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diff --git a/78810-h/78810-h.htm b/78810-h/78810-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e673d2c --- /dev/null +++ b/78810-h/78810-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13397 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Henry Thoreau: Bachelor of Nature | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 7%; + margin-right: 7%; +} + +h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +a {text-decoration: none;} +a:hover {text-decoration: underline;} + +p { + text-indent: 1.3em; + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +p.noindent { + text-indent: 0; +} + +hr.chap { + border: none; + position: relative; + text-align: center; + margin: 3em 0; + page-break-after: avoid + } +hr.chap::before { + content: "ꕥ"; + position: relative; + padding: 0 1em; + background: white; + color: #777; + z-index: 1 + } +hr.chap::after { + content: ""; + position: absolute; + top: 50%; + left: 0; + width: 100%; + border-top: 2px solid #ddd; + z-index: 0 + } +hr.front { + width: 10%; + margin: 1.5em 45%; + border: 0; + border-top: 1px solid #777; + page-break-after: avoid + } + +hr.tb { + border: none; + text-align: center; + margin: 2em 0; + page-break-after: avoid +} + +hr.tb::before { + content: "❧"; + color: #777; + font-size: 1.2em; +} + +.pagenum { + right: 1%; + font-size: x-small; + color: #333; + text-indent: 0; + text-align: right; + position: absolute; + border: thin solid silver; + padding: 0.1em 0.2em; +} + +blockquote { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +blockquote.italic { + font-style: italic; +} + +.smaller {font-size:smaller;} +.larger {font-size:larger;} +.xlarge {font-size:x-large;} + +.transnote {background-color: #eeeeee; + margin:3em; + padding: 1.5em 2.5em 1.5em 2.5em; + font-size:smaller; +} + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78810 ***</div> + + + +<h1> +Henry Thoreau<br> +<span class="smaller">BACHELOR OF NATURE</span><br> +</h1> +<div class="center"> +<span class="xlarge"><i>by</i> Léon Bazalgette</span><br> +<br> +<br> +<span class="larger">Translated by<br> +Van Wyck Brooks</span><br> +<br> +<div style="text-align:left; max-width:19em; margin:auto;"> +“My friend will be bold to conjecture.<br> +He will guess bravely at the significance<br> +of my words.”<br> +<div class="right">—<i>Autumn</i></div> +</div> +<br> +NEW YORK<br> +Harcourt, Brace and Company +</div> + +<hr class="front"> +<p class="center smaller"> +COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY<br> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.<br> +<br> +Published, November, 1924.<br> +Second printing, January, 1925.<br> +<br> +Printed in the U. S. A. +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_iii">iii</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="AUTHORS_NOTE"> + AUTHOR’S NOTE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Abundantly as Henry Thoreau informs us about +himself in his Journal, his correspondence and his writings, +his story, owing to the extreme reticence of his +nature, would obviously be incomplete if it were reduced +to these elements alone. To finish it remained the task +of certain of his contemporaries, members of his circle. +What the following pages owe to their invaluable testimony +is so evident that it has not been thought necessary +to emphasize this indebtedness by crowding the +book with notes, as if it laid any claim to erudition. +Nevertheless, this absence of references, ill-judged as it +may be, must not be taken to imply that this portrait-study +has been inspired by any desire less exacting than +their own for the pure and simple truth. It merely +means that behind this truth there was perhaps another, +less often sought for, but no less moving after these +vanished years.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_1">1</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="I"> + I + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Someone has died in the village: the man who bought +the house on the square a year ago—the retired seaman.</p> + +<p>A new face that has soon disappeared. Perhaps he +had his reasons in choosing for his retreat this straggling +village, twenty miles from the city from which he came. +Or perhaps it had been enough for him to chance upon +it one day, a city-dweller in search of a resting-place, +to be won by the fine elms and maples that sheltered a +gracious village, nestling among the low hills and deep +woods and named after the slow-moving river that +watered the broad meadows: Concord.</p> + +<p>For a man who had lived in the bustle of a port after +a life of adventure, everything there breathed a blessed +peace. Nor was the silence of the fields too sedative for +one who had come from a capital. Concord smiled in +the agreeable spectacle of its thousand inhabitants, +farmers, workmen, tradespeople, village officials, and +formed a stopping-place for the stage-coach, the travellers, +the carters who passed through it on their way to +the high pastoral regions of New Hampshire. There +was an inn, there were taverns where they served you +a stiff glass of liquor, several stores, the Town Hall. +There was the wooden church, too, and a fine stone jail +that sheltered the county criminals. They even hanged +people there now and then. A man who was accustomed +to the world would not feel too remote from civilization.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_2">2</span></p> + +<p>Perhaps, too, the renown of a spot where the country-folk +had offered a bold and decisive resistance to the +troops of His Britannic Majesty, at the dawn of the +Revolution, had affected his choice. But this memory +of twenty-five years ago was of far less importance than +the promise of the forests of pines and oaks and the +fields and the footpaths along the slopes for a man +who knew he was ill and was looking for a retreat +where he could recover the strength of his lungs.... +In the pine-scented air of Concord floated the hope of a +cure. And here he had indeed found himself at rest, +forever. The pure air of the valley had not been able +to restore the consumptive to health, no, nor the whey +he used to take at the houses of his friends on the days +when they made cheese, nor the simples from which he +had made a syrup for his evil cough. A man of moderate +height, but broad-backed, who would once have seized +a barrel of molasses and carried it on his head. An old +seaman, in short, dying now of consumption, at the age +of forty-seven, in the year one of the nineteenth century, +in the house on the square that he had just bought the +year before, and going to his rest in the cemetery of a +New England village, twenty miles from the ocean that +he had put between himself and his kindred, the Thoreaus +of Saint-Helier.</p> + +<p>For he was a lad from the Old World who had set out +to seek his fortune in the colonies, leaving behind him at +nineteen a little green island in order to attempt a great +continent of mystery and chance. In Jersey, where he +was born, his family lived in comfort as people of substance, +of good Norman stock, speaking the old <i lang="fr">langue +d’oïl</i>. How would the old family name sound in another +tongue? The mother was a certain Marie le Galais, +who had had nine children and was in her seventy-ninth +year at the moment when her John, over there, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_3">3</span>had just been laid, without her knowledge, in the Concord +cemetery, laid there by the children he had left +behind him. The late Philippe Thoreau, her husband, +had taken over the business of his father, a wine merchant, +with a branch in London, where two of their +daughters had married extremely well. They belonged +to the solid bourgeoisie, these Norman Thoreaus.</p> + +<p>The younger son of a numerous family, John had not +waited for his twentieth year before yielding to the +invitation of a sailing vessel that plied between Boston +and Saint-Helier, and he had set out, leaving his family +to their casks on the little Channel island. John had +gone to sea. On his first long voyage he was shipwrecked +and suffered much. At Boston, along the +docks, he found employment with various ship-chandlers. +Then the war broke out; no more work. The +Harbour was blockaded by the British fleet. He dug in +the trenches round the town, under the fire of the guns. +Then he shipped on a privateer that set out in pursuit +of English vessels: for a Jerseyman, this was to follow +one of the hardiest traditions of his race. At the end of +the war his share of the prizes enabled him to open a +shop on Long Wharf, where, with one partner, he +carried on business for twenty years. John had not +discredited his family; in the sale of molasses and other +substantial products, he had resumed the family path of +business and sound principles.</p> + +<p>At twenty-seven he married Jane Burns, the child of a +Scottish emigrant to Massachusetts and of the daughter +of a Quaker who was a sailor too. When she died, after +fifteen years, he owned, aside from the proceeds of his +prosperous trade, the town-house which Jane had +inherited from her grandfather David, the Quaker: a fine +house worth all of $10,000. A widower, forty years +old, with a houseful of children—the eldest, eight years +<span class="pagenum" id="page_4">4</span>old, still a little girl—John Thoreau, the merchant of +Long Wharf, took for his second wife a certain Widow +Kettell. Shortly after this, finding his health affected, +he sold out his business and retired to the country to +live on his income.</p> + +<p>And now the house he had bought on the square at +Concord, thanks to the handsome fortune amassed in +these twenty years of trade, sheltered a woman widowed +anew and the little children of whom the oldest boy, +John, second of the name, was fourteen at the death of +his father—and four others bearing in their breast a +heritage that weighed more heavily than the few thousand +dollars that were to come to each of them....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A child was born on the Minot farm, on the Eastern +edge of the village, by that road down there, a little to +one side, which they called, no one knew why, the +Virginia Road. Perhaps because it dived down into +a vague country, in the other direction from the road +that led to the market-place.</p> + +<p>But there was no need to take the child to the market-place. +The father with his wife and his two chicks, +Helen, not yet five, and John, who was three, found +themselves there, for want of anything better, because +his mother-in-law Minot, left a widow for the second +time, had given him a chance to turn his ability to +account on the farm. This agriculturist by accident +was the eldest son of the old sailor who had come to +Concord to die: John Thoreau II, now thirty years old +and a man upon whom fortune, far from smiling, had +turned its bare teeth.</p> + +<p>No luck yet for good little John. Nevertheless, the +paternal shade had guided him along the right path: he +should undoubtedly have been a merchant, like his +father, like the Thoreaus of Saint-Helier. Good blood +<span class="pagenum" id="page_5">5</span>would tell. After a year of school to complete his +primary studies begun in Boston, he had lost no time in +apprenticing himself to their neighbour, who kept a +store and added to the dignity of a merchant that of +parish Deacon. Thus the potent sisters Grocery and +Piety took the little store-clerk by the hand. Then he +enlarged his experience of the world and affairs at a +small dry-goods store in the little town of Salem. The +kindly epoch still existed when people were not afraid of +humanising trade by offering you a glass of liquor over +the counter, when you had made a sizable purchase.</p> + +<p>At twenty-one, rich in practical knowledge acquired +elsewhere and with a few bank-notes borrowed from +his good step-mother, John had returned to Concord to +open a store. The beginning was most promising, but +he took a partner with whom he had a misunderstanding—the +result was a law-suit, which he won. +Meanwhile the store had failed. He had to begin all +over again. Elizabeth, his older sister, had married and +gone to live in Maine. John followed and joined them, +establishing himself at Bangor with his brother-in-law, +on the edge of the wilderness, where the Indians were +their best customers. Was John homesick, or was the +trade insufficient to maintain two managers? However +it was, Concord soon saw him back again, and at +twenty-five, like a wise little man, he married there.</p> + +<p>This charming, sprightly Cynthia certainly brought +our brave John the greatest happiness of his life. But +she brought him nothing else; so the two of them set +out together to try their fortune in Boston, the great +city. Who could tell, if one had had no luck thus far in +villages and small towns, perhaps one was cut out for +success in a capital. Not in this case, not this time. +The solidest wealth they acquired was a new baby, +John, third of the name, following Helen, born the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_6">6</span>same year as their marriage. And then they returned +to Concord, to the house of Cynthia’s mother, the farm +where Cynthia herself had been living at the time of +her marriage. Home enough for a young family without +any definite situation; before tempting chance elsewhere, +a little farming, to help the mother-in-law, +would serve in the interval. And then the maternal +presence would not be unprofitable for Cynthia, during +her imminent confinement.</p> + +<p>Little chick, born by chance on an out-of-the-way +farm, when your grandfather died in a big house on the +town square, are you as poor as all that at the moment +when you are cast upon this earth where he, the old +privateer, has been resting for sixteen years? In your +veins the calm blood of the Thoreaus is united with the +impetuous blood of the Dunbars; from this mixture you +will be able to make something perhaps, if you have a +touch of fancy. Your father is a fine, sturdy fellow, +serious and kind-hearted, who is doing his best to make +his way with his three little children. If he has not +developed into a great commercial strategist, fate has +made up for it by giving him a superior wife. A very +good thing, for your arrival in the world has not improved +their fortune.</p> + +<p>No more than her husband was Cynthia a child of +Concord. They were of the same age. Just as he had +come as a boy, with his people, so she had come as a +little girl, with her mother, from New Hampshire, +where the father whom she had never known, Asa +Dunbar, had died. Cynthia was the daughter of a +minister, a minister who had been at the same time a +counsellor-at-law and a zealous freemason. On the +maternal side, the great crisis of the Revolution, which +had given the first John Thoreau an opportunity to +amass a handsome capital, had ruined the family, who +<span class="pagenum" id="page_7">7</span>had once been important and influential gentlefolk. +Colonel Jones, her grandfather, who, with his eight +sons, had taken the side of the Crown, had shared the +lot of the vanquished: confiscation of their land, imprisonment, +banishment. The chivalrous and adventurous +race of the Joneses had left their mark upon +Cynthia in traits as pronounced as the obscurity of +her husband’s character: a taste for elegance, a gift of +eloquence. She knew how to talk, and there was as +much conviction in her words as in his silence. She +loved to set the lively tone of a bow of ribbon singing +on a piece of cloth, like a declaration of independence. +She was not afraid to startle people by a freedom of +speech that was sharp enough to be malicious. It was +a handsome girl with dark eyes that John had taken +for his wife, with the calm assurance of these little +serious, sedate men. Her charming voice, when she +sang, the animation of her talk, the vividness of her +replies had made up for his abysses of silence and self-effacement. +Happiest of harmonies, secured by an +unassuming man whose wife talks and is cheerful and +has enough wit for two. John and Cynthia formed one +of those happy unions to which one brings genius, the +other his lack of genius, and both have courage enough +to meet the ups and downs of existence.</p> + +<p>Cynthia, the youngest of her family, had two sisters, +Sophia and Louisa. She had the luck to possess a +brother also, the gem of the Dunbars, the rare flower +of generations that had multiplied their branches to +blossom at last in the alliance of a minister with the +daughter of a gentleman-farmer. Charles Dunbar had +taken the sunny side of life. He had not asked it to +make dollars grow on the counter of a shop or in the +furrows of husbandry where a man strains his back, +greatly to the detriment of his good-humour; he had let +<span class="pagenum" id="page_8">8</span>it go its own way, since it was full of amusing things +and he himself was a strong man, capable of mastering +it. Not stupid enough to settle down, he rambled from +village to village, an eternal apprentice whose apprenticeship +pursued its course especially in taverns. A +splendid voice, bursting from his athletic frame, was +enough to assure him success among his jolly comrades. +But Uncle Charles was also an incomparable wag. It +is not enough to draw the long bow and talk well in a +tavern to put the company in a cheerful mood: you +must show what you are. Then you do astonishing +tricks with cards, toss your hat into the air and catch it +again on the top of your head, swallow your nose, or +juggle away the knives, forks and plates on the table, +refusing to restore them until the landlord agrees not to +charge you for your meal. And as if this were not +enough, you seize a ten-foot ladder, stand it upright +without any support, clamber up to the last rung and +descend on the other side, pushing it back with your +foot. Yes, and handsomely. Would any of these gentlemen +like to have a try?... But old Charles’s great +feat was wrestling. With him wrestling was a primal, +necessary function, like eating and drinking. In the +most natural way in the world, he would walk into +your house with the flattering remark, “Come along, +I’m going to throw you. Out with you.” And you had +to go out, spread some straw in the yard and place +yourself in position. Of course he did throw you. And +then he was as pleased as if you had invited him to the +best of dinners at your house. This passion for wrestling +seized him suddenly as sensual desire seizes people who +are badly brought up. And you never had to be afraid +that he would break your ribs: an accomplished wrestler, +he would displant you neatly, like an artist and a gentleman. +In this vocation he had lost all his teeth at the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_9">9</span>age of twenty-one, which did not prevent him from +having every blessed one of them later on. Perhaps +they had grown again—you never can tell with these +fire-eaters.</p> + +<p>To judge him from this unconventional manner of +living, anyone might suppose that Charles would have +been the victim of bad habits. A great mistake. He +did not gamble, he drank only in reason, he did not +smoke—at most, for the sake of politeness, he would +take a pinch of snuff if you offered it to him. His dress +was always correct and his language free from coarseness. +Among his rare privileges Charles possessed that +of suddenly falling asleep in the very midst of whatever +he happened to be doing. Sometimes, with his razor in +his hand, before his mirror, without any reason he +would succumb to sleep; and in order to conform to the +strict observance of the Sabbath which, as we know, +prohibits sleep, he found it necessary to devote himself +on that day to some absorbing occupation, such as +sprouting potatoes. In pursuing these artistic hobbies +one does not gather very much of this world’s goods, +but he had found more enviable advantages: a reputation +solidly established in various public places and the +promise of restoring to the Lord a soul as fresh as on +the day when it had been confided to his care. Charles +Dunbar, you are the salt of your family. Your kindred +should bless you. And as for this baby nephew who +is just born, to have an uncle who can hold himself in +equilibrium on the top of an unsupported ladder and +possesses that formidable voice which, from the strand, +hails a ship at sea—what self-command this will give +him later, and what carrying-power for anything he +may have to say or proclaim.... If he is seized with a +desire to leap over some obstacle, his legs will remember +you who, while leading your oxen, sprang over the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_10">10</span>yoke with your feet together, once, twice, a mere nothing +to amuse the lads of the saw-mill whose eyes popped +out of their heads at this phenomenon.</p> + +<p>When she was eight years old, Cynthia had set out by +sea on a ramshackle boat, with her mother and her two +sisters, to see her Jones uncles, the refugees in Maine +and Canada. It was shortly after this rather risky +voyage that the mother and the daughter had come to +Concord, where the former had remarried and the +latter, fifteen years later, had fixed her destiny, sought +her fortune, by uniting her poverty with John’s.