: “The lovely Mrs.
Nora Helmer is to have all I possess paid over to her at once in cash.”

Mrs. Linde. But, my dear Nora–who could the man be?

Nora. Good gracious, can’t you understand? There was no old gentleman at
all; it was only something that I used to sit here and imagine, when I
couldn’t think of any way of procuring money. But it’s all the same now;
the tiresome old person can stay where he is, as far as I am concerned;
I don’t care about him or his will either, for I am free from care now.
(Jumps up.) My goodness, it’s delightful to think of, Christine! Free
from care! To be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to be
able to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the house
beautifully and have everything just as Torvald likes it! And, think of
it, soon the spring will come and the big blue sky! Perhaps we shall be
able to take a little trip–perhaps I shall see the sea again! Oh, it’s
a wonderful thing to be alive and be happy. (A bell is heard in the
hall.)

Mrs. Linde (rising). There is the bell; perhaps I had better go.

Nora. No, don’t go; no one will come in here; it is sure to be for
Torvald.

Servant (at the hall door). Excuse me, ma’am–there is a gentleman to
see the master, and as the doctor is with him–

Nora. Who is it?

Krogstad (at the door). It is I, Mrs. Helmer. (Mrs. LINDE starts,
trembles, and turns to the window.)

Nora (takes a step towards him, and speaks in a strained, low voice).
You? What is it? What do you want to see my husband about?

Krogstad. Bank business–in a way. I have a small post in the Bank, and
I hear your husband is to be our chief now–

Nora. Then it is–

Krogstad. Nothing but dry business matters, Mrs. Helmer; absolutely
nothing else.

Nora. Be so good as to go into the study, then. (She bows indifferently
to him and shuts the door into the hall; then comes back and makes up
the fire in the stove.)

Mrs. Linde. Nora–who was that man?

Nora. A lawyer, of the name of Krogstad.

Mrs. Linde. Then it really was he.

Nora. Do you know the man?

Mrs. Linde. I used to–many years ago. At one time he was a solicitor’s
clerk in our town.

Nora. Yes, he was.

Mrs. Linde. He is greatly altered.

Nora. He made a very unhappy marriage.

Mrs. Linde. He is a widower now, isn’t he?

Nora. With several children. There now, it is burning up. (Shuts the
door of the stove and moves the rocking-chair aside.)

Mrs. Linde. They say he carries on various kinds of business.

Nora. Really! Perhaps he does; I don’t know anything about it. But don’t
let us think of business; it is so tiresome.

Doctor Rank (comes out of HELMER’S study. Before he shuts the door he
calls to him). No, my dear fellow, I won’t disturb you; I would rather
go in to your wife for a little while. (Shuts the door and sees Mrs.
LINDE.) I beg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you too.

Nora. No, not at all. (Introducing him). Doctor Rank, Mrs. Linde.

Rank. I have often heard Mrs. Linde’s name mentioned here. I think I
passed you on the stairs when I arrived, Mrs. Linde?

Mrs. Linde. Yes, I go up very slowly; I can’t manage stairs well.

Rank. Ah! some slight internal weakness?

Mrs. Linde. No, the fact is I have been overworking myself.

Rank. Nothing more than that? Then I suppose you have come to town to
amuse yourself with our entertainments?

Mrs. Linde. I have come to look for work.

Rank. Is that a good cure for overwork?

Mrs. Linde. One must live, Doctor Rank.

Rank. Yes, the general opinion seems to be that it is necessary.

Nora. Look here, Doctor Rank–you know you want to live.

Rank. Certainly. However wretched I may feel, I want to prolong the
agony as long as possible. All my patients are like that. And so are
those who are morally diseased; one of them, and a bad case too, is at
this very moment with Helmer–

Mrs. Linde (sadly). Ah!

Nora. Whom do you mean?

Rank. A lawyer of the name of Krogstad, a fellow you don’t know at all.
He suffers from a diseased moral character, Mrs. Helmer; but even he
began talking of its being highly important that he should live.

Nora. Did he? What did he want to speak to Torvald about?

Rank. I have no idea; I only heard that it was something about the Bank.

Nora. I didn’t know this–what’s his name–Krogstad had anything to do
with the Bank.

Rank. Yes, he has some sort of appointment there. (To Mrs. LINDE.) I
don’t know whether you find also in your part of the world that there
are certain people who go zealously snuffing about to smell out moral
corruption, and, as soon as they have found some, put the person
concerned into some lucrative position where they can keep their eye on
him. Healthy natures are left out in the cold.

Mrs. Linde. Still I think the sick are those who most need taking care
of.

Rank (shrugging his shoulders). Yes, there you are. That is the
sentiment that is turning Society into a sick-house.

(NORA, who has been absorbed in her thoughts, breaks out into smothered
laughter and claps her hands.)

Rank. Why do you laugh at that? Have you any notion what Society really
is?

Nora. What do I care about tiresome Society? I am laughing at something
quite different, something extremely amusing. Tell me, Doctor Rank, are
all the people who are employed in the Bank dependent on Torvald now?

Rank. Is that what you find so extremely amusing?

Nora (smiling and humming). That’s my affair! (Walking about the room.)
It’s perfectly glorious to think that we have–that Torvald has so much
power over so many people. (Takes the packet from her pocket.) Doctor
Rank, what do you say to a macaroon?

Rank. What, macaroons? I thought they were forbidden here.

Nora. Yes, but these are some Christine gave me.

Mrs. Linde. What! I?–

Nora. Oh, well, don’t be alarmed! You couldn’t know that Torvald had
forbidden them. I must tell you that he is afraid they will spoil my
teeth. But, bah!–once in a way–That’s so, isn’t it, Doctor Rank? By
your leave! (Puts a macaroon into his mouth.) You must have one too,
Christine. And I shall have one, just a little one–or at most two.
(Walking about.) I am tremendously happy. There is just one thing in the
world now that I should dearly love to do.

Rank. Well, what is that?

Nora. It’s something I should dearly love to say, if Torvald could hear
me.