</p> + +<p>To their possessions had now been added this youngster +born on the farm. The 12th of July, 1817, was +inscribed on the tablets of the household. Also the date +of baptism, three months later, when, stoically, uttering +no shrill cries, Henry David (this latter name in memory +of Uncle David, who had just died) entered upon the +Christian life. One enters as one can. But whatever +might be the virtue of the baptismal water and the +minister of the parish, Dr. Ripley, would it prevail +against the farm and the old deserted road on the edge +of which the child had been born? Glance at this farm: +it is an ancient two-storied dwelling, with plank walls +discoloured with age, a setting as appropriate for the +birth of a god as for the coming of this poor little soul. +It stands on a knoll where the grass grows at will. No +fence. In front, a running brook. Around it, meadows +and orchards, where you smell the good soil and the +turf. The nearest neighbour is a long way off. The old +winding road leads to no point whither the interests +of the villagers call them; and left to itself, it smiles at +its turnings, its ruts, at all the weeds on its banks, +inviting the fields it passes to share its delightful futility. +The family occupies one wing of the dwelling, the other +half being inhabited by some people who also have a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_11">11</span>little boy, in whose company John, with the authority +of his three years, drives the turkeys to pasture.</p> + +<p>For the rest, the revenues of the farm were so small +that the mother-in-law had barely enough to live on. +Eight months after Henry’s birth, the household went +to rejoin her in the red house where she lived at the end +of the village. The head of a family whose peregrinations +had not yet brought him wealth tried to think of +some better means of providing bread for these three +little importunate beaks. One must manage somehow. +What remained of the paternal heritage was scarcely +worth talking about: the numerous minors having once +grown up, the lawyers and the trustees had left it nothing +but a pale memory. At the death of the Widow Kettell, +each of the children of the old sailor had pocketed a few +crumbs, and that was the end of it. And John’s share +of the Boston house was already mortgaged. He had to +put his wits together. John had an idea. A vocation is +not so easily renounced, especially when it is confirmed +by the voice of one’s ancestors. Suppose they were +to try Chelmsford over there, ten miles away, and take +a store. Cynthia could wait on the customers, while +John, who was very fertile in manual resources in spite +of his modest air, would try to find work outside. He +could paint signs and do odd jobs, and they would get +on somehow.</p> + +<p>Henry’s Aunt Sarah had already taught him to walk +when, at sixteen months, he took part in the exodus to +Chelmsford. They remained there two years and a +half, keeping a grocery with a bar, near the church. +They sold spirits. They were honest and upright. But +it’s always the same story: fortune, which so joyously +allows herself to be captured by dare-devils, has not +even the shadow of a smile for these honest and reserved +little Johns, even when they offer it a glass over the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_12">12</span>counter. A pity, but there was no need to be discouraged +because a fourth child had been born. This +one was a daughter; she was going to bring them happiness +and they would call her Sophia. Once more they +set out to try the capital, where people were rolling in +money and might be willing to let a few crumbs drop +into the till of an honest man. They found a perch in +the southern part of Boston, calling on the way at Concord. +During this journey a pair of infant eyes that +were hardly open as yet to the images of the world +were impressed by the glimpse of a wild pond in the +setting of an immemorial forest. The gaze of a tender +little creature, who knew nothing about the gold they +had set out to win among the rich, secretly absorbed +the lustre of this pearl.</p> + +<p>In two years of the great city they had three abodes. +The town offered every facility for sending to school a +little boy of five, but there was no great harvest for his +parents to reap there. They were obliged to give it up +as hopeless. These removals had brought the young +household no success.</p> + +<p>There was nothing to do but to return to the fold, to +the house on the square in which Thoreau the father had +died, the father upon whom fortune had smiled, and +where John’s two sisters lived. It was the last resource. +John had been an apprentice in the village, he knew +everybody there, and there the little ones had been born. +After all, it might be better to live in poverty in Concord +than to tempt chance elsewhere. Off for old Concord. +An honest little man, pursued by ill fortune, with four +chicks and their mother, was to seek his destiny henceforth +in the shadow of the great elms.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>You will soon be six years old. Your parents have +toiled and tried every expedient to make ends meet, but +<span class="pagenum" id="page_13">13</span>for you who do not enter into these domestic considerations +life is a long holiday. All Concord is spread out +on your lap, like a great book full of pictures and songs.</p> + +<p>You go forth and meet the adventures the roads offer. +A dog passes, a man, a cart. The great elms sigh. A +cock calls in the distance of the grey-white village. Two +neighbours are soberly gossiping. The first beautiful +drops of a shower drum on the leaves and the wooden +sidewalk. You have no desire to turn back. The little +girl ahead of you is hurrying to the store. All these and +how many other marvels, from morning to bedtime, the +long stretch of unmeasured hours, are all for you, you +who are not a king’s son, but the little Henry of the +man who lives on the village square, in the centre of a +bustling, confused, spangled universe, striped with sun-rays +and surprises.</p> + +<p>You are growing, and about you as you grow the +world takes form. When you are big and able to stand +firmly on your feet, people depend on you and entrust +you with important commissions: leading the cow to +pasture, running on errands in the village. When you +are very big you are allowed to do everything; and if +you have a brother who is much bigger than you there +are no limits to the conquests you can make together. +You are bound only by the four points of the compass. +The country about the village stretches away to the +impossible. You have a knife in your pocket, with +which you can whittle anything you please, a whistle, +a weapon, a slingshot, a wagon. You make a trap. +You rove on wild adventures through the sunny meadows, +gorge yourself with huckleberries, run about, +playing Indian, dig a cave, build a hut and store it with +provisions. At twelve you go hunting with your +brother. To feel the fowling-piece hanging from your +shoulder, to be the crafty master of the life and death +<span class="pagenum" id="page_14">14</span>of the creatures who have no suspicion of your overwhelming +power, to lie in wait for them, press the gun +to your shoulder, take aim, see the animal roll or tumble +over: fearful joys. There will be others later, but will +they have the pure taste of these? When you penetrate +into these deep woods, a swarming world opens before +you that probably has no end. No village, no houses, +no parents, no fences any more; nothing but the great +pines and the solemn oaks, assembled like conspirators +to hold counsel far from listening ears. You are alone +and very small under those heads touching one another +up there, but you feel no fear. You are armed, and, +besides, your big brother is with you. In the middle of +the woods there is a pond towards which the arches of +foliage bend amid their garlands of wild vines. You +come there to fish for pouts and breams. You have +brought your lunch to spend the whole day there, as if +you were on a desert island, on the edge of this smooth +water that mirrors the patriarchal trees. Night has +fallen; you have made a fire on the stones and before +going away you seize the red brands and shake them, +describing fiery circles in the air, then throw them into +the water where they hiss and go out. Then, when the +flames are dead, you find yourself once more in the +dense night, in a darkness thick enough to cut, and groping +your way you return to the village with your fish—two +Concord boys, who scour the earth barefoot the +better to possess it.</p> + +<p>To be a Concord boy is to be intoxicated with the +joy of the river, the two rivers that unite here, the +sluggish one and the lively one, and pull as well together +as John and Cynthia. It is to swim by the hour in the +cove with your comrades, under the arbour of pine +branches that shelters your duck-like sports. In the +spring the overflowing river floods the meadows—an +<span class="pagenum" id="page_15">15</span>immense sheet of water from which the trees emerge: +it is no longer fifty yards from bank to bank but half a +mile wide and more, like a great lake with gulls flying +over it. There is hay-time and the cranberry season; +there are the Cliffs from which you descry the faraway +peaks where you have never gone, where perhaps the +world ends—since over there is the empire of the setting +sun. You sail a boat with a paddle or a mast, drink in the +fragrance of the banks, the waterplants, the crumpled +mint-leaves, or you carry your line with you and are +engrossed for hours, dividing your attention between +the mystery of the depths that spread quivering up to +your float and the squadrons of clouds that cleave the +great sky spread out over the meadows. At these times +you encounter now and then an old fisherman, leathery +and taciturn, who blends into the bank of the river, his +ancient cloak having taken its colour with time, and +returns at evening with slow steps to his little shanty +on the edge of the village. When he is fishing you have +no desire to disturb him; he looks so grave. He is not +amusing himself, he is conducting a rite—the rite of the +compleat angler. No one pays any attention to the +old chap: but Henry knows him well and is attracted +by his silence. Perhaps he has been there since the time +of the Indians; he is ageless. This must be old Father +Musketaquid, who is on the most intimate terms with +all the fishes.</p> + +<p>And then the immense charm of the passage of an +occasional barge on the river, come who knows whence?—the +rivers, whence come they? whither do they go?—floating +soundlessly towards nowhere. One day you +see that barge moored at the edge of a meadow; the +following day it has disappeared. To what race do +these men on board belong? What language do they +speak? They have come from the world outside and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_16">16</span>yet they know the river so well.... When will they +pass again? On these boats are piled hogsheads full +of lime or bricks or iron-ore, with wheel-barrows. +How do they manage not to sink under this formidable +weight? And yet, when you climb up there, it is firm, +it does not give. Strange. And these men who, they +say, sleep in their boats and live there as Henry lives in +a house on the village square.... How he would love +to sleep in a boat too, eat there, light a fire, spend the +whole night on the water! There are people who insist +that these boats have sails like the boats that go on the +ocean; they have seen them. How can you believe +that? They pass like the birds, conjuring up other lands +and a whole unknown world to which the river may +lead, a world that is certainly impenetrable. Henry +dashes off with his brother to feast on this marvel. +But he has still more beautiful sensations. Once a year +a group of men with reddish brown faces, altogether +different from the men of the village, come and camp +under a tent in the meadows. They make baskets and +offer you collars of glass beads. Among themselves they +speak the language of sorcerers. They have a canoe +which they manage in the strangest fashion. The big +people tell you that they were once the masters of the +country, in the days of old Tahataivan, before such a +place as Concord ever existed. If you had a canoe and +were one of the Redskins, you would not make baskets; +you would spend your time hunting and fishing and +making expeditions; you would be one of the kings of +the country.</p> + +<p>There is, of course, a school to which they send you, +for it is a fine thing to know how to read straight off, +like your father, who reads the newspaper. But the +class is only an interlude between two sessions of school +out of doors. The river, the ponds are hard and smooth +<span class="pagenum" id="page_17">17</span>as steel; it is the season for skating and sleighing-parties +on the snow. What does it matter that your sled has +no iron runners and the other boys make fun of it? You +love it just the same because it is your own, and nothing +in the world could induce you to give it up. When you +know how to read, write and cipher, you still have a +great many things to learn, for your family dreams of +a more brilliant future for you than that of a store-keeper. +So you enter the Academy founded by the +well-to-do for boys who want to become learned men. +You must master Greek, Latin, French, plunge into the +classics, and grind away till you are sixteen.</p> + +<p>To follow the course at the Concord Academy and +become better educated than your parents is all very +fine, for Concord has so many ways of compensating +you. But afterwards? These ambitious parents have +conceived the bold project of sending their younger +boy to college to learn what the Concord Academy +cannot teach him. To leave Concord.... Ah, how +desolate the Greek, the Latin, the French, this stupendous +human learning looks at the thought of all you +must leave behind in order to fathom its mysteries!... +How heavy your heart is, at sixteen, Henry, with these +early tender affections to which you are to bid an abrupt +farewell as you set out for Harvard ... you, the son +of the little store-keeper, to serve your time in a department +store of learning.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_18">18</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="II"> + II + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>At the age of twenty the student Henry Thoreau left +the university with his bachelor’s degree. This was the +recompense for four years passed away from Concord, +four years save for the vacations and the time he had +returned to spend with his family because of ill-health. +As for this title, he may have given it its due—he was +certainly not inclined to over-value it.</p> + +<p>Upon entering college, he had left a village environment +where equality was not a joke but a daily observance—left +this environment to find himself, the child +of small folk, suddenly thrown among the offspring +of the fortunate ones of this world. In spite of the +part-scholarship which they had obtained for him, his +parents, his sister Helen, his aunts, in order to provide +for the cost of his studies, had been obliged to deprive +themselves. At college also, to be sure, a kind of equality +prevailed among the students; but there it was an equality +with a difference. He was a country boy among +these wide-awake young men in whose eyes he was +from the village indeed. Since his parents, his sister, +had been obliged to scant themselves to purchase his +right to a share of learning, he was inclined to feel certain +things a little differently from the way he would have +felt them if he had been the son of a senator.</p> + +<p>He was assigned to a little room on a top floor of the +hive. This was natural enough. Natural too that the +young men in the neighbouring rooms liked to kick up a +shindy when he wanted to work. But it only made +him react the more strongly, and he dreamed.</p> + +<p>This environment exhaled an odour that rather annoyed +<span class="pagenum" id="page_19">19</span>him, not so much because it had nothing in common +with that of the new-mown hay of the Concord +meadows but because it was the odour of an exclusive humanity, +comfortably quartered in first-class state-rooms +while the common passengers made shift as they could +between decks. No doubt there were some charming +fellows among these young men, and most of them were +generous enough to treat a poor comrade as if he were +one of themselves. And was it their fault, these college +boys, if their papas travelled in the first class and the +atmosphere that surrounded them was a first-cabin +atmosphere? Among these sons of the well-to-do, +future lawyers, future ministers, future diplomats, +captains of industry, pillars of society, Henry felt out of +his element. He was anything but in tune with them. +With a secret pride in his plebeian hands, he exaggerated +his reserve, his remoteness, his stiffness in the presence +of these boys who knew so little of the world of toil. +The hand he held out to them was nerveless. He was a +Henry always absorbed in his own thoughts, with his +eyes on the ground as if he were seeking something that +did not grow there. He was, indeed, somewhere else. +If he had hardly any real comrades, it was because he +had no desire to make them. These well-dressed, +jovial souls, with their special recreations, their fine +parties, their student manners, left him surprisingly +cold. Their sisters, their mothers had not had to deprive +themselves to pay for their studies. He was the son of +a little village shopkeeper, with a soul that already +aspired very much higher than the great stores where +they were to lord it.</p> + +<p>Besides, he was decidedly rustic in his appearance, +this oddly dressed scholarship-holder. He should have +been dressed in black; it was the rule of the institution. +The colleges see the world in black and he was here to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_20">20</span>adapt himself to their vision. But the only suit Henry had +was a green one which his father had had made for him +at great expense, and he was obliged to put it on every +morning. There were evenings when, as he undressed, +he wished that its greenness were still greener so as to be +even more conspicuous among all these black backs. +A good olive green is less shabby-looking than a black +coat that is always threatening to let you see the thread. +You must never let the thread be seen in this fine black-coated +world.</p> + +<p>And then in his secret soul homesickness tormented +him. Everything he loved was out there, and it left a +great void in his eighteen-year-old heart. When he +heard the thrush singing in the college yard, Harvard +ceased to exist, the library, the examinations he was +preparing for.... Nothing remained but a dejected +prisoner in his prison. Sometimes, as he bent over a +textbook, the meaning of the words he read was lost in +the sound of the wind that came to him in gusts from +the woods of Concord, and with a wild bound the +fancy of the exile leaped over the wall and sprang +towards those dear haunted spots. It required a great +effort to recall the heart-sick fugitive and set himself to +work again in the cell of that austere building. At such +moments as these, when he compared the quality of +what he had left behind him and the cost of what he +was acquiring, how could he help feeling in his bitterness +that what he was missing was beyond price? The +only remedy was to bury himself in study. All his free +time Henry passed in the library, in the company of the +classics or the old English poets, from Chaucer to the +Elizabethans, who spoke to his solitary heart, a habit +that rendered him still more unsociable and so isolated +him that he felt, in this buzzing community, as if he +were doing penance in the desert. That natural gravity, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_21">21</span>which had caused him to be nicknamed “the Judge” by +his little playfellows of the village sleighing-parties, had +not been softened by solitary study, his impressions as a +college boy, his loneliness—far from it. The already +taciturn child, who had given himself up to play passionately +but with an utter seriousness, ultra-sensitive +to everything that pricked his self-esteem, became still +more self-absorbed the more he grew during these lean +years. The hedgehog remained rolled up. It was as +if he had something as precious as his life to safeguard +and was protecting it fiercely. This student in his little +room on the top floor was not one of those creatures +that people tame.</p> + +<p>Henry was not conspicuous for his success. He had +made a good record in his studies, working hard to +please himself. But in the examinations he had not +shone. It was even remarked, not without surprise, +among his professors, that this studious, gifted boy +took no particular pains to distinguish himself; in the +holder of a scholarship this was almost an offense and +they had made him feel it. Thanks to the benefactors of +the college his studies were partly paid for by the revenues +of an old farm which he had to go and collect +himself, braving the watch-dogs and the ill-humour of +the unwilling farmer. In any case, it was a favour. A +beneficiary should show his gratitude by exerting himself +to the utmost and carrying off all the honours. When +you are poor, you are expected to make up for this +fault by your vigorous performances in composition.</p> + +<p>He had read enormously aside from the curriculum +and his preparation for examinations. And he had +learned how to express himself. His early prose exhibits +that firmness which is only acquired through a certain +quality of mind after much thought and the assiduous +following of the old masters. In some of his compositions +<span class="pagenum" id="page_22">22</span>and letters he reveals a surprising independence, +that of a boy who sturdily believes in another civilization +than that of the “civilized” and turns aside from +the beaten roads to follow a road of his own where his +instinct directs him better than the guide-posts. Hear +this: “Our Indian is more of a man than the inhabitant +of a city. He lives as a man, he thinks as a man, he dies +as a man. The latter, it is true, is learned. Learning is +Art’s creature, but it is not essential to the perfect man; +it cannot educate....” Words of a solitary in the +midst of the crowd, written in a temple of knowledge +with the accent of faith and the pungency of revolt. +At eighteen, he does not fear to make an apology for +extremism, denouncing half-way solutions, the herd-spirit, +the fear of being singular, the cowardice that +follows the fashion and makes men “mere tools in the +hands of others.” Henry wearing his green coat among +the black costumes, far from apologizing for this incongruity, +vigorously translates it into a rule of conduct. +“We are a nation of speculators, stockholders +and money-changers,” he writes before his nineteenth +year, hinting at a native literature still to be born in the +New World, “the establishment of a pure and nervous +language.” And at the moment when he leaves Harvard, +he attacks in his Commencement oration the spirit of +lucre, the cur-spirit, with a vivacity, a conviction that +slightly oversteps the tone of university controversy: +“Could one examine this beehive of ours from an observatory +among the stars, he would perceive an unwonted +degree of bustle in these later ages.... Where he found +one man to admire with him his fair dwelling-place, the +ninety and nine would be scraping together a little of +the gilded dust upon its surface.... This curious world +which we inhabit is more wonderful than it is convenient; +more beautiful than it is useful; it is more to be +<span class="pagenum" id="page_23">23</span>admired and enjoyed than used. The order of things +should be somewhat reversed: the seventh should be +man’s day of toil, wherein to earn his living by the +sweat of his brow; and the other six his Sabbath of the +affections and the soul....”</p> + +<p>He had emerged from the factory, but it had not +succeeded in casting him in its mould. On the contrary, +“the Judge” had judged it. It formed one of the wheels +of a society which he was beginning to understand. +Between mathematics, literature, the classics, the dead +languages, some living truths had crept in, upon which +Henry had seized, and he brought the latter home rolled +up in his diploma like some happy find. With that +society there, as it appeared to him, he could have very +little to do. It was a machine of which the fly-wheels, +the chains, the pinions were all too apparent to him. +From the whole apparatus falsehood leaked like a +sickening oil. Look sharp, my boy: if you do not, you +will be snapped up.</p> + +<p>All this knowledge which he had acquired in his +four years of probation in the factory he measured with +a lucid glance. An untutored fellow with the right +quality could put in its place all the science of the colleges. +A flash of the most everyday reality was enough +to expose the poverty of a culture that formed such +ignorant beings, such paupers in the face of life: little +gentlemen with white hands who came there to be +confirmed in the pale tradition of their class, “to study +chemistry and not learn how [one’s bread] is made....”</p> + +<p>At the same time he had undergone victoriously the +ordeal of this famous culture. It had done him no harm. +He regretted nothing: everything he had acquired, +scanty as its weight might be in the destiny of a man, he +would be able to put to his own use, employ for his own +ends. He was going to dispose of knowledge; knowledge +<span class="pagenum" id="page_24">24</span>was not to have the best of him. It was a very +good thing to possess, as an additional qualification, +like a garment you put on when you need it and hang up +again later when it burdens you. Others might take +home from Harvard the beautiful uniform that people +don for a lifetime. Henry had returned with his old +green jacket.</p> + +<p>Since he had come back, his family had observed a +certain change in his replies, his attitude, his judgments. +This decisive tone of their Henry and his radical views +on the world were a little disturbing to those good +people who had scraped together their dollars to send +him off to college but had never possessed themselves +an ounce of rebelliousness. So that was what they +taught at Harvard? Insubordination? His aunts +could hardly believe their ears; their nephew, expressing +himself in this condemnatory fashion? His sister Helen +who loved him dearly and firmly believed in him, Helen +who, from her salary as a teacher, had contributed to +pay Henry’s college expenses, even mildly urged him to +moderate his expressions a little. The good girl had +her illusions about the fond authority of an older sister: +with his uncompromising sincerity he ceased for a while +to write to her. She had not suspected that her brother +would come home from Harvard with other resources +besides “the old joke of a diploma.” She had remained +the same Helen as ever, and he, after these years, had +become a Henry multiplied by four.</p> + +<p>In this month of August, 1837, a boy of twenty +returned home who had mastered everything that +college had to offer, in the books and outside the books. +No need to press on to an A.M.; he knew quite enough. +In this respect, if not in others, the years at Harvard +were certainly worth the sacrifices that Helen and the +father and the good aunts had made. The certitudes he +<span class="pagenum" id="page_25">25</span>had brought back were even worth the sacrifice the +college boy had made of his free years of adolescence.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And now the problem was to earn his bread. The +“old joke of a diploma” might help him just the same +in finding a livelihood.</p> + +<p>Since his final return to Concord, his father had +undertaken a new business. He was manufacturing +pencils. After the grocery and the odd-jobbing, this +was a step up: a manufacturer, the creator of that +beautiful thing, the hard casing with its marrowy flesh +that a pencil is, destined to the noblest uses—reckoning +up accounts, taking notes, drawing. For twenty years +a pencil factory had existed at Concord when John Thoreau +cleverly bethought himself of setting up in competition. +It was rather bold for a little man who +had been so unlucky hitherto and had such slender +resources.</p> + +<p>Before his college years and during his long vacations, +Henry had lent a hand in the paternal workshop. +It was their means of livelihood and the aid of the two +boys was necessary. They worked together under +the name of “John Thoreau and Son.” At the end of +the summer of 1836, when a serious illness had obliged +him to return home for several months, Henry had even +accompanied his father to New York, whither they +went to put their merchandise on the market. It was +his first visit to the great metropolis, this visit as a +commercial traveller who had come to offer the city +folk an article that had issued from his village hands. +The people of the metropolis obtained the softest and +most perfect pencils directly from Europe; would they +have any use for his stuff? Wait, you people of the +metropolis, you spoiled folk who are so hard to please, +one of these days we are going to show you something +<span class="pagenum" id="page_26">26</span>just as perfect, something better than your beautiful +pencils from abroad.</p> + +<p>But this was no sort of destiny for a college boy. +Not for the sake of manufacturing pencils had he spent +four years in college at the expense of his family. It +would be disloyal to defeat their hopes, and circumstances +at home were in rather a bad way. Now that +he had his degree he would have to try something else. +His Aunt Louisa was a schoolmistress, and so was +Helen; John was very clever at teaching. They set him +his example. Why should not he attempt the same +thing? Why not, indeed? This was the first experiment +to be tried with the armament of the “old joke.”</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, he had already had some experience +in teaching. During his long college vacations, +to assist his family in paying the other half of his expenses, +he had followed the custom of students who +are not born with a silver spoon in their mouths, and +taught a little, as an assistant master, in the neighbouring +villages; visiting in this way at Canton, just outside +Boston, he had even learned a little German from the +minister with whom he had stayed. This had brought +him in a few dollars, and he had studied himself while +he was teaching others. And now the time had come to +find employment as a schoolmaster. To find such a +position at Concord itself would be ideal, and it so +happened that there was a vacancy in the Town School +and he was accepted. In September, the month after +his return, he was established there.</p> + +<p>So there he was, one of the wheels of the machine. +The respectable citizens had confided their children to +him to teach them, not simply the three R’s, but sound +principles as well. It was the immemorial Christian +custom to inculcate sound principles upon the young by +means of the rod. Henry, however, was not the flogging +<span class="pagenum" id="page_27">27</span>kind. He was going to talk to the young hopefuls as +young hopefuls, appealing to their feelings as good boys. +Everything went well or seemed to be going well; but +there were eyes on the watch. These eyes saw what +this innovation was leading to, the ruin of the moral +foundations upon which Concord and the world rested. +The master, this enemy of rods, had to reckon with the +committee in charge of the school, one of whom was a +certain Deacon—that same worthy man perhaps who +also kept a store and with whom, not long before, the +elder Thoreau had served his commercial apprenticeship. +He or his like, it matters little: a guardian of the +sound traditions. Whereupon His Morality the Deacon +represented to the young master that his method was +a menace to the discipline of the school. It was inadmissible. +Henry had been appointed to a function +that included the ritual distribution of the rod to scholars +who deserved it. There were always in a class scholars +who deserved the rod. He did not see them. He was +not carrying out his function.</p> + +<p>Very well. Since flogging formed a part of the work +ordained in exchange for a salary, that very day the +master took at random and punished conscientiously +six boys of whom one at least was never to know what +had suddenly seized this gentle master and was to cherish +a bitter memory of him.... So there, Henry has earned +his money. And now, good-bye, Deacon, good-bye, +all of you. Go and find another master who will flog +your school for you.... Henry had been a teacher for +fifteen days. The wheel had hardly been put in place +before it had sprung off.</p> + +<p>Too bad, but he could go back to pencil-making. It +was not exactly the thing he had dreamed of, but it was +free work into which the Deacons did not thrust their +pious noses. If he was obliged to ply the ferule to earn +<span class="pagenum" id="page_28">28</span>his living, he would go and pick huckleberries and sell +them in the market. Or fish for pike and peddle them +in the village, or take up any sort of work that wouldn’t +oblige him to report to committeemen.</p> + +<p>In spite of all this, he still wanted a school. He had +the ability and it meant independence. Working with +his father, he was a help, but he was dependent on his +family, and they found it hard enough to make ends +meet. The fall, the winter passed. How much he +would have liked to go out and snatch a little air! +There were moments like that. The surroundings of his +childhood had been so dear to him that, stoical as he +was by nature, the tears came to his eyes at the thought +that some day he might have to leave them. But +people had affronted him; he loathed his fellow-villagers. +He wanted to push out into the world. But he wanted +to go with John. To set out without John would be +to sacrifice the best part of himself. For John was +much more than his brother, he was the cream of all +possible brothers. John the third was a delightful being +who made him think that his grandfather, John the +first, had crossed the ocean simply to prepare for his +coming and make Concord an inestimable gift. John +was a true Thoreau like Helen but with an exquisite +charm, a flavour that belonged to him alone. Gifted as +he was, none of his other gifts was equal to this faculty +of making himself loved. He was a warm presence like +a ray of sunlight and the freest-hearted companion to +work with or to go off with, hunting, exploring—the +two of them, Indian chiefs, older brother, younger +brother, similar in their tastes, the gaiety of the one +multiplied by the happiness of the other. Everything +became possible, easy, everything brightened up, when +John was with you. Would Concord have been Concord +if Henry had not explored it and made it his own, during +<span class="pagenum" id="page_29">29</span>the whole of his childhood, with this perfect play-fellow?</p> + +<p>Spring broke. Helen and Sophia would soon be +leaving to take up their teaching at Roxbury. John was +at present a schoolmaster at Taunton. Henry wrote to +him. A friend of the family, settled in the West, assured +him that they could have a fine situation if they were to +go out there and open a school. What if they were to +set off together?... What do you say, brother? If +we were to go out there and set up a <em>real</em> cabin, far +away from these deacons and respectable numskulls, +in some raw, half-built town or out on the open prairie? +We could borrow money for the expenses of the journey, +and as for the rest we have workingman’s hands, we are +not afraid of adventure, we could pull through. What +couldn’t we do, the two of us together?... Henry +was pressing. Stagnation weighed on him; on the river +the ice was breaking. He longed to undertake something. +It was high time to begin. And if his brother +was willing.... A few weeks later he heard of a school +that was going to be opened in Virginia. He was certainly +going down there if they wanted him.... And +soon after the question of another school came up, in +Maine, where his cousins were. He went up there and +came back the same hungry Henry as before, in spite of +the brilliant certificate he was able to show, signed +with fine names, among them R. W. Emerson.</p> + +<p>Well, then, if they didn’t want him and his diploma +anywhere he would change his plans. That was settled. +His father and mother lived in a house in the centre of +the village: it was big enough for them to open a private +school there. John and Henry would teach at home, +free from all prying committees. They counted on +finding pupils.</p> + +<p>They did not count in vain. They had four already, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_30">30</span>and the promise of a fifth. Henry, urged to begin in +June, had not waited for his brother’s arrival. As soon +as the latter came he took over the direction of the +school. Henry took charge of the Latin, Greek, French, +physics and mathematics. They were so successful that +they were obliged to think of moving the school for the +following year: their father’s house was no longer big +enough to hold it. Just then the building of the Academy, +where Henry had been prepared for college, became +vacant, and they took up quarters there. It looked as +if the Thoreau school was going to become the Academy. +But not to underrate its masters, when had the latter +ever had such a director? A John, with this art of teaching +children and understanding a school as John understood +it?</p> + +<p>Very strange, the method of the two brothers. They +obtained discipline without punishment or threats. +How did they manage this? All the deacons in New +England might well ask. They interested their pupils, +won them, attached them to themselves by a living +bond, that between the man-child and the child-man. +Study ceased to be a mere heaping up of ennui and +constraint; it was a conversation between brothers. +With the money which the rod would have cost they +had bought a little common sense and good will; and +though the pedants could not pardon these two presumptuous +souls, the pupils worked, the pupils stayed. +Boys of ten to fifteen came to listen to the two young +masters, the elder of whom had made them promise, +when they entered, to do their best, and the boys kept +their promise because they were listening to a master +who was their friend. If they missed now and then, +the punishment was to remind them that they had not +kept their word. No one dreamed of playing pranks, +yawning with misery or pulling wings off flies when +<span class="pagenum" id="page_31">31</span>the master told stories or prolonged the recess playing +with the boys himself. The delightful invitations of +the out-of-doors were less tantalizing in a class where +penal tasks were unknown. Outside the lessons there +was an attachment between the young master and the +pupils created by a thousand little subtle bonds such +as ordinary pedagogues, with their crass ignorance and +their ferules, cannot imagine.</p> + +<p>You arrived at school in the morning and, opening +your desk, you found a beautiful slice of melon there. +You thought it was a joke that one of the boys was +playing on you. Not at all: John, your teacher, knowing +that you had a sweet tooth, was unostentatiously +offering you a taste of the melons from his garden; he +was proud of them, for he and his brother raised them, +and this year they had a wonderful crop. A slice of +melon adds to study a taste which the poor imagination +of the pedants knows nothing of. It is refreshing, +delectable, and the flavour lingers in the lesson you are +reciting. Especially the kind of melons that John and +Henry raised—those succulent citron-melons.</p> + +<p>Besides, the school did not consist entirely in the +lectures, the lessons and the compositions. It spread +out to include the more familiar concerns before, after +class, during recess, in the street. If you came across +John outside school, you ran to meet him of your own +accord, joined him and went part of the way with him. +He was grown up, your professor, but you were not +afraid of him, for his friendliness effaced these distances. +Henry, who taught the big boys, had a colder, soberer +air; when you saw him going by, you had no desire to +joke with this personage who knew Greek and Latin. +But you had only to wait till you became his pupil. +When you knew him better, how much you wanted to +overtake him too in the street after class and walk along +<span class="pagenum" id="page_32">32</span>with him, hand in hand, and how much you were rewarded +by the stories and the amusing things he told +you! Henry was as much your friend as John.</p> + +<p>At school they also studied surveying—a beautiful +chance to go out for a walk and have lessons in the +open country. Henry was the one who showed the +boys how to draw up a plan. And one afternoon each +week they had school in the open air; the whole crew, +masters and pupils, poured out into the woods, plunged +into the meadow grass, for the most enlightening of +object-lessons. Then which of them all was more of +a boy than Henry? Which was the fastest runner? +The most indefatigable gatherer of huckleberries? The +most enraptured of them all? Anyone who saw him +exulting with this troop of schoolchildren would have +said that it was he who poured this childlike zest into +the others, as if he possessed an inexhaustible store. +You, teacher of Greek and Latin, will never be, under +your grave airs, anything but a youngster. They are not +mistaken, the good people who say this, smiling disdainfully +as they see you pass. For they are men, +austere, dignified men, weighed down by cares, exhaling +an odour of old prayer-books and warranty deeds.