Rank. Well, why can’t you say it?

Nora. No, I daren’t; it’s so shocking.

Mrs. Linde. Shocking?

Rank. Well, I should not advise you to say it. Still, with us you might.
What is it you would so much like to say if Torvald could hear you?

Nora. I should just love to say–Well, I’m damned!

Rank. Are you mad?

Mrs. Linde. Nora, dear–!

Rank. Say it, here he is!

Nora (hiding the packet). Hush! Hush! Hush! (HELMER comes out of his
room, with his coat over his arm and his hat in his hand.)

Nora. Well, Torvald dear, have you got rid of him?

Helmer. Yes, he has just gone.

Nora. Let me introduce you–this is Christine, who has come to town.

Helmer. Christine–? Excuse me, but I don’t know–

Nora. Mrs. Linde, dear; Christine Linde.

Helmer. Of course. A school friend of my wife’s, I presume?

Mrs. Linde. Yes, we have known each other since then.

Nora. And just think, she has taken a long journey in order to see you.

Helmer. What do you mean? Mrs. Linde. No, really, I–

Nora. Christine is tremendously clever at book-keeping, and she is
frightfully anxious to work under some clever man, so as to perfect
herself–

Helmer. Very sensible, Mrs. Linde.

Nora. And when she heard you had been appointed manager of the Bank–the
news was telegraphed, you know–she travelled here as quick as
she could. Torvald, I am sure you will be able to do something for
Christine, for my sake, won’t you?

Helmer. Well, it is not altogether impossible. I presume you are a
widow, Mrs. Linde?

Mrs. Linde. Yes.

Helmer. And have had some experience of book-keeping?

Mrs. Linde. Yes, a fair amount.

Helmer. Ah! well, it’s very likely I may be able to find something for
you–

Nora (clapping her hands). What did I tell you? What did I tell you?

Helmer. You have just come at a fortunate moment, Mrs. Linde.

Mrs. Linde. How am I to thank you?

Helmer. There is no need. (Puts on his coat.) But today you must excuse
me–

Rank. Wait a minute; I will come with you. (Brings his fur coat from the
hall and warms it at the fire.)

Nora. Don’t be long away, Torvald dear.

Helmer. About an hour, not more.

Nora. Are you going too, Christine?

Mrs. Linde (putting on her cloak). Yes, I must go and look for a room.

Helmer. Oh, well then, we can walk down the street together.

Nora (helping her). What a pity it is we are so short of space here; I
am afraid it is impossible for us–

Mrs. Linde. Please don’t think of it! Goodbye, Nora dear, and many
thanks.

Nora. Goodbye for the present. Of course you will come back this
evening. And you too, Dr. Rank. What do you say? If you are well enough?
Oh, you must be! Wrap yourself up well. (They go to the door all talking
together. Children’s voices are heard on the staircase.)

Nora. There they are! There they are! (She runs to open the door. The
NURSE comes in with the children.) Come in! Come in! (Stoops and kisses
them.) Oh, you sweet blessings! Look at them, Christine! Aren’t they
darlings?

Rank. Don’t let us stand here in the draught.

Helmer. Come along, Mrs. Linde; the place will only be bearable for a
mother now!

(RANK, HELMER, and Mrs. LINDE go downstairs. The NURSE comes forward
with the children; NORA shuts the hall door.)

Nora. How fresh and well you look! Such red cheeks like apples and
roses. (The children all talk at once while she speaks to them.) Have
you had great fun? That’s splendid! What, you pulled both Emmy and Bob
along on the sledge?–both at once?–that was good. You are a clever
boy, Ivar. Let me take her for a little, Anne. My sweet little baby
doll! (Takes the baby from the MAID and dances it up and down.) Yes,
yes, mother will dance with Bob too. What! Have you been snowballing? I
wish I had been there too! No, no, I will take their things off, Anne;
please let me do it, it is such fun. Go in now, you look half frozen.
There is some hot coffee for you on the stove.

(The NURSE goes into the room on the left. NORA takes off the children’s
things and throws them about, while they all talk to her at once.)

Nora. Really! Did a big dog run after you? But it didn’t bite you? No,
dogs don’t bite nice little dolly children. You mustn’t look at the
parcels, Ivar. What are they? Ah, I daresay you would like to know. No,
no–it’s something nasty! Come, let us have a game! What shall we play
at? Hide and Seek? Yes, we’ll play Hide and Seek. Bob shall hide first.
Must I hide? Very well, I’ll hide first. (She and the children laugh
and shout, and romp in and out of the room; at last NORA hides under the
table, the children rush in and out for her, but do not see her; they
hear her smothered laughter, run to the table, lift up the cloth
and find her. Shouts of laughter. She crawls forward and pretends to
frighten them. Fresh laughter. Meanwhile there has been a knock at the
hall door, but none of them has noticed it. The door is half opened, and
KROGSTAD appears, he waits a little; the game goes on.)

Krogstad. Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer.

Nora (with a stifled cry, turns round and gets up on to her knees). Ah!
what do you want?

Krogstad. Excuse me, the outer door was ajar; I suppose someone forgot
to shut it.

Nora (rising). My husband is out, Mr. Krogstad.

Krogstad. I know that.

Nora. What do you want here, then?

Krogstad. A word with you.

Nora. With me?–(To the children, gently.) Go in to nurse. What? No,
the strange man won’t do mother any harm. When he has gone we will have
another game. (She takes the children into the room on the left, and
shuts the door after them.) You want to speak to me?

Krogstad. Yes, I do.

Nora. Today? It is not the first of the month yet.

Krogstad. No, it is Christmas Eve, and it will depend on yourself what
sort of a Christmas you will spend.

Nora. What do you mean? Today it is absolutely impossible for me–

Krogstad. We won’t talk about that until later on. This is something
different. I presume you can give me a moment?

Nora. Yes–yes, I can–although–

Krogstad. Good. I was in Olsen’s Restaurant and saw your husband going
down the street–

Nora. Yes?