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Henry carried off a pupil for a swim in a +pond or a boating party on the river; they made discoveries; +they landed on unknown shores. All this was +part of the school and helped to keep up the spirit of +comradeship. One day young Edmund Sewall took +his place in the boat—Edmund, who was so like his +big sister Ellen of whom John and Henry were particularly +fond. Ellen was the daughter of the minister of +Scituate. Her grandmother and her aunt, old friends +of the family, boarded with the Thoreaus; and when +the girl came to Concord to see them, gay parties were +organised and they had beautiful evenings at home. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_33">33</span>Ellen’s fresh seventeen years had made an impression +on the two brothers. But it was the lovable John +especially who made an impression on her. Presently +he had in his class this young Edmund, whose charm +haunted him and to whom he was devoted because +behind the child’s face rose that of the big sister, his +play-fellow, the thought of whom sometimes made +him dream and gave him the desire to say to the pupil +tender things that might have been addressed equally +well to her.</p> + +<p>At home they met again, for the Thoreaus boarded +and lodged those youngsters whose parents did not live +in the village. They sat at the same table, masters, +pupils, boarders, old friends, and the vivacity of the +mother presided over the family meal. It was no banquet, +for they had neglected to be rich, but the bread +tasted better than elsewhere, and the vegetables came +from the garden. The school was only a step from the +house. They carried the homelike atmosphere over +with them. Is that why the memory of these years—years +in which two brothers, in a village, taught them +what they knew—was to flavour the whole lives of +those who had passed through the Thoreau school? +You worked well there, better than anywhere else, and +the study left no musty taste behind it. What was +John and Henry’s secret? They were no lesson-mongers. +And so when the parents of a pupil who interested them +found it difficult to pay for his studies they asked the +parents to let them keep him for nothing. Let him +come and work with the others; time enough to talk +about money later.</p> + +<p>Nor did the pupils take up all their time. The day is +long when you are twenty-five; it knows how wonderful +it is and turns slowly, slowly, so as to give you the +leisure to admire all its aspects. The hours of school +<span class="pagenum" id="page_34">34</span>left a beautiful margin of independence: the morning, +the very early morning, the glorious late afternoons +in summer, and the Sundays, and the vacations! When +Henry had finished in the garden, put to rights this or +that little matter in the house, off he went! All the +surroundings of Concord awaited him. The woods +were waiting for him, the fish in the river, those luxuriant +plants, swollen with sap, which nobody ever +looked at, on the edge of the marsh. He had to go and +get the latest news of them. So Henry seized his gun +and set off on a stroll through the woods. Perhaps +to-day he would bring back some rare bird to study, for +he had a true passion for the birds, the plants, and all +the creatures of the open air. In any case, he would +undoubtedly bring back something, if only the certainty +of his own happiness in the woods. This man +who was setting out, with his gun on his shoulder, for +the fields, was no common huntsman in quest of game; +he might not take a single shot with his gun, but he +would not return with an empty bag. There are different +kinds of good hunting. The discoveries, the surprises, +the confirmations, an attention awakened by a +certain phenomenon do not fill your game-bag, but +fur and feathers would not satisfy you half so much. +Henry would pick up an Indian arrow-head to add to +his collection. His brother and he were immensely +interested in these finds. One day, as a token of their +respect for the red aborigines who had once been the +kings of the country, they raised a cenotaph to the +memory of a sachem on Fairhaven Hill, where they +had often come as boys to watch the sunrise. They +were fond of the names the former rulers had left everywhere, +full of the calls of animals, twittering birds, +murmuring winds, gliding waters, roaring cataracts.</p> + +<p>Henry took his fishing-rod and set out through the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_35">35</span>fields in search of a good nook on the river. He might +perhaps bring back some fish. But to catch fish, when +he went fishing, was not, after all, the finest part of +the adventure. The river had many other presents to +make him besides its fish. He even had fishing-parties +when the fish were only an unimportant incident, as, +for example, on a calm, warm evening, when he set off +with an eel-spear, at the break of spring, before the fish +had begun to hide among the tall reeds or in the deep +water. He fastened a grating to the bow of his boat, a +yard above the water, where he burned resinous roots. +From a distance it looked like a will-o’-the-wisp in the +meadows. For himself, in the boat, armed with his +long harpoon, it was like sailing in the midst of enchantment. +The water was so violently illumined over a +large space all round the bow that he could stare down +many feet into the depths and surprise the fish in the +inmost recesses of their hiding-places. Strange sojourners, +some of whom seemed to be asleep or dreaming, +others very wide-awake, the latter ferocious in their +aspect, the former on their backs as if they were floating ... +They had so little fear of the monster who +brandished the iron and the fire over their abodes that +he could have caught them with a fork, as you spear a +potato in the pot, or could even seize the sleepers with +his hand. But as he was not a mere brute, the most +thrilling thing was not the basket of fish he might +have brought home but the spectacle itself, the supernatural +beauty of the reflexions of the flames in the +water, on the willows and the pines on the bank. Surprised +by this brutal dawn, a song-sparrow wakened +and began to sing as if it were morning—singing for +Henry who, in this raw glow that cut the shadows, +rowed along in silence, groping his way, listening, +meditating....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_36">36</span></p> + +<p>Most radiant of all were the times when he left gun, +fishing-rod, boat and harpoon behind for a simple ramble +on foot when the earth seemed to respond to the pressure +of his soles and his being dilated as if all the good +news carried through space were addressed especially +to him. This is what Henry felt every time he explored +the country of his childhood, in hours of liberty, finding +once more the old confidences and secret favours in those +nooks he had left behind in the days of his homesickness.</p> + +<p>Invariably the schoolmaster’s day closed with another +escape. Every evening, before going to bed, he gathered +together, worked over, expressed with the greatest +exactness to a sure and discreet confidant the most +secret impressions of the day. Since his return from +Harvard he had formed the habit of this daily rendezvous +with this other self who never betrayed him and would +never bore him with complaints and expostulations but +accepted everything. Later on, this was going to be an +unexceptionable witness when, published to the world, +it would reply to those who questioned it. The solitude +of the college years had developed in him a natural +tendency to examine himself—the taste for the inner +dialogue. All the knowledge we acquire through study +or the society of others will never compensate for our +indifference where our own souls are concerned. This +is a subject for study that is worth all the pains you +devote to it—a book that is of more importance for +you to read than those that lie on your shelf. And this +over and above the fact that when you have read it you +will be prepared to understand other books and other +men. Henry was anxious to know where he stood in +relation to himself. An orderly man does not go to bed +without making up his accounts.</p> + +<p>Henry confided to his Journal his intimate thoughts, +his discoveries of the day. He reckoned up his stock. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_37">37</span>To what end? He would see later on. In the meantime, +a man who was aware of what he possessed +slipped, with his spirit at peace, into sheets that were +as white as the page of to-morrow.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>To have the good luck to be born on the brink of two +rivers, to be twenty years, twenty-five years old, to +have a hearty, open-air appetite, and not to have a +boat, is a flaw in the happiness of a man. Fishing or +swimming, loafing about the banks or skating on its +firm back, you have never known the joy of the river if +it has not taken you and rocked you, led you, carried +you off, made you dance at its own will and pleasure.</p> + +<p>If you were to build a boat?... You can find the +timber, you have a few tools and fingers that know how +to handle a piece of wood. A real boat. Not a mere +dugout such as Henry had made when he was nineteen, +a dugout that looked like an oblong trough, though even +that was better than a tub in which you drift with the +current; it was delightful; it did not move swiftly, but +with patience and skill you could risk yourself in it for +a quarter of an hour’s adventure. No, a real boat this +time, a boat that really travels over the water. If you +bought one, or had it built by a boat-builder, you would +spend a lot of money and have nothing but the joy of +the boat itself; whereas if you made it with your own +hands you would also have the joy of building it.</p> + +<p>To assemble your materials for building a boat in the +open air, in the first days of spring, is a very different +pleasure from expounding the Odyssey; you feel as if +you were living like a man of Homer’s day, you inhale +in advance the scent of discovery. To wield the saw +and the hammer, take your careful measurements, fit +together the pieces of the body, see the work taking +form, to be two brothers under the sky, busy in your +<span class="pagenum" id="page_38">38</span>dock-yard, among your tools, your timber, striking +with precision, trimming neatly, responsible to nobody—schoolmaster +as you are, the gods that roam +New England on their tour of inspection might envy +you, those gods who have never had the joy of building +a boat themselves. John and Henry’s hearts are in +their work. At the end of one week the masterpiece is +finished. It is a dory, heavy and strongly built, with a +sharp bow, such as fishermen use; it is fifteen feet long +by three and a half in breadth at the middle. A real +craft: you can move about in it, sail it, stow away a +little cargo in it. A good coat of paint will protect +it and give it a tidier appearance. As it is destined to +take part in open-air holidays on the water, it must +be painted green with a blue border. The painting is +done in a jiffy, and then comes the glorious moment +when with a final glance the creators survey their creation, +weaned at last from themselves and ready to face +the broad daylight of the world.... For legs the dory +has wheels that will enable it to be rolled around falls.</p> + +<p>Nothing remains now but to equip it. It must have +two sets of oars, poles, two masts; you must foresee +everything when you have these vast projects in your +head. As the boat is going to carry you a long way and +you are going to camp out under the stars, the tent is +indispensable. Then there is no limit to your dreams. +With a boat and a tent you can sail round a continent, +coast along all the shores, disembark on an island, set +up your tent there, light a fire and survey the landscape +with that knowing air: It’s I, exactly. Do you recognize +me?... Yes, you can do unbelievable things +with this boat. You can begin to enjoy the world, +measure the amplitude of the earth. You can carry +Concord with you to all sorts of strange countries, +scour the land, found colonies.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_39">39</span></p> + +<p>Meanwhile, you begin experimenting with it, you +lose no time, you are prouder of being a good mariner +than a good schoolmaster and you invite the boys on +board to teach them things that are not to be found +in the books. New aspects of the world are revealed, +you make important discoveries, for you are the man +who has a boat.</p> + +<p>To think there were so many unknown things around +you: brooks, mountains, buildings, men, flocks of ducks, +and all the people on the banks—unsuspected neighbours! +If it were not for the school, you would like to follow +the watery road as far as ever it could lead you. Concord +widens into a vast province, as if newly peopled +with animals and landscapes and surprises. In the +succession of the springs and the summers, this spring +of the year 1839 will always bear for you the colours of +the boat—green and blue, will bear a sail swelling +against a mast, which two brothers have planed with +their own hands in an open-air dock-yard.</p> + +<p>When you really know your boat you are ready for +the decisive adventures for which it has been fitted out. +The long vacation has come. Your departure is fixed +for Saturday, the last day of August. This is to be no +mere airing before supper: it is the great embarkation +for a week or two weeks, for good and all—who knows?—for +the fabulous regions where men speak another +language.</p> + +<p>John and Henry have made plans to go all the way +to the White Mountains by water, from little Concord, +their village, to big Concord, the capital of New Hampshire. +It is a plan that requires some reflexion. They +have thought it over and made up their minds, and they +are to set out to-morrow. Preparations, the cargo. +First the tent and a buffalo-skin; then a few tools, some +utensils for their cooking; as provisions in reserve some +<span class="pagenum" id="page_40">40</span>potatoes and melons from their own patch. Do not +laugh, you sceptics. You don’t know what it is to have +at hand, under all circumstances, a fruit whose virtues +are perfectly known to you. And isn’t it like having +on board a friendly presence, a remembrance of the +garden, that will bring the pilgrims good luck on their +perilous voyage? Like the boat itself, the melons are +the fruit of their own labour, and thus, without borrowing +anything from anyone, they set forth, side by side, +for the conquest of the world.</p> + +<p>At last, the thrilling moment. Vain for you your +Harvard diploma, vain your teaching of Greek and +Latin this August afternoon, when you finally jump +into the boat that awaits you, all provisioned, and +gently gives under your feet. What are your learning +and your evening dreams beside the certitude that +floods you with happiness like a child, beside the glamour +of this dazzling day and this running water that is +going to carry you to the beyond?... Books? The +most beautiful of them all is a thousand times less +beautiful to you than that which this rude dory under +your oars and your sail is eager to bring you. Wisdom? +Listen to that rippling along the bank; the river +whispers to you as it passes that she herself is wisdom—and +how your soul responds to the invitation of the +voyage!</p> + +<p>It has rained in the morning, as if the gods of the +Concord had wished to thwart the plans of two good +boys who are setting out in search of them; but this +only makes the smile of the afternoon more calm. +Come along, off we go! Good-bye, friends. A cup of +air to your health! A little further on, as a final farewell +from the navigators, a salvo of joy which the +forest echoes after noting it on its leaves. The sounds of +the village are stilled, you sink into a deep dream, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_41">41</span>rhythmical with the gliding of the oars. You slip along +this road that runs, buoyant, fresh, through the recesses +of the landscape. You surprise it, as it were, gently, +in its privacy, not seizing it by the throat as you do on +those beastly, dusty roads where the world leaves its +dung and the imprint of its iron feet. The watery way +flows on and carries you past the willows, the waterplants +with their white and rose-coloured flowers, the +meadow grass with the faded tints of the closing summer. +A bittern sails away, a tortoise drops into the +water. From afar the familiar heights salute you courteously. +Farewell, village, farewell, last fisherman with +your motionless line and your dog.</p> + +<p>We are rowing towards fresh promises: see how the +river widens out. We pull straight ahead, in cadence, +not like apprentices. The evening draws in; it makes +good rowing, and what good haying it ought to be at +this hour for those reapers over there, almost lost in +the grass of the meadows, where every blade they cut +seems to exhale a sigh of gladness and commit it to the +breeze, the courier of the evening. It is time to look +for a good place for the night. We are seven miles from +Concord. Billerica already.... It is astonishing what +this name stands for when you have been rowing for +hours and are ready to pitch your tent on <i>terra firma!</i> +And here are some ripe huckleberries for dessert The +fire crackles. A good cup of cocoa, some bread. And +sunset to finish the meal. Before you, as far as the +horizon, nothing but a solitary farmhouse, far away, +lost in the glorious wilderness, amid the clumps of pines, +the hills, the rocks, all the squatting people of the brush. +Fireflies in the grass. The good night awaits the two +of you under the cotton tent that is fastened to one of +the masts. But the hour is so captivating, this August +evening is so charged with messages in the depths of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_42">42</span>the silence, that you have no desire to go to sleep at +once. Neighbours betray their presence. A fox makes +his rounds; some creature fumbles among the potatoes +and melons in the boat, disappearing into the water +when you go to see what it is. On the horizon a great +blaze from a fire over in Lowell; the fire-alarm reaches +you in snatches, mingled with the barking of the watch-dogs +from invisible farms. Two lads who have rowed +with a will roll themselves up in the buffalo-skin and +close their eyes on the thought of the boat moored by +the clump of alders for the next day. Good night, +brother. Good night, Henry. How about the +school?... And the eight, ten, twelve, fifteen days +like this one to look forward to? Blow out the lantern.</p> + +<p>Sunday morning. You come out of your tent into +the mist of the dawn and light the fire for breakfast. +Then, like the pagan you are, oblivious of the fall of +man, fold up the tent and embark with your Sunday +soul in the rising sun that disperses the fog. You give +names to the spots along the way, the hills, cliffs, woods, +as fresh as if no human eye had ever touched them. The +river is a mirror: it is Sunday on the water, too, and +you hesitate to disturb it with a stroke of your oar. A +skiff passes with two men, gliding so lightly that it +seems almost unreal among the reflexions of the foliage +in the water. The meditation of the frogs, motionless +on the reeds, contemplating the day of the Lord’s rest, +is tinged with the grave Sabbath beauty.</p> + +<p>Just above the Billerica Falls they take the canal +through the woods, and one of the two mariners pulls +the dory with the rope along the tow-path as far as the +dam. The people are coming out of church in the +village and the good folk look down from the height of +the bridge upon these two good-for-nothings who are +voyaging along, just as if the Lord’s day were not made +<span class="pagenum" id="page_43">43</span>to cement the nothingness of the week that has passed +with the nothingness of that which is dawning. But +the lock-keeper is more liberal-minded: he knows two +merry souls, out for adventure, when he sees them, and +he opens the locks for them, in spite of the Sunday rule. +The lock-keepers of this world are broad enough to +redeem its narrowness.</p> + +<p>And now they find themselves on the Merrimac, the +great river. The dory is a mere insect striking out on this +sheet of water, one hundred, two, four hundred yards +wide, over which every sound glances and comes to +you with a marvellous clearness. Those children repeating +their catechism in a cottage are a good third of a +mile away from you who catch the murmur of their +voices; or is it that the words of the catechism have a +miraculous carrying-power? The cows in the meadow +do not know their catechism; they are content to be +beautiful in silence and enrich the look of those villages +with their tiny harbours and their fairylike setting. The +boat has burst into a new part of the world; this is +the valley that leads up into the heart of New Hampshire +by a succession of natural dams, with a rapid, leaping +current of yellowish water cut by falls. When you +have rowed since morning against the current, your +nooning is very precious in the shade of an apple-tree. +It is Chelmsford here, the village where your parents +came once to seek their fortune. The hour is so beautiful +under this apple-tree that you would like to read a +poem as ample as the landscape of the valley; when +Sunday chimes within you and as far as the horizon, +you would like all this music to be crowned in that of a +poem.