Krogstad. With a lady.

Nora. What then?

Krogstad. May I make so bold as to ask if it was a Mrs. Linde?

Nora. It was.

Krogstad. Just arrived in town?

Nora. Yes, today.

Krogstad. She is a great friend of yours, isn’t she?

Nora. She is. But I don’t see–

Krogstad. I knew her too, once upon a time.

Nora. I am aware of that.

Krogstad. Are you? So you know all about it; I thought as much. Then I
can ask you, without beating about the bush–is Mrs. Linde to have an
appointment in the Bank?

Nora. What right have you to question me, Mr. Krogstad?–You, one of
my husband’s subordinates! But since you ask, you shall know. Yes, Mrs.
Linde is to have an appointment. And it was I who pleaded her cause, Mr.
Krogstad, let me tell you that.

Krogstad. I was right in what I thought, then.

Nora (walking up and down the stage). Sometimes one has a tiny little
bit of influence, I should hope. Because one is a woman, it does not
necessarily follow that–. When anyone is in a subordinate position,
Mr. Krogstad, they should really be careful to avoid offending anyone
who–who–

Krogstad. Who has influence?

Nora. Exactly.

Krogstad (changing his tone). Mrs. Helmer, you will be so good as to use
your influence on my behalf.

Nora. What? What do you mean?

Krogstad. You will be so kind as to see that I am allowed to keep my
subordinate position in the Bank.

Nora. What do you mean by that? Who proposes to take your post away from
you?

Krogstad. Oh, there is no necessity to keep up the pretence of
ignorance. I can quite understand that your friend is not very anxious
to expose herself to the chance of rubbing shoulders with me; and I
quite understand, too, whom I have to thank for being turned off.

Nora. But I assure you–

Krogstad. Very likely; but, to come to the point, the time has come when
I should advise you to use your influence to prevent that.

Nora. But, Mr. Krogstad, I have no influence.

Krogstad. Haven’t you? I thought you said yourself just now–

Nora. Naturally I did not mean you to put that construction on it. I!
What should make you think I have any influence of that kind with my
husband?

Krogstad. Oh, I have known your husband from our student days. I don’t
suppose he is any more unassailable than other husbands.

Nora. If you speak slightingly of my husband, I shall turn you out of
the house.

Krogstad. You are bold, Mrs. Helmer.

Nora. I am not afraid of you any longer. As soon as the New Year comes,
I shall in a very short time be free of the whole thing.

Krogstad (controlling himself). Listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. If necessary,
I am prepared to fight for my small post in the Bank as if I were
fighting for my life.

Nora. So it seems.

Krogstad. It is not only for the sake of the money; indeed, that weighs
least with me in the matter. There is another reason–well, I may as
well tell you. My position is this. I daresay you know, like everybody
else, that once, many years ago, I was guilty of an indiscretion.

Nora. I think I have heard something of the kind.

Krogstad. The matter never came into court; but every way seemed to be
closed to me after that. So I took to the business that you know of. I
had to do something; and, honestly, I don’t think I’ve been one of the
worst. But now I must cut myself free from all that. My sons are growing
up; for their sake I must try and win back as much respect as I can in
the town. This post in the Bank was like the first step up for me–and
now your husband is going to kick me downstairs again into the mud.

Nora. But you must believe me, Mr. Krogstad; it is not in my power to
help you at all.

Krogstad. Then it is because you haven’t the will; but I have means to
compel you.

Nora. You don’t mean that you will tell my husband that I owe you money?

Krogstad. Hm!–suppose I were to tell him?

Nora. It would be perfectly infamous of you. (Sobbing.) To think of his
learning my secret, which has been my joy and pride, in such an ugly,
clumsy way–that he should learn it from you! And it would put me in a
horribly disagreeable position–

Krogstad. Only disagreeable?

Nora (impetuously). Well, do it, then!–and it will be the worse for
you. My husband will see for himself what a blackguard you are, and you
certainly won’t keep your post then.

Krogstad. I asked you if it was only a disagreeable scene at home that
you were afraid of?

Nora. If my husband does get to know of it, of course he will at once
pay you what is still owing, and we shall have nothing more to do with
you.

Krogstad (coming a step nearer). Listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. Either you
have a very bad memory or you know very little of business. I shall be
obliged to remind you of a few details.

Nora. What do you mean?

Krogstad. When your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow two
hundred and fifty pounds.

Nora. I didn’t know anyone else to go to.

Krogstad. I promised to get you that amount–

Nora. Yes, and you did so.

Krogstad. I promised to get you that amount, on certain conditions.
Your mind was so taken up with your husband’s illness, and you were so
anxious to get the money for your journey, that you seem to have paid
no attention to the conditions of our bargain. Therefore it will not be
amiss if I remind you of them. Now, I promised to get the money on the
security of a bond which I drew up.

Nora. Yes, and which I signed.

Krogstad. Good. But below your signature there were a few lines
constituting your father a surety for the money; those lines your father
should have signed.

Nora. Should? He did sign them.

Krogstad. I had left the date blank; that is to say, your father should
himself have inserted the date on which he signed the paper. Do you
remember that?

Nora. Yes, I think I remember–

Krogstad. Then I gave you the bond to send by post to your father. Is
that not so?

Nora. Yes.

Krogstad. And you naturally did so at once, because five or six days
afterwards you brought me the bond with your father’s signature. And
then I gave you the money.

Nora. Well, haven’t I been paying it off regularly?

Krogstad. Fairly so, yes. But–to come back to the matter in hand–that
must have been a very trying time for you, Mrs. Helmer?

Nora. It was, indeed.

Krogstad. Your father was very ill, wasn’t he?

Nora. He was very near his end.

Krogstad. And died soon afterwards?

Nora. Yes.

Krogstad. Tell me, Mrs. Helmer, can you by any chance remember what day
your father died?–on what day of the month, I mean.

Nora. Papa died on the 29th of September.

Krogstad. That is correct; I have ascertained it for myself. And, as
that is so, there is a discrepancy (taking a paper from his pocket)
which I cannot account for.

Nora. What discrepancy? I don’t know–

Krogstad. The discrepancy consists, Mrs. Helmer, in the fact that your
father signed this bond three days after his death.

Nora. What do you mean? I don’t understand–

Krogstad. Your father died on the 29th of September. But, look here;
your father has dated his signature the 2nd of October. It is a
discrepancy, isn’t it? (NORA is silent.) Can you explain it to me? (NORA
is still silent.) It is a remarkable thing, too, that the words “2nd
of October,” as well as the year, are not written in your father’s
handwriting but in one that I think I know. Well, of course it can be
explained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature, and
someone else may have dated it haphazard before they knew of his death.
There is no harm in that. It all depends on the signature of the name;
and that is genuine, I suppose, Mrs. Helmer? It was your father himself
who signed his name here?

Nora (after a short pause, throws her head up and looks defiantly at
him). No, it was not. It was I that wrote papa’s name.

Krogstad. Are you aware that is a dangerous confession?

Nora. In what way? You shall have your money soon.

Krogstad. Let me ask you a question; why did you not send the paper to
your father?

Nora. It was impossible; papa was so ill. If I had asked him for his
signature, I should have had to tell him what the money was to be
used for; and when he was so ill himself I couldn’t tell him that my
husband’s life was in danger–it was impossible.

Krogstad. It would have been better for you if you had given up your
trip abroad.

Nora. No, that was impossible. That trip was to save my husband’s life;
I couldn’t give that up.

Krogstad. But did it never occur to you that you were committing a fraud
on me?

Nora. I couldn’t take that into account; I didn’t trouble myself about
you at all. I couldn’t bear you, because you put so many heartless
difficulties in my way, although you knew what a dangerous condition my
husband was in.

Krogstad. Mrs. Helmer, you evidently do not realise clearly what it is
that you have been guilty of. But I can assure you that my one false
step, which lost me all my reputation, was nothing more or nothing worse
than what you have done.

Nora. You? Do you ask me to believe that you were brave enough to run a
risk to save your wife’s life?

Krogstad. The law cares nothing about motives.

Nora. Then it must be a very foolish law.

Krogstad. Foolish or not, it is the law by which you will be judged, if
I produce this paper in court.

Nora. I don’t believe it. Is a daughter not to be allowed to spare her
dying father anxiety and care? Is a wife not to be allowed to save her
husband’s life? I don’t know much about law; but I am certain that there
must be laws permitting such things as that. Have you no knowledge of
such laws–you who are a lawyer? You must be a very poor lawyer, Mr.
Krogstad.

Krogstad. Maybe. But matters of business–such business as you and I
have had together–do you think I don’t understand that? Very well. Do
as you please. But let me tell you this–if I lose my position a second
time, you shall lose yours with me. (He bows, and goes out through the
hall.)

Nora (appears buried in thought for a short time, then tosses her head).
Nonsense! Trying to frighten me like that!–I am not so silly as he
thinks. (Begins to busy herself putting the children’s things in order.)
And yet–? No, it’s impossible! I did it for love’s sake.

The Children (in the doorway on the left). Mother, the stranger man has
gone out through the gate.

Nora. Yes, dears, I know. But, don’t tell anyone about the stranger man.
Do you hear? Not even papa.

Children. No, mother; but will you come and play again?

Nora. No, no,–not now.

Children. But, mother, you promised us.

Nora. Yes, but I can’t now. Run away in; I have such a lot to do. Run
away in, my sweet little darlings. (She gets them into the room by
degrees and shuts the door on them; then sits down on the sofa, takes
up a piece of needlework and sews a few stitches, but soon stops.) No!
(Throws down the work, gets up, goes to the hall door and calls out.)
Helen! bring the Tree in. (Goes to the table on the left, opens a
drawer, and stops again.) No, no! it is quite impossible!

Maid (coming in with the Tree). Where shall I put it, ma’am?

Nora. Here, in the middle of the floor.

Maid. Shall I get you anything else?

Nora. No, thank you. I have all I want. [Exit MAID.]

Nora (begins dressing the tree). A candle here-and flowers here–The
horrible man! It’s all nonsense–there’s nothing wrong. The tree
shall be splendid! I will do everything I can think of to please you,
Torvald!–I will sing for you, dance for you–(HELMER comes in with some
papers under his arm.) Oh! are you back already?

Helmer. Yes. Has anyone been here?

Nora. Here? No.

Helmer. That is strange. I saw Krogstad going out of the gate.

Nora. Did you? Oh yes, I forgot, Krogstad was here for a moment.

Helmer. Nora, I can see from your manner that he has been here begging
you to say a good word for him.

Nora. Yes.

Helmer. And you were to appear to do it of your own accord; you were to
conceal from me the fact of his having been here; didn’t he beg that of
you too?

Nora. Yes, Torvald, but–

Helmer. Nora, Nora, and you would be a party to that sort of thing? To
have any talk with a man like that, and give him any sort of promise?
And to tell me a lie into the bargain?

Nora. A lie–?

Helmer. Didn’t you tell me no one had been here? (Shakes his finger at
her.) My little songbird must never do that again. A songbird must have
a clean beak to chirp with–no false notes! (Puts his arm round her
waist.) That is so, isn’t it? Yes, I am sure it is. (Lets her go.) We
will say no more about it. (Sits down by the stove.) How warm and snug
it is here! (Turns over his papers.)

Nora (after a short pause, during which she busies herself with the
Christmas Tree.) Torvald!

Helmer. Yes.

Nora. I am looking forward tremendously to the fancy-dress ball at the
Stenborgs’ the day after tomorrow.

Helmer. And I am tremendously curious to see what you are going to
surprise me with.

Nora. It was very silly of me to want to do that.

Helmer. What do you mean?

Nora. I can’t hit upon anything that will do; everything I think of
seems so silly and insignificant.

Helmer. Does my little Nora acknowledge that at last?