</p> + +<p>See those islets. High up on one of them are perched +two men who hail the little craft, asking to be taken +off. But there are the melons, the tent, a whole outfit +<span class="pagenum" id="page_44">44</span>on board, and with this cargo the dory already has +enough trouble making headway against the stream. +Can’t be done, boys; you will have to make <i>terra firma</i> +and Nashua on foot. Good luck! Further on, what is +this enormous fish whose back rises and sinks in mid-stream? +A sturgeon? A monster? Look out there: +with a blow of that assuredly formidable tail it could +send to the bottom two brothers and their fortune. +But no, this old fraud that is going to capsize us is +nothing but a wooden spar fixed there as a buoy to +warn sailors of sunken rocks....</p> + +<p>The sun sets, twilight creeps in; shall we think of +resting, like the fish who, save for a few that prowl all +night, are preparing themselves for sleep? You have +stretched out the most beautiful of Sundays as long as +you could between the two shores and rowing hard +against this strong current. You have well earned the +favourable spot for pitching your tent and tasting the +sleep of adventurers.</p> + +<p>The earth is firm and sweet under your feet when +you trample it after a whole day tossing about in a +walnut-shell. You unload the provisions, like conquistadors +who have reached a far country after countless +perils, arrived at a shore where you will make yourself +understood by signs to the natives, if any appear. +Once the lantern is hung to the tent-pole, the fire ready, +the kettle on the fire, you are at home; nothing is missing +to make life solid and satisfying. After closing the +tent, Henry scribbles a few notes in the glimmering +light of the lantern: the shore journal of the navigators. +And after a little chat they go to sleep in the buffalo-skin. +On the opposite bank, some Irish labourers on +the railroad are celebrating the Sabbath with wild +shouts, whirling up and down the track. But their +brawling is not loud enough to disturb the sleep of the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_45">45</span>two oarsmen who soon forget where they are. The +two lads are dead to the world among all the sleeping +creatures who, like them, have drained the happiness +of Sunday on the banks. Alone, the river, eager to +reach its end, pursues all night its course to the sea; its +adventure will brook no delay.</p> + +<p>But why does this evil beast traverse in a dream the +sleep of a happy man, torturing him after a blissful +day?... Happily, in the same buffalo-skin sleeps +his good genius, with a sleep that is peaceful and unbroken +all night long. The phantoms of agonizing +dreams are dispersed by the brotherly voice sounding +under the tent in the early day. And listen now to this +little world of oak-leaves, under which you have slept, +saying their morning prayers in the breeze.</p> + +<p>It is enough to hear the rippling of the river, when +you emerge from your tent, and to see once more the +boat that is calmly waiting for you, to feel a hunger for +adventure. So off you start again through the fog to +devour the beautiful week that lies before you, round +and new; you have not yet broken the loaf, you have +merely nibbled a few crumbs; the country you have +passed is only a tiny morsel of the territories you plan +to annex.</p> + +<p>Occasionally, when you have watched the banks +gliding by for a long time, the desire seizes you to draw +nearer and explore a little the hinterland of the country +you are skirting. Nothing easier for you who are at +once the commanding officer, the crew and the passengers. +One of the two coxswains runs along the +shore, while the other continues to row and a little +further on picks up the explorer and hears him recount +his discoveries. There have been surprises. By good +luck the rover has happened into a cottage, and because +he looks well and it is a summer morning when hearts +<span class="pagenum" id="page_46">46</span>are softened with generosity, the farmer’s wife has +offered him a bowl of milk which he has tossed off, +while the children have watched the stranger amorously +plunging his big nozzle into the little bowl. During this +excursion the other one on board, if he is thirsty, halves +a melon and dispatches it, drawing up under the bows +on the bank, where he waits for the explorer. In the +heat of the day, a New England lad whose muscles are +hard enough to manage the oars feels himself invaded +by an Oriental indolence, with a great pity for the +vague humanity toiling and moiling down there in the +world. Amid the delights of the siesta, with a succulent +slice of melon in a boat in the shadow of a willow, he +can find some apology for pleasure-lovers, even for +smokers of opium.</p> + +<p>The river seems to flow solely for the joy of these +two comrades who have set out one fine Saturday for +the conquest of the world. Just this side of Nashua a +fleet of great canal-boats appears, with sails set and +high bulwarks, like junks. Have you really been +asleep on the stream and actually reached the Orient? +Let’s make the most of it. The rowers will enjoy a +little idling. From the dory they throw a rope and get +themselves towed a bit of the way like pashas; it has +grown so hot that two schoolmasters, who are not of +the soft kind, can allow themselves to be towed by a +great merchantman. They toss into the water some +of the melons that remain on board; they have seen +enough of them, and the fish may like them. These +jovial boatmen with whom they chat do not break the +beautiful harmony of the landscape; they belong in it, +and their language has the flavour of the river-grass. +When they have passed and you find yourselves alone +again in your dory, oars in hand, the solitude has almost +a new taste.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_47">47</span></p> + +<p>Noon suggests a swim and a siesta under a tree. +Suddenly a boatman’s horn, echoing from bank to bank, +rouses the sleepers, and they set out again. The linden +trees on the shore are a revelation. Nashua drops +behind, the bridge, the junction of the rivers, the mills; +they are in the woods again, and the evening clouds are +reflected in the water like a warning. This evening the +gods have planned for the encampment a beautiful, +solitary spot on the border of a pine-wood, under the +rocky walls of a deep ravine. The gods that voyage +along these shores know how soft is the carpet the pine-needles +make and what a fragrance they will add to the +fire and the smoke. The song of the kettle, like an +incantation, calls up this evening the friends they have +left in the village; their images prowl and linger about +the tent, bending over the shoulders of these two companions +on the edge of the forest who are trying to +discover on the map in the centre of what universe they +are this evening and what country they will annex +to-morrow. If you are awakened to-night by the shrill +grating of a cricket, or the rambling of a spider over the +peaks and passes of your face, the brook that flows at +the bottom of the ravine has a cradle-song that will lull +you to sleep again. Later, through a restless night at +home, you will think of the quality of this sleep close to +the earth after a day on the water.</p> + +<p>Far away in the night someone is beating a drum—some +tyro preparing for a country muster—and this +trivial rat-a-tat-tat, ennobled by the distance and the +darkness, seems, in the warmth of heroism that pours +through the buffalo-skin, strangely to arm you for the +most extravagant deeds. What will the coming dawn +suggest, the Deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre or the +Quest of the Golden Fleece? And has this high wind +that shakes the tent a mission to inform the sleepers and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_48">48</span>publish the great news along the banks and under the +pines? In any case, you are awake before dawn to be +ready to welcome the great day, whatever it may be. +Hand me the hatchet, I am off for fuel. The birds are +still on their roosts and the kettle is already singing like +a nurse. They haul the boat up on land, upset it and +empty it and give it a good rinsing. At three o’clock +everything is reshipped, stowed away, ready for departure, +with the tent spread over the bow, for it is drenched +with dew. The heavy morning fog, the curtain that had +fallen to conceal the surprises to come, promises a +glorious day.</p> + +<p>As the banks are cleared of their velvety coverlet, +sparkling with dew under the first rays, and the pines +on the shore reveal their outlines, the river appears as +large as an arm of the sea. The day of glory announced +by the drum rises between the high slopes of the river: +not a village in sight; you might think you were in the +days of the Redskins, in the midst of a primitive country. +You row with a will. Drummer of the night, the meaning +of your rat-a-tat-tat becomes clear. We are going +to review landscapes and men.</p> + +<p>First, at Cromwell’s Falls, the lock-keeper, with whom +the boys exchange some wholesome gossip. Several +canal-boats are waiting to pass. On such a morning, if +you encountered humanity in the form of some fellow +with affected manners, a crabbed face and the look of a +deacon, you would bless anyone who would force his +respectable head under the water. But as for these +shapely, strapping boatmen, in their shirt-sleeves, bare-headed, +slouching or leaning on a pole, they have a sort +of accent that heightens the meaning of the proud word +on your own lips, fellow-creature. See that flaxen-haired +brother there, with his skin tanned by wind and +sun, young or old, you could never say which, but +<span class="pagenum" id="page_49">49</span>rugged and beautiful as a tree. Don’t put yourself out +to be polite; it doesn’t go with these fellows. A few +words of the language of men and everything is understood. +The banter you shout back to them as +you pull away is as cordial as a farewell. With +all the boatmen you meet you exchange a friendly +greeting.</p> + +<p>Happy souls.... To be the two men on board these +canal-boats, pushing with the pole when you are going +up the stream, steering with the aid of an oar at each +end when you are in mid-stream, hoisting the sail if the +wind is favourable, transporting wood or bricks and +bringing back odd freight: what could be jollier on a +rustling September morning like this on the water? +You contrive a little shelter under the cargo, where you +may retire from the rain. As you sail your boat along +in this way you do not seem to be toiling for wages or +an employer; it is as if you were playing some very +ancient game. The day’s work ended, you get your +supper and lodging at some house or other by the water-side, +breakfast in the morning with the lock-man, load +your boat, travel all day, unload, receive your pay, take +a drink at the inn, where you hear the news of the +world, and then off again. A fine life, blooming with +songs that sound over the river.</p> + +<p>These were the people the marvelling eyes of a child +had seen now and then, when a canal-boat passed the +village. Their fabulous race, as he has come to know it +better, has lost none of its glamour in the eyes of the +man. Sometimes when the high road approaches +within a few hundred yards of the shore, what a sorry, +absurd figure the parti-coloured stage cuts beside these +barges, as it sweeps past in a cloud of dust! Good luck +to you, my fine fellows, who are in such a hurry to get +there, piled in together, busy, with your worries and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_50">50</span>your trunks heaped up on the rack behind.... No +doubt you are making good time, but you have not the +least notion of the sights we are passing, that cottage +bathed in a patriarchal atmosphere, with the well and +the barn, and the old grandfather sitting on a bench; +and those shagbark trees, unlike anything to be seen in +Concord or where you live, in all probability, and those +magnificent maples. See that scow there turned up on +the bank, which those carpenter boys are mending. The +joyous ring of the great strokes of their hammers, +echoing from shore to shore, and the glittering of their +tools in the sun, are not for townspeople who take the +stage. These things that make work as beautiful as a +festival, the work that nourishes the soul and the muscles +of a man ... repairing a boat, building a hayrick, +woodcutting in the forest, setting up the frame of a +house under the benediction of the open air ... what +have they in common with your infernal routine, you +passengers of the stage?</p> + +<p>The burning sun plumbs the landscape. That large +island with the shade and the cattle, at the mouth of +a river, is too inviting to be ignored. They put into +port, and as the flesh is weak they no longer resist the +temptation of those pigeons that have also stopped +there, during the heat of the day, and are innocently +cooing among the branches, heedless of the two savages +that approach with their engines of death. One of the +pigeons has fallen. You savages, wash in the river the +hands that have killed in cold blood one of these beautiful +pigeons that had also set out on a journey; do penance, +eaters of innocent flesh, who have already brought +down some squirrels for your supper, and now, in sheer +wantonness, replace them with a pigeon: boil a bowl of +rice. After the feast, recite some poetry, since you have +no music, and yield in your satiety to idleness in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_51">51</span>shade of this island where you have been behaving like +abject creatures of civilisation.</p> + +<p>But it is time to re-embark. They raise the sail to +take advantage of the breeze. From the top of a hill +forming the bank, some lumberers are rolling down +timber that falls into the water with a thundering roar; +their axes and levers glitter in the sun. That cottage, +with its dooryard blossoming with sunflowers and +poppies, smiles with such confidence that they skirt the +bank to see it better. This is a wild region that makes +them want to explore it a little. Those old oaks welcome +them as friends who do not often receive visits. +A lonely horse in a pasture, then some cows grazing in +the shade, after the warm day, and some wild apple +trees with the sourish fruit that Henry knows so well +and likes. That ruined mill shrouded in creepers, which +the pedestrian discovers while following a torrent +through the woods, sets him thinking when he regains the +boat of the life and the dreams of the old settler who lived +there once and the taste that his flour must have had.</p> + +<p>At Coos Falls, in a solitary part of the river, some +stone-masons are repairing the locks. They stop for a +chat. One of them, a young man, questions the voyagers +about their adventures, examines the little craft and its +outfit with a confession in his eye. If he only could set +off with these two fellows to explore the world! What +a trio they would make, a mason and two schoolmasters, +who are not more than twenty-five.... A +wild desire seizes him to throw away the chisel and +mallet, leap into the boat and say to them: “Take me! +I have had enough of stone-cutting. Now I want to +cut into the stuff of the vast world....” But the stones +remain, little mason, weights heavier than your vision, +which soon disappears with the two explorers, leaving +you pensive at your work.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_52">52</span></p> + +<p>As they continue to ascend, the watery landscape +becomes more rugged, interspersed with rapids, rocks, +falls. On the fifth day they are between Manchester +and Bedford. There are many locks to pass through, +and sometimes no lock-keeper is at hand. Then they +have the fun of manipulating the lock themselves, no +easy task but so amusing.... They are at once the +passengers and the all-powerful being who locks the +boat through.</p> + +<p>Contemplating the cottages of these lock-keepers, +gloriously lost before a vast stretch of whirling waters, +roaring, foaming, you are filled with envy at the thought +of the good soul who lives his life there as a lock-man, +almost as solitary as a lighthouse-keeper, and the desire +seizes you to go in, just to ask for a glass of water and +hear the sound of a human voice as a contrast to that of +the river. This one seems to be asleep on the earth +under the benediction of the summer sun, like an infant +in the warmth of its mother’s breast. Henry crosses the +little garden and knocks at the door. A woman opens +it: he can’t have such a shaggy face, after all, in spite +of five nomadic days, or she would not invite him in so +prettily. The freshly scoured floor has a fragrant +odour; the visitor is afraid of soiling it with his big +boots. He takes a glass from the dresser, then goes to +the well where he catches a glimpse of his hairy face, the +face of a voyager who has not had the leisure to shave +himself like a true Christian. The lockman’s wife offers +him a little molasses and ginger to temper this hard +water, for the day is warm. Nearby her brother, the +sailor, who seems a little out of his element among these +freshwater folk, dandles the family cat; with his sea-dog’s +eye, filled with the horizon, he scrutinizes the +visitor curiously, sympathetically. Oh, these lockmen’s +cottages, with their fireplaces and their door-yards, in +<span class="pagenum" id="page_53">53</span>this solitude!... What honey one could make here, a +wild and exquisite honey, with that lingering suggestion +of bitterness in the taste which is so grateful to healthy +palates.</p> + +<p>The oarsman is a happy man who turns his back on +his discoveries, lets them come, and only enjoys them +after they have well passed. This wooded island is the +largest they have encountered thus far. It seems to +say: I have been here since the beginning of things, +waiting for the day when you would plant your tent-pole +for the night in the shelter of my great elms. Who +knows but I shall yield myself to you with such trust +that you may decide to conclude your adventure and set +up your hearthstone here? Between the world and +myself there is nothing but a strip of water: would not +that protect you from it and connect you with it sufficiently?... +But as it is still morning, they leave +behind them the great island and the great dream, to +resume the course of the big wonders that are offered +two poor devils who scan the world from a little boat +of their own making.</p> + +<p>After Amoskeag Falls, as steep as a staircase where +they are in danger of capsizing every minute and have +to jump into the water to right the boat, the river opens +out into a lake. They make fast under a grove of alders +for their lunch and siesta. A good breeze blows up. +Boats pass, with their sails set, great, heavy, one-winged +birds advancing with a stately solemnity. The boats +pass which they saw before lunch and the last of which +offered to take the two navigators and their traps on +board and carry them the rest of the way; when the +brothers are resting in the shade, the wag at the helm +calls out a proposal to take them in tow. Many thanks, +my boy, not just now; it is too good under these trees. +When lunch is finished, John and Henry also raise their +<span class="pagenum" id="page_54">54</span>sail and, rowing vigorously, catch up with the big +canal-boat which has hardly advanced at all, the breeze +having fallen. Now then, my barge-boy, would you +like us to take you in tow? Here’s a piece of rope if +we can oblige you. The little dory you laughed at a +while ago has the laugh on you. And one by one the +oarsmen overtake the other monsters that are painfully +dragging their bellies in a file along the watery road.</p> + +<p>They have become once more the sovereigns of the +river; but this does not make it less necessary for them +to look for provisions before night. Their stock is +low. John jumps ashore and sets off to find a farmhouse +where they can revictual, while Henry explores +the other bank for a suitable haven for the night. Again +the canal-boats loom behind them, advancing with +much effort, for the breeze has quite died away. John +comes back with a loaf of bread and some melons, +accompanied by a little flaxen-haired boy who wants +to have a close view of the boat of these people who +have set out for adventure on the water and have +brought nothing to eat. He too, like the little mason, +would love to go with them; who would not love to go +with John? They would be happy to take him on +board, this lively boy with the sparkling blue eyes, who +would not weigh very much among the cargo; but his +father will not allow it. But he is a very good-natured +father, just the same, and he invites the travellers to +come and visit his farm the next day. With pleasure. +Are they not colleagues? Who knows more about +raising melons than they? They might even be able +to recommend some seeds. They taste his products, +one of which, set in the water to cool while they are +pitching the tent, has taken it into its head to go off +with the current, like a melon on vacation that has been +seized with a desire for the sea; they have to jump into +<span class="pagenum" id="page_55">55</span>the boat to capture it, for it is already far away. They +taste his melons, sitting on the bank, facing the glow +of the sunset in which the river wishes to share, to light +its depths on its evening journey. The song over there, +close by, is that of the brook at the mouth of which +they have pitched their camp, and which hastens to +confide to the great confused current a few secrets it +has brought from afar.