Nora (standing behind his chair with her arms on the back of it). Are
you very busy, Torvald?

Helmer. Well–

Nora. What are all those papers?

Helmer. Bank business.

Nora. Already?

Helmer. I have got authority from the retiring manager to undertake the
necessary changes in the staff and in the rearrangement of the work; and
I must make use of the Christmas week for that, so as to have everything
in order for the new year.

Nora. Then that was why this poor Krogstad–

Helmer. Hm!

Nora (leans against the back of his chair and strokes his hair). If you
hadn’t been so busy I should have asked you a tremendously big favour,
Torvald.

Helmer. What is that? Tell me.

Nora. There is no one has such good taste as you. And I do so want to
look nice at the fancy-dress ball. Torvald, couldn’t you take me in hand
and decide what I shall go as, and what sort of a dress I shall wear?

Helmer. Aha! so my obstinate little woman is obliged to get someone to
come to her rescue?

Nora. Yes, Torvald, I can’t get along a bit without your help.

Helmer. Very well, I will think it over, we shall manage to hit upon
something.

Nora. That is nice of you. (Goes to the Christmas Tree. A short pause.)
How pretty the red flowers look–. But, tell me, was it really something
very bad that this Krogstad was guilty of?

Helmer. He forged someone’s name. Have you any idea what that means?

Nora. Isn’t it possible that he was driven to do it by necessity?

Helmer. Yes; or, as in so many cases, by imprudence. I am not so
heartless as to condemn a man altogether because of a single false step
of that kind.

Nora. No, you wouldn’t, would you, Torvald?

Helmer. Many a man has been able to retrieve his character, if he has
openly confessed his fault and taken his punishment.

Nora. Punishment–?

Helmer. But Krogstad did nothing of that sort; he got himself out of it
by a cunning trick, and that is why he has gone under altogether.

Nora. But do you think it would–?

Helmer. Just think how a guilty man like that has to lie and play the
hypocrite with every one, how he has to wear a mask in the presence of
those near and dear to him, even before his own wife and children. And
about the children–that is the most terrible part of it all, Nora.

Nora. How?

Helmer. Because such an atmosphere of lies infects and poisons the whole
life of a home. Each breath the children take in such a house is full of
the germs of evil.

Nora (coming nearer him). Are you sure of that?

Helmer. My dear, I have often seen it in the course of my life as a
lawyer. Almost everyone who has gone to the bad early in life has had a
deceitful mother.

Nora. Why do you only say–mother?

Helmer. It seems most commonly to be the mother’s influence, though
naturally a bad father’s would have the same result. Every lawyer
is familiar with the fact. This Krogstad, now, has been persistently
poisoning his own children with lies and dissimulation; that is why I
say he has lost all moral character. (Holds out his hands to her.) That
is why my sweet little Nora must promise me not to plead his cause. Give
me your hand on it. Come, come, what is this? Give me your hand. There
now, that’s settled. I assure you it would be quite impossible for me to
work with him; I literally feel physically ill when I am in the company
of such people.

Nora (takes her hand out of his and goes to the opposite side of the
Christmas Tree). How hot it is in here; and I have such a lot to do.

Helmer (getting up and putting his papers in order). Yes, and I must
try and read through some of these before dinner; and I must think about
your costume, too. And it is just possible I may have something ready
in gold paper to hang up on the Tree. (Puts his hand on her head.) My
precious little singing-bird! (He goes into his room and shuts the door
after him.)

Nora (after a pause, whispers). No, no–it isn’t true. It’s impossible;
it must be impossible.

(The NURSE opens the door on the left.)

Nurse. The little ones are begging so hard to be allowed to come in to
mamma.

Nora. No, no, no! Don’t let them come in to me! You stay with them,
Anne.

Nurse. Very well, ma’am. (Shuts the door.)

Nora (pale with terror). Deprave my little children? Poison my home? (A
short pause. Then she tosses her head.) It’s not true. It can’t possibly
be true.
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Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well
fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered
the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you
heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and
she told me all about it.”

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife
impatiently.

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield
is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of
England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to
see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed
with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession
before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the
house by the end of next week.”

“What is his name?”

“Bingley.”

“Is he married or single?”

“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large
fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our
girls!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so
tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying
one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?”

“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely
that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you
must visit him as soon as he comes.”

“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you
may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still
better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley
may like you the best of the party.”

“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of
beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now.
When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give
over thinking of her own beauty.”

“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”

“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when
he comes into the neighbourhood.”

“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”

“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment
it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are
determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you
know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will
be impossible for _us_ to visit him if you do not.”

“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will
be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to
assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he
chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for
my little Lizzy.”

“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better
than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as
Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always
giving _her_ the preference.”

“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;
“they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy
has something more of quickness than her sisters.”

“Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a
way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion
for my poor nerves.”

“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your
nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention
them with consideration these last twenty years at least.”

“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young
men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”

“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since
you will not visit them.”

“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will
visit them all.”

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty
years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his
character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop. She was a
woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain
temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous.
The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its
solace was visiting and news.

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Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur

Category: Literature & Fiction>>Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur


Milk and Honey is a collection of poetry and prose about survival. About the experience of violence, abuse, love, loss, and femininity.

The book is divided into four chapters, and each chapter serves a different purpose. Deals with a different pain. Heals a different heartache. Milk and Honey takes readers through a journey of the most bitter moments in life and finds sweetness in them because there is sweetness everywhere if you are just willing to look.

 

how is it so easy for you to be kind to people he asked milk and honey dripped

from my lips as i answered

cause people have not

been kind to me

the first boy that kissed me

held my shoulders down

like the handlebars of

the first bicycle

he ever rode

i was five

he had the smell of

starvation on his lips

which he picked up from

his father feasting on his mother at 4 a.m.

he was the first boy

to teach me my body was

for giving to those that wanted that i should feel anything

less than whole

and my god

did i feel as empty

as his mother at 4:25 a.m.

it is your blood in my veins

tell me how i’m

supposed to forget

the therapist places

the doll in front of you

it is the size of girls

anger with kindness

which seems like a good idea

till she grows up to

trust men who hurt her

cause they look so much

like you

– to fathers with daughters

i’ve had sex she said

but i don’t know

what making love

feels like

if i knew what

safety looked like

i would have spent less time falling into

arms that were not

sex takes the consent of two

if one person is lying there not doing anything cause they are not ready

or not in the mood

or simply don’t want to

yet the other is having sex

with their body it’s not love it is rape

the idea that we are

so capable of love

but still choose

to be toxic

there is no bigger illusion in the world than the idea that a woman will bring dishonor into a home

if she tries to keep her heart and her body safe

Read & Download Juicing Recipes From Fitlife.TV Star Drew Canole For Vitality and Health by Drew Canole pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Cookbook>>Read & Download Juicing Recipes From Fitlife.TV Star Drew Canole For Vitality and Health by Drew Canole pdf, Epub, Kindle


“Juicing Recipes From Fitlife.TV Star Drew Canole For Vitality and Health” is written by Drew Canole.The genre of ‘Juicing Recipes’ is Diets and Weight Loss.

Everyone wants to be in good health, balance weight and a nice body. They take many pills to maintain their health, weight and body but the effect of pills is just for a very short time period and not according to our needs. Just by adding a glass of green juice daily in your diet, will transform body on a constitutional level.

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Drew Canole, the author has helped millions of people by just adding a glass of fresh pressed green juice, real food, healthy habits and positive mindset. According to him real food, healthy habits, positive thinking will provide you more energy, less cravings, sharpen your focus, make you sleep sound, help in keeping your mood in balance and also give you healthy weight. All these are few examples of benefits of pairing fresh pressed juice with a balanced diet and lifestyle. And to achieve it, we need a juicer, fresh fruits and vegetables and on top no excuse attitude and commitment.

This book is having 108 nutritious and delicious recipes to Juice up your life and also the tools to develop sustainable habits for long time.Read & Download Juicing Recipes From Fitlife.TV Star Drew Canole For Vitality and Health by Drew Canole pdf, Epub, Kindle.

Read & Download The 6th Extinction: A Sigma Force Novel (Sigma Force Series Book 10) by James Rollins pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Arts & Literature>>Read & Download The 6th Extinction: A Sigma Force Novel (Sigma Force Series Book 10) by James Rollins pdf, Epub, Kindle

The 6th Extinction“The 6th Extinction: A Sigma Force Novel (Sigma Force Series Book 10)” is by James Rollins.The genre of ‘The 6th Extinction’ is Literature and Fiction.

A military research station which was situated in a remote area send a frenetic call which upset personnel of the neighboring base. When the neighboring base personnel heard their horrifying last order ‘KILL US ALL’ they went to their research station to find and save them. But when they reached there they found everyone dead, not only the members and scientists of the research center but also every animal, insect, plant, bacteria. Every living thing wiped out about fifty square miles around the center.

The land is completely barren and fungus is spreading out. To freeze the unavoidable, Commander Gray Pierce and Sigma must resolve a danger that mounts out of the far past. The time when Antarctica was alive and green, the time when all life on Earth was balanced on the knife’s blade. Commander and Sigma are following the hints from an old map which was found and saved from the lost Alexandria’s Library, they are trying to find the truth about an old continent and the new form of death which is buried miles under the ice. Sigma are facing the greatest challenge to stop the danger which will led mankind extinction through, 1000 years old frozen secrets which are buried deep inside the darkest and dangerous jungles of today.Read & Download The 6th Extinction: A Sigma Force Novel (Sigma Force Series Book 10) by James Rollins pdf, Epub, Kindle.

Read & Download Stealing Fire: How Silicon Valley, the Navy SEALs, and Maverick Scientists Are Revolutionizing the Way We Live and Work by Steven Kotler pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Science & Math>>Read & Download Stealing Fire: How Silicon Valley, the Navy SEALs, and Maverick Scientists Are Revolutionizing the Way We Live and Work by Steven Kotler pdf, Epub, Kindle


“Stealing Fire: How Silicon Valley, the Navy SEALs, and Maverick Scientists Are Revolutionizing the Way We Live and Work” by Steven Kotler and Jamie Wheal.The genre of ‘Stealing Fire’ is Alternative Medicine.

Special Operators like the Navy SEALs, Silicon Valley executives like Eric Schmidt and Elon Musk, and the Green Berets, and maverick scientists like Sasha Shulgin and Amy Cuddy have reversed entirety we believed we learned about great performance bottom up. In place of guts, improved habits or 10,000 hours, these innovators have discovered an amazing shortcut. They are utilizing exceptional and dubious states of awareness to resolve crucial challenges and beat the contest.

Steven Kotler and Jamie Wheal gave four years in fact finding the chief leads of this innovation. They investigated from the home of Seal Team Six to the Googleplex, Richard Branson’s necker Island, the Burning Man festival, Nike’s innovation team, Res Bull’s training center, and the United Nations’ Headquarters. The results after their investigation are stunning. Everyone of these groups has been silently looking for the same thing in their own ways, with the help of different techniques, languages and applications.

At present this revolutionary innovation is extending to the current, feeding a million dollar hidden economy and compelling us to reassess how we all can head richer, more satisfying and more productive lives. This innovation is driven by four stimulating forces– neurobiology, pharmacology, psychology and technology. Stealing Fire is a guidebook for the one who wants to thoroughly upgrade his/her life.Read & Download Stealing Fire: How Silicon Valley, the Navy SEALs, and Maverick Scientists Are Revolutionizing the Way We Live and Work by Steven Kotler pdf, Epub, Kindle.