</p> + +<p>That night Henry’s dreams under the tent file past +amid the babble of this neighbour and disappear as he +awakens at the soft tapping of drops of rain on the +cotton roof. A sparrow trills cheerily in the morning: +a good omen. They set out with this promise. More +locks. And then the last one: nothing beyond but impassable +rapids. A pity, for the navigators, who have +set out from Concord, Massachusetts, want to push +on by boat to Concord, New Hampshire. It would be +more of an adventure but it can’t be done. Since their +goal is the White Mountains, they will leave the boat +here and continue along the shore on foot. Before they +became great navigators, they had been great walkers.</p> + +<p>So they cut a pair of sticks and set out like pilgrims +in the mist and rain. If they are to have no more the +joy of the river and the boat, they will have the pleasure +of the hard earth under the freedom of their big boots. +The earth and the watery meadows have a sweet smell. +All the frogs in Christendom are sounding the hymn of +deliverance and the toadstools smile with joy in the +starch of their little collars. The travellers resolutely +drench themselves. Are you afraid of a little wetting? +Then stay shut up at home; stay where it’s dry, dry +souls. You are not cut out for sitting in the rain, on the +side of a brush-covered hill, happy even if your clothes +are soaking. Perhaps it will clear in the afternoon; but +what if it doesn’t clear?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_56">56</span></p> + +<p>A good welcome to big Concord. To save time they +take the stage (yes, like those other idiots) as far as +Plymouth, where a friend lives with whom they want +to shake hands; then they resume the staff and the road. +They come to a little sylvan inn where, in the evening, +the people of the neighbourhood gather to discuss their +business and hear the news over a glass of whisky. They +wonder where in the world these people have come +from when all day they have not caught even a glimpse +of a roof. On the inn-table lies an old newspaper. At +home Henry has little use for this kind of literature; he +leaves the paper to his father who enjoys it so much. +But in this poor, solitary inn, when you have tramped +all day through the woods, it is astonishing what savour +an old newspaper that gives you the stale news of the +world acquires, a newspaper that has been rumpled by +all sorts of rough hands, astonishing how your eyes +fasten on a paragraph and you are led to believe in +the virtues of the soap recommended in the advertisements.</p> + +<p>And then, in this lost country, you have surprising +encounters. Along a path in the woods a young soldier +advances in full regimentals, going to muster no doubt +with his musket on his shoulder; he marches with military +step, with an air of being very sure of the importance +of his mission. He must carry himself well, you +see, before these civilians, and safeguard in the depths +of the forest the prestige of his military apparel. Poor +little soul! As he passes close to John and Henry his +martial mask falls, he becomes a little boy again in his +absurd harness in the presence of these trees that are +judging him, and, crestfallen under his warrior helmet, +he steals away unheroically, embarrassed by the greaves +that chafe his legs. Honest little lad, we wish you well! +They can send you off and dress and drill you in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_57">57</span>barracks or get you killed for no reason at all. Your +ingenuousness consents to it all in advance.</p> + +<p>As they leave Sanbornton the mountains appear. +They spend several days exploring them. It is a great +revelation. The culminating point of the journey is at +an altitude of 6288 feet, that of Mount Washington, +which the two comrades climb. On the twelfth day +they are back again at the place where they left their +boat. Everything is in good condition, and the tent, +the blankets, left in charge of the melon-grower, are +quite dry. This lovable man expects his friends to +carry off an immense melon to ballast the little boat: +see, this one, which he long ago gave his flaxen-headed +heir permission to dispose of as he chose. John carries +it off, to the satisfaction of the owner, for he is the +friend to whom you give whatever is dearest to you.</p> + +<p>They are not homesick in the least, but they must +return southwards to their own anchorage. The return +is beautiful too. They set off spinning like an arrow, +with the current, as far as the confluence of the Concord. +The departure is at noon, this very Thursday. The river +smiles under the fresh mid-September wind; they raise +the sail, they can rest on their oars occasionally without +loss of time. And everything drifts past them again, +in the other direction. As they see the funny little dory +repassing with its two savages on board, the people +recognize them and give them a friendly halloo. To +watch the sail, the lumbermen, rolling their timber +down with an immense splash into the water, pause +for a moment. From their boat the two adventurers +salute every nook of the landscape, banks, islands, +mouths of rivers, like old acquaintances. They must set +up their tent once more, at least: it shall be opposite the +large island of the slaughtered pigeons where they took +their siesta on the way up. The boat is drawn up on +<span class="pagenum" id="page_58">58</span>the sand. Not a sail in sight; nothing but the spiders of +the grassy jungle which come out curiously at the light +of the lantern, and explore the mystery of the buffalo-skin +spread out on the ground.</p> + +<p>It is fragrant this evening, and every blade of grass, +damp with dew, seems to be on its doorstep taking the +air. They have journeyed far to-day and are tired; and +after dipping their slices of bread in a cup of cocoa and +scribbling the main things down in their journals, they +blow out the lantern and bid farewell to Thursday. A +high wind in the night flaps the curtains of the tent. +In the morning, the heavy fog rolls away over the +water, uncovering a landscape suddenly tinged with +autumn. In the flitting clouds, in the look of the cottages, +in the lowing of the cattle in the meadows, in the +flying troops of flickers, the death of summer is confirmed. +And when they set foot on earth and clamber +up the bank to cast an eye over the countryside, they +catch almost everywhere the prevailing yellow note of +the asters, coreopses, tansies, golden-rod, little flowers +of autumn already burning with the flames of the declining +summer’s sun—the little candles left lighted all day +long for the pilgrims in the church of the meadows.</p> + +<p>But they carry on at a good pace, with sail stretched, +one steering with an oar in the stern, the other rowing. +The boat, seized by the autumnal ferment, speeds along; +in the rippling of the water before them they seem to +hear it laughing to itself at the promise of the splendour +the season is preparing to bring forth. They are invigorated +by this brisk wind that obliges them to sit +muffled in their cloaks. See how they bound along; +they are almost home again already. Here is the beginning +of Massachusetts. They pass—rare spectacle—a +pleasure-boat with a young man and a girl, and a dory, +a commoner sight, with some people who are gathering +<span class="pagenum" id="page_59">59</span>driftwood for the winter. As they sail, they munch an +apple-pie they have bought at a farm; it is rather tart. +Driven by this famous breeze that bends the trees on +the bank, they scud merrily along, with a devil-may-care +look in their faces, at a speed that astonishes the men +on some scows which they pass. Already the locks of +the canal through the woods that gives access to the +Concord. Yes, here we are, dear old Musketaquid! +We shall have to row hard, against the current, and try +to arrive this evening.</p> + +<p>The sun reappears to make Chelmsford and Billerica +smile, and sinks magnificently, filling the valley with a +flood of soft light. High overhead, in silence, two +herons pass against the sky, on their way to the North. +A good journey, comrades up there; our home is to the +Southwest. If you feel as we do, at this heavenly hour +of the end of day when two lads, returning from a long +expedition, are filled by the beauty of the familiar landscape, +you are two very high-hearted herons. The night +falls, they row in the light of the few candles a kind +providence has set burning above, far higher than the +track of the herons. There is no sound on board but +the monotonous cadence of the oars, for John and +Henry have no desire to talk; silence alone can draw +out the thoughts that fill them. They mean to arrive +to-night, Friday the thirteenth.</p> + +<p>And indeed, late in the evening, the boat of the two +argonauts draws up very smoothly alongside the shore +whence it had set out fourteen days before, and rubs its +wet cheek against the bearded bank. They have completed +a stage of fifty miles this day.</p> + +<p>John and Henry leap ashore, draw up the boat and +fasten it to the wild apple tree. And then! A last look +at the dory that has borne them so far out into the +wide world, and laden with their traps they turn their +<span class="pagenum" id="page_60">60</span>steps towards the house. For them now the sweetness +of civilised life and soft beds. They are ready to face +them with visages bronzed by the wind and the sun of +the river. But to-morrow morning, when they awaken, +how surprising it will be not to hear the flick-flack of +the cotton tent over their heads, to smell no longer the +warm odour of the buffalo-skin! What a surprise and +what a disenchantment to find the four walls, a motionless +ceiling, the glass window.... How sad. Meanwhile, +a ramble in the woods to-morrow, just to see what +preparations are on foot there for the festival of autumn.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The school will soon have lasted for three years. In +spite of all, the masters have inspired confidence, and +there are now twenty-five pupils. There would be +more of them if the building were not inadequate. +For others are awaiting the first vacancy, to be taught +in their turn. And those pious personages may well ask +whether the good morals of the rod are not in peril.</p> + +<p>Then, towards Easter, they hear that the Thoreau +school is going to close. What has happened? John +feels shaky, unable to continue. For some time he has +not been well, but he has said nothing about it, in order +not to discourage the pupils in their work. But now +he is no longer able to keep up the pretence. Whatever +the regrets and the consequences may be, everything +must be given up abruptly, on the high tide of success, +so that John may take care of himself, for it is he who +steers the ship. Henry, who had begun the school +without his brother, would no longer have the same +reasons for keeping it if the latter retired. To keep +school with John was perfect. Without him, it was not +to be thought of. Better to look for something else.</p> + +<p>John is ill, consumed by a slow, tenacious disease.... +Is the grandfather, lying down there in the graveyard, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_61">61</span>demanding him back? Already three of his daughters—Aunts +Sarah, Nancy and Mary, and one of his sons, +Uncle David, whose Christian name Henry bears, have +died young of consumption, like their father. Is his +grandson going to have the same fate? Or is John to +be confronted with a demand more brutal still? To be +condemned without appeal, because sweet souls like +him are out of place on this earth? Yes, for the poor +fellow, as he drags along, is finally carried off, with a +refinement of horror. In shaving himself he makes an +insignificant cut. Lockjaw sets in; and the smile of this +loving soul is extinguished amid atrocious convulsions. +John dies in torture.</p> + +<p>In the house of mourning, on this February day of +1842, the younger brother is the most miserable of all. +What is the use of fortitude, of this mask of impassibility, +when you are stricken in the tenderest depths? +How survive the best part of yourself? A boy, crushed +under his suffering, does not know.... John, my +brother, after these years we have enjoyed together, +and all the secrets we have shared, how can I support +alone the weight of this grief that once was joy? My +comrade, my inspiration, my good genius, my brother. +You whom one read as a beautiful story that everyone +loves to hear retold. You never had to be deciphered +laboriously to yield the meaning of the tale....</p> + +<p>Henry remains sitting in the house, with this weight +that overwhelms him. He no longer cares for anything: +everything, in the garden, in the woods, on the banks +of the river, in the neighbourhood of their school, cries +out his destitution. His sisters try to take him out to +distract him. He does not object, he is inert. He is +indifferent to everything. It is as if he had lost the +highest reason for existence, love.</p> + +<p>Will he regain his poise, his taste for life? Possibly—apparently. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_62">62</span>But there is in his deepest depths an incurable +wound that will never endure being touched, +however lightly. He cannot make the slightest verbal +allusion to his bereavement, so greatly does it pain him. +To deceive himself he plays the stoic, writing to a friend +that a musical air has brought back to him the sense of +the harmony of the universe and that he wishes never +again to see his brother in life—that he wishes only for +his ideal prototype. But in the confidences of his Journal +how much truer he is! “Where is my heart gone? +They say men cannot part with it and live.” That delightful +intimacy they had shared through childhood, +boyhood, manhood, he knew very well he would never +find again, <em>never</em>. John’s grave enclosed the youth of +two. Twelve years later, trying to describe to a friend +those moments when his brother had disappeared in torture, +Henry turned pale and almost fainted.</p> + +<p>There remained the boat they had built, with which +they had unrolled the beautiful watered ribbon of their +adventures. To see it rocking against the bank was +simply to have before him a sharper image of his grief: +John taking sail to face alone a terrible adventure. He +would go no more in this boat. That was ended.</p> + +<p>In the following spring he gave it to a friend who +wanted it.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_63">63</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="III"> + III + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When the Thoreau school unexpectedly closed, Henry +was only twenty-four years old. But he had moved +forward since he had left Harvard. His convictions, +already clear, the presentiments of the college boy, had +acquired more force. He had ripened early in solitude +and study, and his experience of the world had enlarged. +He had had some taste of it, and the face he presented to +it held little promise of friendship.</p> + +<p>The aversion he had felt in college for an atmosphere +dominated by the young gentleman was extended now +to the village atmosphere, the realm of the young gentleman’s +self-satisfied country cousin. The dear little +town, preserved in a syrup of sweet conventions, smiled +with an air of inviting him to add to its sweetness. The +church-tower there pointed toward heaven the sacred +meaning of its anxious cares: observance, decency, +mediocrity—store-keepers, farmers, townspeople, honourable +souls one and all, cast in the same mould, more or +less orthodox, good folk, honest folk, so very honest, in +almost perfect agreement, as if they were acting together +some excellent amateur comedy of manners. Join in +the dance, my boy. As he watched them performing +their parts he had no inclination to figure in the play. +These farces bored him and left him cold. Henry felt +within him a disobedient soul.</p> + +<p>Where in the world had it come from, this little seed +of rebellion that had sprouted in the soul of the child +and sprung up in the boy? It was to-day, at any rate, +a fine, tough-grained shrub, well-rooted in the soil. +The school-less schoolmaster had no inclination to share +<span class="pagenum" id="page_64">64</span>in the social mill that blissfully revolved about him. +Under his hat there was not an atom of the will that +animated his forebears, the merchants of the Norman +island, or his grandfather, the store-keeper of Long +Wharf. A sad fact, but so it was. As naturally as they +breathed or said their prayers his family had put on the +harness in all docility and taken the road like good +domestic animals who never dream that anything else +exists in the universe than the shafts, the rack, the halter, +the town-square and the street-corners where one turns +every day. Doesn’t this attract you, this cab-horse’s +life, with the certainty of a bag of oats at the end of the +journey? With a beautiful plume on your head? With +your diploma you could easily be the master’s horse.</p> + +<p>Many thanks. This may very well be, as the doctors +say, the good old wisdom of the ages, with an assured +recompense in this world and the next, but for me it has +a disagreeable taste. If I listen to you and nibble the +good oats now, I shall soon find myself grazing in the +field and obliged to chew dry stalks. No doubt about +that. I don’t propose to let your wisdom catch me. +It is soft and subtle; it is so powerful because everyone, +wherever he turns, not only breathes it in himself and +is impregnated at its touch, but passes it on, willy-nilly, +to the next fellow. It has its agents at work in the +four quarters of the world. To this marvellous wisdom, +the crown of centuries of civilisation, Henry gives +another name, fraud. It has made itself at home in the +village as in the great city. And it has that smile because +it knows it is universally accepted.</p> + +<p>Henry smiles too, for he is thinking of another universe +than that of the hay-merchants. What alienates +him from their brotherhood is the ugliness of their +existence, pure derision. His own seems to him true, +fresh and full of unexpected things, lived in the quick +<span class="pagenum" id="page_65">65</span>beauty of every moment, demanding no other profit +than itself. Munch away your life, then, good citizens +of Concord, and permit me to <em>live</em> mine. The shadow +cast by our elms is not sufficiently enveloping to sweep +me along after you into the paths of honourable stupefaction. +I know what your society makes of a man by +taming him. It will get along very well without my +help. If it has held me for a short time, while I was +groping my way, trying to get my bearings, you may be +assured that this is over and done with. I have no +desire to be a bad neighbour to you; you are very worthy +members of this parish. But don’t count on my aid in +making your merry-go-round go. I have my own corn +to grind. You say that in refusing to adapt myself to +your rhythm I condemn myself to poverty. As you +please; why not? He laughs best who laughs last. I am +not afraid of my poverty. But I should have a terrible +fear of what you call your respectability, your industry, +your virtue, if I were ever threatened with having to +share them.</p> + +<p>But his whole race, all this little world about him, +modelled in the image of the great world, had obeyed +the commandment: Look after your business, increase +your wealth. He listened to the mandate from within—listened +in his own fashion. Yes, exactly, look after +one’s <em>own</em> business, increase one’s <em>own</em> wealth. Interpret +this freely, in your own way. This boy does interpret +it in his own free way. He counts as much as anyone +on “making a position for himself.” There are +many fine formulas of this kind that pass like counters +from hand to hand, from one shop to another, from +father to son, while no one suspects their true value. +“Make a living” is one of them. Do you mean, make +a living and lose what makes it worth while? Then +make it, makers of money. We shall see in the end who +<span class="pagenum" id="page_66">66</span>is rich and who is poor. There is nothing the matter +with your formulas. I shall take them and give them a +good cleaning before I use them, for your hands have +dulled them, soiled them. They will have to be bright +and new for my poverty.</p> + +<p>Henry is no frivolous boy, make no mistake about that. +The great business of existence occupies his thoughts too. +He asks himself if life is not too precious an affair +to be sold in pencils or lessons, or measured out behind a +counter, or at so much the page at a clerk’s desk. Yes +indeed, the great business of existence.... Exactly. +But in quite another sense than that of all these poor +souls who are much more aware of their dollars, their +cattle and their land than of their essential poverty. +Henry is quite willing to be poor, but poor like these +people, never. By <em>no</em> means. Not at any price. He +intends to pile up day by day the wealth to which all +these well-to-do people, who think they are so comfortable +and so shrewd, pay no heed. The great business +of existence, in his twenty-five-year old eyes, is to create +oneself, to <em>live</em>, develop oneself, with respect for this +gift that one is—respect and love for this material that +has been placed in one’s hands in the rough for one to +make of it the most beautiful of works of art. Is that +clear, you poor souls, with your minds on dollars and +cents?</p> + +<p>As he watches this world, so diligent in its little wiles, +its little thieveries, Henry has no disposition for recriminations +and dark thoughts. He is too full of happiness. +He feels his own strength. Let them have their gains! +A tissue of trivialities, their days, whose comings and +goings form the woof and the warp of their life. It +amuses him vastly to behold the beautiful acquisitions +they pile up around their mediocrity, like so much +worthless bric-a-brac. Dull souls, not to see that the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_67">67</span>first step to wealth is to simplify one’s life, disencumber +it of endless useless knick-knacks that prevent it from +growing. Money, to Henry, represents a pair of stout +boots, a straw hat, corduroy trousers. These elements +once acquired at little cost, he feels that all the other +things—the savoury things the earth freely offers—are +given him in addition, as a bounty, as to anyone who +trusts. The apples in the orchard and the pike in the +river and the joy of the banks are all thrown in. Your +money, your absurd money, thanks to which you think +you are assured of the enjoyment of the world, simply +prevents you from getting it. Your incomes are your +jailers; they stand on guard night and day about you. +You serious men, you sensible men, perpendicularly set +upon your principles, you sly old men of business, +dignified heads of families, with an iron belief in the +sanctity of your motives, how ludicrous you are in the +eyes of a boy who strips away your mask....</p> + +<p>A certain mustiness, for the rest, which he finds everywhere +in this Puritan atmosphere, offends the taste of +the savage and the soul of the pagan that have come to +him heaven knows whence. He is not adapted to the +moral sanctity which these wooden sidewalks exhale. +From his childhood, the meeting-house, the pulpit, the +Sunday school and the tedious Sunday itself have made +piety unpleasant in his eyes. How does it happen that +the church is generally the ugliest building in a village? +Is it a symbol? And if, some fine Sunday, in place of the +preacher, shouting like a herdsman whose herd is refractory, +some honest soul, some simple wood-cutter from +the backwoods were to begin to utter, with his accent, +before the congregation, a few of the words of Jesus, do +you imagine that a single pane would remain in the +windows of the edifice, that a single worshipper would +stay in his pew and brave the crash? That old story +<span class="pagenum" id="page_68">68</span>refers across the ages to a fine, frank character who must +have been as simple as a wood-cutter, and who could +never have suspected, poor soul (otherwise how quickly +he would have stopped talking!), that after eighteen +hundred years his name would be invoked by all the +brawlers of New England and creation to confuse men +and women. A splendid fellow, this Jesus, the carpenter’s +son—too beautiful for us to be able to doubt, +in spite of the vagueness of his story or of his legend, +that he really existed in the flesh—a boy come from the +people to recall the bigots and hucksters to decency, +close up the vestries and the temples, put a little manly +pride into the heart of the poor, and obliged, after his +time and in spite of himself, to be the patron of the +most flourishing business of emasculation.</p> + +<p>I know you are going to say to me: this is no substantial +nourishment, this old gospel of Judea, for a +hearty lad who has worked all day and likes to put a +juicier morsel into his mouth. I agree. It does not +alter the fact that in spite of all the efforts of Christianity +to disgust you with him, Jesus, my brother, spreads +about him an aroma of godlike humanity. As you read +the almost unknown book in which his life is told, you +wish, just because you are a pagan yourself, that you +could call your friends and say to them: Look here, I +want to read to you some pages you probably don’t +know—they enchant me.... What do you think of my +discovery? Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it a splendid heresy, +with enough revolutionary force in it to crack the shell +of this antiquated world? And how happy you would +be to welcome as a comrade the friend of the vagabond if +... if the fanatic in front did not need him to thrust +into his sermon and shoot him at the worshipper at his +feet.... Poor fellow, soul of love, heart of the poor, +what have they made of you?...</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_69">69</span></p> + +<p>The famous Pilgrim Fathers, who embarked on the +Mayflower to free themselves spiritually and found a +new England—did they imagine that in doing this they +would be liberated from themselves? It was hardly +worth while making this long voyage when, in the hold +of the famous boat, the Son of Man was in irons. They +had really come to organize, among other solid businesses, +that immense conspiracy against life with which +every child born under a roof in any of the Atlantic +States is supposed to associate itself tacitly, and which +he must never betray till death, under pain of eternal +damnation and a damned existence here below. What +a black responsibility Plymouth Rock bears!</p> + +<p>This particular mania is what the posterity of the +Pilgrim Fathers call their religion. It taxes with sin +the innocence of a boy who sets off for a Sunday walk +in the woods, or takes his fishing-line to the water-side +at church-time, to feel religious in his own fashion: the +Brotherhood of Sunday Bores sneers as the Sunday +Walker passes. This religion, with its church-tower, +is broadminded enough to tolerate the guile that gets the +best of your neighbour during six days of the week.... +Ugh.... Come nearer, good people, and let me tweak +your noses and then turn my back and enjoy a good +laugh. Your pious, mercantile existence is too dismal; +a little gaiety would not ill become you. Your Sabbath +bell strikes death into the soul; it sounds as if the continent +were groaning in the unending misery of the +terrestrial abode adorned by the Smug.</p> + +<p>How was it possible for Henry to feel that he belonged +to the same parish as these parishioners? As a matter of +fact, this refractory soul had early declared his position. +Soon after his return from college, at twenty, he had +refused to pay the church-tax of the parish and officially +separated himself from it with a written declaration in +<span class="pagenum" id="page_70">70</span>which no deacon caught a hint of humour: “Know all +men by these presents that I Henry Thoreau do not +wish to be regarded as a member of any incorporated +society which I have not joined.” This was plain and +precise. Take that, clerk of the parish; put this disavowal +away among your old papers, so it can bear +witness in case there is need for it some day. The +parish has carelessly counted one parishioner too many.</p> + +<p>This was about the time when Henry, master in a +parish school, flatly refused to form the character of his +pupils with the help of the rod. Naturally this double +rebellion, against the authorities of the village and the +church, made him a suspicious character. The following +year, when he reached the age for voting, he openly +refused to perform the elementary act of a good citizen +of a great democratic Republic. Moreover, the very +success, for three years, of the Thoreau school had +brought him the marked hostility of the mandarins of +the village. This stiff little schoolmaster ... this whipper-snapper +of twenty-one who permitted himself not to +have recourse to corporal punishment, who taught in +an independent, lively fashion, who took the children +off boating or gathering huckleberries instead of holding +them by fear! Impudent! We shall have to be on our +guard against you.</p> + +<p>All right, be on your guard, mandarins. If the world +speaks through your lips, I shall let the world go. From +childhood Henry has been used to walking alone, at his +own pace. He will try to find whether there does not +exist somewhere another world of which he carries the +image in himself. His one ambition, and it is a great one, +is to make the finest use of the marvellous gift that he +has received—life. He has received it, he is sure of that, +and he knows its value. He must find out how to employ +his faculties, that is all. Perhaps he is destined for +<span class="pagenum" id="page_71">71</span>some uncatalogued employment. He will see. But it +must be an occupation that dispenses him from conniving +with this world of universal huckstering. That’s +settled. Every line he has meditated in college, every +one of his impressions since the time when he drove his +parents’ cow to pasture, has confirmed him in the resolution +to remain himself, cost what it may. The inflexibility +which he does not dissemble and which renders +him insupportable to the mandarins is merely the outward +sign of this will.</p> + +<p>In any case, he desires to work only at what is useful, +with his hands or his brain or his idleness—fruitfully, +that is all that matters—according to his own idea of +the useful. Those numberless absurd or degrading +interests that absorb the human race he puts aside with +deliberate design. He can easily make shift with the +little sympathy that is felt for him in some quarters. If +he had piled up a lot of rubbish in a shop and sold it at a +good profit, like a true Thoreau of tradition, he would +certainly have accomplished a work agreeable to the +Lord. It’s a pity, but he has no desire to please the +Lord or his servants. He wants to please himself. This +is certainly not the way to get up in the world; but for +the moment, so far as that is concerned, to be planted on +his two legs and to stand on the top of the Cliffs and +watch the sun setting behind the mountains seems to +him sufficiently happy till something better turns up.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And then there was another side to the story. Since +college Henry had been working with definite aspirations, +drawn towards a path that led heaven knew +whither but solicited him with an authority as sweetly +irresistible as the open spaces, out there, on a morning +when he had a hunger for discovery.</p> + +<p>This dated even from the days before college. At +<span class="pagenum" id="page_72">72</span>Harvard some of his compositions revealed an intellectual +curiosity, a boldness, a turn of mind that did not +suggest the future lawyer or the embryo minister. Henry +was already trying to express himself. As a growing +boy he had devoured eagerly the scraps of new thought +that came within reach of a villager. They had a fresh, +exquisite flavour that left a good taste in his mouth. +One day the friends of culture had inaugurated at Concord +one of those Lyceums which were being founded +almost everywhere in Massachusetts. Henry was only +twelve years old at the time; but in future, before going +to college, he followed assiduously the lectures and +debates. The most beautiful of these lectures was the +one he heard there when he was eighteen, delivered by +the step-grandson of old Dr. Ripley, the minister of the +parish, and a former minister himself, who had come to +settle in the village after a difference with the ecclesiastical +authorities.</p> + +<p>What seized him, exalted him, was not so much the +oration itself, composed for the occasion of the second +centenary of the founding of Concord, as the sight of the +lecturer, his expression, his eyes, the indefinable charm +of his words. How right he had been to give up the +church and its nonsense, this fellow of thirty-three, to +come out as a man among men and talk to them with +that voice and that smile that invited you to close your +eyes to the wretched spectacles of the world and contemplate +the figures which the spheres describe in their +sacred dances. This man spoke as one inspired, with a +simplicity, a nobility that carried you away. It was +said that he had made a journey to Europe and had met +a great many people over there, talked with Coleridge, +Wordsworth and this Carlyle who was about to publish +an astonishing book. He was just going to marry a +second time. The year after the lecture, they had recited +<span class="pagenum" id="page_73">73</span>a poem of his in celebration of the anniversary of the +famous battle of Lexington, a historic date from which +Concord drew most of its lustre. It looked as if this +new inhabitant, who had come to enjoy the natural +charm of the little town, had brought it in exchange a +superior charm capable of raising it above itself: short +as the time was since he had settled there, he already +cut a great figure, second only to that of his venerable +step-grandfather, the spiritual director of the parish. +Henry was nineteen years old. And this very year the +poet published a book that was even richer than the +most beautiful lecture. What a book! A revelation, a +gospel, the music of which made you melt with pure +admiration and joy. To think that this man was your +neighbour.... That simple title <i>Nature</i> touched Henry +at the most sensitive point. He was captivated, illumined, +confirmed in his own aspirations. If he himself, +some day, could only write pages that had a little of +that subtle and luminous quality!...</p> + +<p>If he could become a writer, one of those people who +have something to say and know how to say it! At +certain moments when he found himself really face to +face with himself, Henry had the impression that there +was something more than a great desire within him, +that he had the power as well. Before his twentieth +year and aside from his college dissertations, he composed, +as an experiment, a few descriptive pages, wrote +a rhymed ballad. And since his return from college, his +Journal had always been there, scrupulously written +up, to receive the secrets of this desire, the more urgent +inquiries, the first attempts of a beginner who does not +really know if the vein is rich but is heartily resolved to +pursue his exploration, even if he is to have at the end +nothing but the joy of exploring and contemplating +the beautiful veins of the earth cut away by the drill.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_74">74</span></p> + +<p>Whenever he was not too dissatisfied with a page he +had written, he read it to his little sister, for when you +have a sister like Sophia, who feels just as you do, a +true Thoreau, you can let her into the secret. It was +at the beginning of the autumn that followed Henry’s +return home. A sister-in-law of the new great man of +Concord was boarding with his parents. Henry liked +her very much: one day in the spring of this year, while +passing under her open window, with the gesture of a +shy young boy, he had even thrown her a bouquet of +fresh violets gathered on his walk, wrapped up in his +apprentice rhymes. Yes, Henry liked Lucy Brown very +much and he told or wrote her of things that he would +never have been willing to confide to anyone else. In +talking with this friend, Sophia, who had gone to one +of the great man’s lectures, could not help remarking: +“That is very much like something that Henry has +written....” It was easy to verify this singular concordance, +which Lucy Brown mentioned to her brother-in-law. +The great man wanted to see this young neighbour +whose thought was so much akin to his own; had +he progressed so well, then, the college boy whom he, +as an influential and charitable man, had recommended +to the benevolence of the President of Harvard? And +so Henry found himself face to face with the man whose +words, whose expression, whose beautiful book had +stirred him.</p> + +<p>And now that they had met they were delighted with +each other. Each had understood the other at a +glance; and before long they felt as if they had always +been friends. Waldo was the elder by fourteen years, +but Henry’s maturity of mind made one forget that he +was only twenty. Practically speaking, they were of +the same age. The great man, who also kept a Journal, +observed in it: “My good Henry Thoreau made this +<span class="pagenum" id="page_75">75</span>else solitary afternoon sunny with his simplicity and +clear perception.” Happiest of moments were those +when they set out together for a ramble in the woods. +At such times it was as if Henry was introducing his +lady-love to the author of the beautiful book on Dame +Nature. There Henry was at home, his companion +was only on a visit. But so happy, this latter, to become +acquainted, thanks to his guide, with so many things he +had only perceived from a distance, things he had +touched in thought but not through the senses. This +boy knew everything that a philosopher did not suspect +and introduced his friends of the forest to you in such a +way that they counted henceforth among your own +friends. In an excursion with Henry you were the guest +shown about by the master of the estate. The great man +became the student once more in the hands of this +initiate. Charming student. Charming walks when +these two were happy together, the one penetrating +into the secret life of the woods with this sylvan creature, +the other showing his intimate friend the cherished +marvels that had been familiar to him from his childhood. +How could a friendship rooted in the mould of the +forest fail to shoot up high and thick? When the great +man’s family planned an expedition to the Cliffs, they +sometimes begged Henry to go with them and not to +forget to bring his flute.</p> + +<p>Who can say what either one or the other of the +friends reaped from these walks, these conversations, +this exchange? Who gained the more? It would be +hard to say. For Henry, in any case, in return for what +he brought the great man—an influence that was tonic, +real, strong as the taste of some crumpled aromatic +plant or even the pungency of a thought impregnated +with the raciness of the soil—how comforting it was to +find in his elder such a wonderful response to his own +<span class="pagenum" id="page_76">76</span>youthful meditations ... to hear, for instance, such +perceptions as these: “Life is an art. When we consider +what life may be to all, and what it is to most, we shall +see how little this art is yet understood.... The work +of life ... is self-culture ... the perfect unfolding +of our individual nature,” when, at his own entrance +into life, his instinct had repeated to him in every key +this very admonition.... To hear this from the lips of +a sage whose personality was so magnetically impressive +was to yield to the purest appeal of oneself while gathering +the sweetest fruit of friendship.</p> + +<p>In the warmth of this exchange, which transformed +old Concord and gave it a new relish, Henry’s tastes +were developed, along with his peculiar ambition. +From an assiduous listener at the meetings of the Lyceum +he had become a lecturer. At twenty-one he read there +the fragment he was just then writing on <i>Society</i>. It +was as bold as the first attempt of a young man is likely +to be, and not very thrilling for the village <i>élite</i>, who had +come to listen to a little schoolmaster on his first appearance +on the platform; especially as he made no elocutionary +efforts to win them. He read his paper to them +as he would have read it at home to his sister, without +any further adornment; it was their business to listen and +profit by it. When people do not understand you there +always remains for them the resource of guessing at +your drift. In spite of this, the following year, because +he was actively interested in the maintenance of this +centre in the grey village existence, they made him the +secretary of the Lyceum, in charge of the lectures—without +remuneration, which gave the post its value and +charm in Henry’s eyes. Whether the audience followed +him or not he meant to go on speaking, even if the +things he had to say were a little beyond the horizon +of Concord. Why should Concord not permit itself to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_77">77</span>shed a little light, even from afar, upon those who +lacked it?