Read & Download Of Fire and Stars is by Audrey Coulthurst and Jordan Saia pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Non Fiction>>Read & Download Of Fire and Stars is by Audrey Coulthurst and Jordan Saia pdf, Epub, Kindle

Of Fire and Stars is by Audrey Coulthurs
“Of Fire and Stars” is written by Audrey Coulthurst and illustrated by Jordan Saia.The genre of ‘Of Fire and Stars’ is Science Fiction and Fantasy.Princess Dennalieia is committed to the prince of Mynaria from her childhood and she also knew about the future of their relationship. But her marriage with the prince of Mynaria will finalize the treaty between Mynaria and her motherland. It will also protect her people from the other belligerent kingdoms. Denna has her own secret if it reveals to anyone it will bring disasters. she has a possession on an Affinity for fire. This power is very dangerous for the future queen, the land and kingdom where magic is banned.

Deenalieia is now learing the ways of her new kingdom Mynaria and also hiding her magical powers which are growing day by day. The worst thing is that she has to learn control Mynaria’s dangerous warhorses before her crowning. Her teacher is Princess Amaranthine, an unorthodox and knotty, sister-in-law of Deena and the only one who frightens her the most.

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A dreadful homicide leaves the land bemused. Mare and Deena cautiously enter forces to find the culprit behind all this destruction. As they worked together, they come closer to each other and soon their friendship turned into something more than just friendship.

As the deadly warfare boiling which makes the treaty more important than anytime, for Deena and Mare following their feeling for each other could be dangerous. Both of them are forced to choose between their hearts and duty, they have to find the way through which they can save their lands and each other too.Read & Download Of Fire and Stars is by Audrey Coulthurst and Jordan Saia pdf, Epub, Kindle.

Read & Download The Complete Ketogenic Diet for Beginners: Your Essential Guide to Living the Keto Lifestyle” by Amy Ramos and Rockridge Press and is forwarded by Amanda C. Hughespdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Health>>Read & Download The Complete Ketogenic Diet for Beginners: Your Essential Guide to Living the Keto Lifestyle” by Amy Ramos and Rockridge Press and is forwarded by Amanda C. Hughespdf, Epub, Kindle


“The Complete Ketogenic Diet for Beginners: Your Essential Guide to Living the Keto Lifestyle” by Amy Ramos and Rockridge Press and is forwarded by Amanda C. Hughes.

The genre of ‘The Complete Ketogenic Diet for Beginners’ is Diseases and Physical Ailments.

By eating healthy and balanced diet, losing weight and waist line is not an easy job as it sounds. According to the reports of CDC, 1/3 or more of Americans are facing a weight loss challenges and about 1 out of 20 are suffering with type 2 diabetes.

The Mayo Clinic and the medical communities have approved ketogenic diet as a healthy and also a healthiest way to loss weight. Ketogenic diet is consists of high fat foods, low carb which help body to burn fat to give energy contrary to glucose.

‘The Complete Ketogenic Diet for Beginners’ is divided into three parts: The Ketogenic Lifestyle, The Fourteen Day meal Plan, And the Ketogenic recipes.

The first chapter of the book explains what is Ketogenic diet. In 4 words Low Carb, High Fat. The ketogenic diets promotes fresh whole foods, healthy oils and fats, and eliminates chemically treated and processed foods.

Chapter 2 is how you prepare yourself foe Ketogenic diet. There are 5 steps for this:

1) Clean out house pantry. (No dates and no peas).

2) Stock up the basics : coffee, tea, spices, non-sugar sweeteners, herbs, mayo, lime juive and lemon, mustard, eggs, pickled food, nuts and seeds, lard, wild caught fish, eggs, bacon fat and etc.

3) make a place for a food scale, food processor, hand mixer, cat iron pan and spiralizer in your kitchen.

4) plans your meals.

5) exercise.

Part 2 is the 14 day meal plan.

In this part they have provided you an outline for 14 day meal plan, so that you can lose your weight in balanced way. It is breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, and dinner. The plans give the nutritonally breakdown of calories, protein, carbs, net carbs, fats, fibres with the page number to get the recipe.

Part 3 : The Recipes.

Overall a complete Ketogenic Diet recipe book easy to follow, cook and tasty way to lose weight.

Read & Download Only the Truth by Adam Croft pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Mystery and Crime>>Read & Download Only the Truth by Adam Croft pdf, Epub, Kindle

Only the Truth by Adam Croft
“Only the Truth” by Adam Croft.The genre of ‘Only The Truth’ is Thrillers and Suspense.Dan Cooper is married to Lisa. He travels for his work and enjoys his life as a carefree bachelor. He is again on a solo business trip, when he found his wife’s dead body in his bathroom behind the shower curtain. He was shocked and surprised how his wife came in his hotel room which was in a remote coastal area.

Everything in the room is pointing towards him and enough to prove that he is the murderer. It was very clear someone is framing him. He was sure that the planner is watching him. To prove himself innocent he hides himself from police. When Dan departs across Europe, his unidentified foe rises the proof against him.

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Dan is persistent to discharge his name and also take revenge from the killer of Lisa, even he was not a perfect husband. The felon is approaching him. He was under stress of his own liable shameful deeds. He is not the killer but it might be all his fault in the murder of his wife.Read & Download Only the Truth by Adam Croft pdf, Epub, Kindle, Mobi.

Read & Downlaod A Cold Tomorrow by Mae Clair pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Mystery and Crime>>Read & Downlaod A Cold Tomorrow by Mae Clair pdf, Epub, Kindle

A Cold Tomorrow by Mae Clair
Stopping to help a motorist in trouble, Katie Lynch stumbles upon a mystery as elusive as the Mothman legend that haunts her hometown of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Could the coded message she finds herald an extraterrestrial visitor? According to locals, it wouldn’t be the first time. And what sense should she make of her young son’s sudden spate of bizarre drawings—and his claim of a late-night visitation? Determined to uncover the truth, Katie only breaks the surface when a new threat erupts. Suddenly her long-gone ex-boyfriend is back and it’s as if he’s under someone else’s control. Not only is he half-crazed, he’s intent on murder….

As a sergeant in the sheriff’s office of the famously uncanny Point Pleasant, Officer Ryan Flynn has learned to tolerate reports of puzzling paranormal events. But single mom Katie Lynch appears to be in very real danger—and somehow Ryan’s own brother, Caden, is caught up in the madness, too. What the skeptical lawman discovers astounds him—and sends him into action. For stopping whatever evil forces are at play may just keep Katie and Caden alive.

Read & Download The Iron Harvest by Erik Hanberg pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Science fiction/fantasy>>Read & Download The Iron Harvest by Erik Hanberg pdf, Epub, Kindle

The Iron Harvest by Erik Hanberg

Hiding is easy. Staying alive is the problem.Byron Shaw is the focus of a worldwide manhunt, led by the man he once called a friend. Everywhere he turns he finds more danger. Everyone who helps him risks their own life.

With the Lattice destroyed, the systems the world relies upon have come undone. Global communications are down, food is growing scarce, and the weather is spiraling out of control. Shaw must fight his away across two shell-shocked continents if he ever wants to see his wife again. Unfortunately for him, he must navigate between those who are trying to rebuild the Lattice and those who are willing to kill anyone who might have the expertise or the resources to pull it off. Shaw must choose sides, and the future of the world will rest with his decision.Read & Download The Iron Harvest by Erik Hanberg pdf, Epub, Kindle, Mobi.

Read & Download The Watcher by Netta Newbound pdf, Epub, Kindle.

Category: Kindle>>Read & Download The Watcher by Netta Newbound pdf, Epub, Kindle.

The Watcher by Netta Newbound

Life couldn’t get much better for Hannah. She accepts her dream job in Manchester, and easily makes friends with her new neighbours.When she becomes romantically involved with her boss, she can’t believe her luck. But things are about to take a grisly turn.As her colleagues and neighbours are killed off one by one, Hannah’s idyllic life starts to fall apart. But when her mother becomes the next victim, the connection to Hannah is all too real.

Who is watching her every move?

Will the police discover the real killer in time?

Hannah is about to learn that appearances can be deceptive.Read & Download The Watcher by Netta Newbound pdf, Epub, Kindle, Mobi.

Read & Download The Secret Wife: A captivating story of romance, passion and mystery by Gill Paul pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Kindle>>Read & Download The Secret Wife: A captivating story of romance, passion and mystery by Gill Paul pdf, Epub, Kindle

The Secret Wife: A captivating story of romance, passion and mystery by Gill Paul

‘A cleverly crafted novel and an enthralling story… A triumph.’ DINAH JEFFERIES

A Russian grand duchess and an English journalist. Linked by one of the world’s greatest mysteries . . .

Love. Guilt. Heartbreak.

1914

Russia is on the brink of collapse, and the Romanov family faces a terrifyingly uncertain future. Grand Duchess Tatiana has fallen in love with cavalry officer Dmitri, but events take a catastrophic turn, placing their romance – and their lives – in danger . . .

2016

Kitty Fisher escapes to her great-grandfather’s remote cabin in America, after a devastating revelation makes her flee London. There, on the shores of Lake Akanabee, she discovers the spectacular jewelled pendant that will lead her to a long-buried family secret . . .

Haunting, moving and beautifully written, The Secret Wife effortlessly crosses centuries, as past merges with present in an unforgettable story of love, loss and resilience.

Perfect for fans of Kate Morton and Dinah Jefferies.

Read & Download Ketogenic Diet: Lose Your Belly, Reclaim Energy And Focus, Change Your Life – ZERO EXERCISE NEEDED by Christian Starr pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Cookbook>>Read & Download Ketogenic Diet: Lose Your Belly, Reclaim Energy And Focus, Change Your Life – ZERO EXERCISE NEEDED by Christian Starr pdf, Epub, Kindle

Ketogenic Diet: Lose Your Belly, Reclaim Energy And Focus, Change Your Life - ZERO EXERCISE NEEDED by Christian Starr

We can achieve ALL of these goals with This Ketogenic Diet Plan. Based on exciting new research about the dramatic benefits of A Ketogenic Diet, this plan nurtures your gut while helping you burn off excess weight and harmful belly fat.

Here’s the deal:

Losing weight and being healthy isn’t nearly as complicated as the fitness industry wants you to believe.

You don’t need to spend hundreds of dollars per month on the worthless supplements and fat loss pills.

You don’t need to grind out hours of boring cardio to shed ugly belly fat and get a six-pack. You probably don’t have to do ANY cardio, actually.

You don’t need “clean eating” to get ripped and you don’t need to avoid “cheat” foods.

Those are just a few of the harmful myths that keep people like you from ever achieving the sexy, lean, toned, and healthy bodies you truly desire.And in this book, you’re going to learn something most people will never know…
Read & Download Ketogenic Diet: Lose Your Belly, Reclaim Energy And Focus, Change Your Life – ZERO EXERCISE NEEDED by Christian Starr pdf, Epub, Kindle.

Read & Download The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller by Robert Bryndza pdf, Epub, Kindle

Category: Mystery and Crime>>Read & Download The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller by Robert Bryndza pdf, Epub, Kindle

The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller by Robert Bryndza

The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller” is written by Robert Bryndza.The genre of ‘The Girl in the Ice’ is Mystery, Thrillers and Suspense.

In a South London park, a young boy found the dead body of a young women frozen in ice. The eyes of the dead body were wide open and her lips were parted as at the time of her death she wanted to say something. The victim was from a powerful family and her life was seemed to be perfect. She was not the only one who found dead in mysterious way, three more dead bodies of the prostitutes were also found. All three were choked, hands were handcuffed and discarded around London in water.

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Detective Erika was hired to investigate the case. When she was investigating the case and , she found some evidences which were pointing the connection of this murder with the other three murders of the prostitutes. As Erika getting closer to solve the mystery, the killer also approaching to Erika.

In her last case, investigation done by Erika went wrong and the wrong investigation result in the death of her husband. Now, Erika’s career was at risk and she had to solve this case at any cost by fighting with her own particular beasts and also with the killer who was the most dangerous and deadly Erika ever met in her life. Erik had to catch the killer before he attacks again.