</p> + +<p>So from now on a luminous centre existed here in +spite of the good people who were so busy, here as elsewhere, +digesting the dough of their days, without +disturbing themselves about an art of living. There +were philosophic symposia at the great man’s house. +A few choice men and even a muse met there, deeply +interested in lofty problems and united in the same disinterested +worship of the ideal. Towards the third +year of the Thoreau school, various wise personages +were to be seen there, Harvard graduates, men of learning, +a poet, most of them young, attracted from various +points in the neighbouring country through their love +for a certain new thought. Especially to be noted was +one who had the air of presiding over the conversations, +with the authority of a man of forty; a pure spirit, +lodged by mistake or a singular taste for antithesis in a +carnal envelope—thin, lanky, with a pale skin and a +head crowned with weeping hair, already white, named +after one of the minor prophets, Amos. Amos Bronson +Alcott. This noble dreamer had just settled in Concord +with his terrestrial family, for he had taken a +wife and begotten daughters, after the human law. As +for the muse, her thirty summers had brought forth a +bony visage and masculine features; her fascination was +due to her great learning and her fancy and enthusiasm. +Her name was Margaret Fuller. In such company you +soon felt disburdened of your clayey mediocrity. You +were ready to embark for the various points in the sky +which the programme of the meeting indicated. The +smile of the master of the house was enough to give you +full confidence. Adventurous, intoxicating expeditions +on which, after soaring through the clouds, you were +never sure of being able to recover your path on +<span class="pagenum" id="page_78">78</span>the earth. They were veritable skylarkings of the +spirit.</p> + +<p>Henry listened, sharing in the discussions. Allied as +he was to these choice spirits by the noble interests that +were common to them, he did not feel entirely in harmony +with them. Alcott was very eloquent and said +many beautiful things. But while these tours of the +heavens have an irresistible attraction for young and +generous souls, Henry had never lost his plebeian habit +of feeling the grain of the earth under his boots. In this +refined game it was the stakes that mattered to him; the +game for the game’s sake struck him as a little academic. +They were neo-platonists. But as these new aspirations +required a new name they had adopted that of Realists +or Transcendentalists, which the great man had selected +with his friend George Ripley, who lived in Boston. +Realists, those who pursued the reality behind the +appearance—Transcendentalists, seekers of the infinite +through the finite: this had the right sound, it told the +story, and it was unorthodox enough to disturb all those +pious heads that were congealed in the ice of their +formulas. The smell of heresy is sweet to the nostrils +of one who is fond of sniffing the wind.</p> + +<p>Henry rejoiced to feel in himself the soul of a Transcendentalist. +A good word this, Transcendentalist. +It is long but it goes a long way. He was not quite sure +that this “ist” had just the same shade of meaning for +the whole gathering. Perhaps it was pale and crowned +with white curls like the noble Alcott. Or curved in an +exquisite smile like the lips of Waldo. Perhaps Transcendentalism, +like its brother isms, had no more value +than the individual who happened to pass it round his +neck like a collar. Perhaps it was nothing but a tool +in the hands of a worker, good or bad. Henry was +going to use it as a worker who knows what to do with +<span class="pagenum" id="page_79">79</span>a tool. As for the word itself, serious as the matter was +for him, there were even moments when Henry was +tempted not to take it much more seriously than did the +outsiders who lost no time in ridiculing the new gospel. +Besides, he always had the resource of being a Transcendentalist +in his own fashion. Let his friends seek +for the real and the infinite as they chose; he was going +to seek for it first under the soles of his heavy boots. +Of this he was transcendentally sure.</p> + +<p>As they were a circle of apostles revealing a new life +at the heart of the old withered Puritanism, it was +necessary for them to propagate this outside the work-room +where they gathered. They founded a magazine; +it appeared every three months and the muse of the +group assumed the care and the expense of editing it. +The great man gave it many pages that ought to have +won for it subscribers by the thousand if the public +could only have altered its detestable habit of ignoring a +magazine supported solely by a belief in the beauty of +humanity. If you publish, for instance, noble old bits +from the classics, how can you expect to catch readers +who ask for things that are amusing and sensational and +up-to-the-minute? In the opening number of the +magazine Henry had seen himself in print for the first +time. A small emotion compared to that which was +concealed, to all save one or two persons perhaps, in this +poem entitled “Sympathy,” under the signature Henry +Thoreau. The author was twenty-three years old. He +had published. He had emerged from his Journal. He +was in a circle of friends who were initiating the renaissance +of mystic idealism that was going to renovate the +thought of New England and America. This was no +reason for giving up his big boots or chinking in his +pocket the dollars he had not received, since the magazine +paid nothing. But it gave him the desire to write, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_80">80</span>to collaborate in this rare magazine in which his friends +welcomed his manuscripts so cordially—or, when they +refused them, refused as friends. They had not refused +his “Aulus Persius Flaccus,” his first public attempt +as a writer of prose. And an unpaid article will sometimes +earn one a friendship that is worth more than +money. Often one is not to know of this till much +later.</p> + +<p>But to whom was he to give these little verses, the +scribblings of a sentimental and philosophic schoolmaster, +since the great man, who did not like them very +much, advised him not to publish them? They had +the archaic flavour of the old English poets who had +helped him to endure his exile in the college library. +They were like the work of a boy who amuses himself +collecting little wanton butterflies and pinning them on +equal lines on a card in some harmonious arrangement +of their tinted wings. It was a game at which boys +amuse themselves, boys and those older children who +re-translate Horace after sixty. Henry was not yet +twenty-five, and he was only a child in the sense that +his childhood was inseparable from him; but he loved +these soothing little old-fashioned verses, just as he +loved to play a little air on his flute or whistle the tune +of some organ-grinder in the street. Not “smooth and +flowing” enough for the taste of the great man of Concord, +who made rhymes too now and then. There was +nothing to be done then but to keep them to himself, +since their rhythm was dear to him in spite of all. There +would always be time to throw them into the stove.</p> + +<p>But what was he to do with those great chunks of +prose interspersed with the little verses in his Journal? +And when did he first realize that he was the writer, +the poet, in them, and not in these rhymes of an elderly +amateur? Aside from the pages that he had used in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_81">81</span>composition of his first essay, “Sound and Silence,” +there were those he had copied and sent to Margaret +Fuller, the editor, who did not want them for her +magazine. Yet they had rather a strong quality. In a +tone of juvenile grandiloquence, but with a firm accent, +Henry pronounced his vows, notified society of his +refusal to collaborate with it, and dedicated himself to +the service of the cause. The editor did not perceive +that a writer of prose had been born, prolix and not yet +sufficiently sure of himself to break through the weight +of words, carried away by his love of paradox, but rich +in savoury fantasy, a creator of bold, fresh images. Her +copy had been returned to him, with a graceful note of +refusal. He would wait, then.</p> + +<p>Henry stored his harvest away. Henry worked. +Outside his father’s little factory, where he made the +pencils, there was a labourer at his toil, awaiting his +audience without anxiety.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>How does it happen that Henry, yesterday a schoolmaster, +should be living at his friend Waldo’s house? +Ralph Waldo Emerson, yes. It has come about quite +simply.</p> + +<p>His friend, finding him free after the closing of the +school, has made him a proposal.</p> + +<p>He is greatly in need of someone to look after a +hundred and one little matters, in the house and outside, +which he cannot attend to himself. When he is away, +off on lecture tours, it would be very pleasant to feel +that he was leaving at home someone he could trust to +see that everything went smoothly, as it should go in +the household of a philosopher. He thought that such +a man as Henry, who was a famous gardener and understood +everything, would be just the person. Was he +mistaken? Henry could come and live in their house +<span class="pagenum" id="page_82">82</span>without sacrificing any of his cherished liberty. How +did Henry feel about it?</p> + +<p>The latter had accepted. Not as a young man of +twenty-four, only too happy to yield to the desire of a +great elder, but because this proposal had a sound that +pleased him. In that house at least he knew they would +accept him, discerningly, at his true value. They were +not appealing to a workman whose arms or brain one +hires; they were appealing to Henry, raw as he was, +with his qualities and his defects. That is why he had +said yes. An ugly word becomes clarified when you +take a “job” with people who understand you and love +you as nature has made you. Heavens, yes, he had +agreed without a single reservation.</p> + +<p>The arrangement was quite simple. The steward +was to work as he chose in the garden or elsewhere, at +any hours that pleased him and whenever work seemed +good to him; in return, he was to have his meals and his +room as if he were one of the family. He was to be one +of the family. Wasn’t that clear and above-board?... +If you were a great philosopher, illumined with a serene +wisdom, but little fitted for all those small material +affairs that have to be reckoned with just the same in +the daily life of a philosopher, would you not be very +happy to have engaged a trustworthy man to shoulder +all these little troublesome tasks and be on the spot, +with an alert eye and a sure hand, during your absences? +And suppose, at the same time, that you could converse +occasionally on the noblest topics with your confidential +man, as a brother, an equal, who is prepared to +accompany you, to follow or precede you, up the highest +peaks of thought: would not this be a famous combination?... +And if you were a penniless young man, +seeking employment for your faculties or your skill +with people who would not make use of you simply as +<span class="pagenum" id="page_83">83</span>a tool that one takes up and throws aside, a tool that +one oils or allows to rust, would you not be overjoyed +to be the confidential man of a sage who wants to place +in your hands all the odd tasks about the house? A +sage who knows perfectly who you are and appeals to +the man as well as the worker? Would you hesitate? +Hardly, for it would strike you that to work for such +an employer, such a friend, would be like playing even +if the work sometimes were hard; it would be the +highest form of collaboration. Your friend is a philosopher +divinely adroit in the field of ideas, but far +from handy in the practical domain; he needs your +workingman’s hands and allows them to exist side by +side with the soul of a poet. Your friend opens his +house to you as an equal.</p> + +<p>All right, it’s settled, friend Waldo. This environment, +this household are sympathetic to Henry; the +house itself smiles on him. Coming to Concord, Emerson, +after visiting his step-grandfather, in the delightful +old manse built by his ancestor where he himself had +written <i>Nature</i>, had had the luck to find and establish +there, as the home of his second marriage, the true +dwelling for a sage. At the far end of the village, on the +same side as the Poor Farm, it was called, from the +name of a previous holder, the Coolidge house. The +benediction of the great trees along the road prepared +you for the grave smile of a little white dwelling among +the pines whose modest porch seemed to say to the +new master: I give myself to you for eternity. Be +faithful to me. We shall always understand each other. +And the nine windows in front approved and the two +chimneys took the oath; the Mill Brook in the great +meadow was the witness of the engagement. And you +felt immediately that what the porch said was true. +From there it was only a short quarter of an hour to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_84">84</span>Walden Pond, where you found yourself in the wild +woods; a spot haunted by Henry since his childhood, +where the Sage particularly loved to air his thoughts +under the pines. It was a house after Rousseau’s heart +and after Henry’s heart. And when a house pleases you, +everything you have to do that depends on the house +is tinged with pleasure. It was only a few weeks after +the closing of his school that Henry had come to occupy +the place offered him in this home, nestling in the joy +of the fields at the end of April.</p> + +<p>There is nothing like a little white house and its out-buildings +in the fields for giving you work to do. This +is Henry’s business. From the kitchen-dresser hangs a +door the hinges of which have come off. Just in his line. +The hinges of the door of eternal life are in the best of +order, but the genius of a philosopher does not understand +kitchen-dressers. The stove draws badly; it must +be taken apart. This is in your line too, man of all +work. The disfigurement of hands soiled with soot is +not indelible. And who is to assume the important +labours of the hen-house? A philosopher, of course, +possesses like the most ordinary mortal the art of eating +a soft-boiled egg; but before and after this beautiful +fresh egg is laid for you to go and take it out of the +nest, how many little details there are that demand the +skill and experience of a man well up in other tasks than +the tasks of the study! Fowls have their own life and +their own ideas; there is the practical philosophy of the +poultry-yard on which neo-platonism has made no +profound impression, and there is the hand that knows +how to make just the right twist to restore the broken +roost. An idealist especially needs good roosts and hens +that lay. Not necessarily golden eggs; simple, soft +yellow eggs are the thing for your philosophic breakfast. +And who but a gardener-poulterer is to prevent +<span class="pagenum" id="page_85">85</span>the blessed hens from marauding among the flowers in +the garden? Then there is a pail that leaks, and here is +the tinker. You have everything under your hand with +that wonderful boy. He is the universal repairer. The +neighbours know him well and have recourse to his +knowledge. And he is a great hand at chopping wood. +When you see Henry handling the wood you feel that +his friend Waldo is going to gain a good deal by this +exchange. His trusty man does not measure the pains +he takes, he is indefatigable and performs his labourer’s +toil with the same conscientiousness with which he has +elaborated a page of prose, for himself alone, in his +Journal.</p> + +<p>But Henry’s real kingdom is the garden. He understands +not merely how to raise melons, but how to prune +fruit-trees; he knows how to graft, and how to catch +moles and field-mice; he is ready if there is a stake that +needs to be strengthened with heavy blows of the mallet, +vegetables to be transplanted or trenches to be dug. +Sometimes the philosopher and the gardener work +together in the garden. Near this invaluable boy, who +is like a brother to him, the Sage is happy; it is not merely +the garden-work that does him so much good, but +Henry’s presence acts on him like a tonic. The stroke +of this little man’s spade seems to stir the roots of his +own philosophy; on the clod that he turns up a worm is +wriggling. The spade plunges into the secrecy of the +combinations of the earth that will make the seed of +the idea germinate.</p> + +<p>Henry is in a fortunate position. He can really share +in such a household. He feels at home there. In their +leisure hours the master and his confidential man have +long conversations in the study, where the plain board +shelves do not look as if they held the books merely for +the charm of their bindings. At these moments their +<span class="pagenum" id="page_86">86</span>everyday intimacy rises to the loftiest comradeship. +They prolong these fine excursions in which Waldo +remembers that he is the son of a mighty walker before +the Eternal. In the open fields and amid this full-hearted +intimacy, they make astonishing discoveries. +Yes, they are happy, and neither of them would be able +to say what it is that so enlivens the landscape when +they set out together. The Sage does not walk on +Sunday; on that day it is more suitable to stay at home.</p> + +<p>So now the master of the Coolidge house can set out +with a mind at ease when he is going to give his lectures. +He can depend on his young friend, from whom he +receives letters that have the fragrance of their garden +days together. In his absence the confidential man +becomes the protector and the stay of the household. +Other ties unite him to the family than those of the hen-house +and philosophy. If Lidian, the mistress of the +household, loves him like a grown-up son, it is not +merely because he looks after the flowers in her garden +that she has brought from her parents’ house. In the +same month in which Henry had lost his brother, she +had lost her dear little Waldo, her eldest, five years old. +It was to John, the charming John who had brought +Emerson one day a bluebird-box for the barn, that she +owed that daguerreotype of the child who had now +vanished with him.... This poignant double loss had +touched depths that the Transcendentalist doctrines +never reached. From the bereavement they had simultaneously +undergone there had sprung up, in the mistress +of the house, an affection like that of an older sister for +the big boy of the house, which he returned with a deep, +tender respect. The good gardener who took such pains +with her garden and her flowers gratefully accepted the +authority, extending to all sorts of small daily observances, +of this woman who confided in him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_87">87</span></p> + +<p>They led a very frugal existence in the home of the +philosopher, who was familiar with narrow circumstances +from his childhood, his mother having been left +a widow with five small children to bring up, and he had +kept the taste for simplicity. This mother with her +wholesome face, always smiling, had come to live with +her son and daughter-in-law. As for Aunt Mary, who +was also to be seen in the house, still so young at eighty +years, Henry had simply won her heart. And it was a +holiday when Lidian’s elder sister, Lucy Brown, the +gardener’s very dear friend, happened to be there. Yes, +Henry, the philosopher’s right-hand man, was very +much at home.</p> + +<p>Nothing was needed but children to make him feel +completely so, for between Henry and the children there +was a tacit alliance. There were only two of them, +Ellen and Edith, babies or practically so, since the death +of little Waldo, but with Henry they formed a new trio. +With the children as in the garden he was in his element. +Their innocence brought out several Henrys, for he was +never at the end of his wits. There was the inexhaustible +teller of wonderful tales, a wizard who had no equal for +making them little flutes and whistles with the simple +reeds they collected in the meadow. And all those tricks +he showed them: how to manage the warming-pan in +which they heated the pop-corn till it burst and fell in +showers like fire-works, the jack-knife that he swallowed +and took out again through the nose, with a skill +that would have made his Uncle Charles jealous, and +the trick of the apple divided so cleverly that it seemed +to be intact till he asked you to cut it and it fell into +quarters. And how many other inventions! The only +person whom Ellen and Edith never saw with their +friend was Father Spoil-Sport. When they were bigger +he was going to take them out in his boat, and they were +<span class="pagenum" id="page_88">88</span>going to be Indians and camp out in a hut of branches +and live on huckleberries and sour apples and make +music. Meanwhile, after supper, they could go on +strange journeys on the carpet before the fire; play horse +and gallop astride his knee, or perch perilously on +Henry’s sloping shoulders, standing straight up taller +than Grandma and almost touching the ceiling. When +Ellen said, “Papa may be coming home this evening,” +little Edith, who was beginning to talk, would repeat +“Papa” and look at her friend Henry. He had a big +nose like her real Papa and they were quite willing to +accept him as a second Papa. He was not a grave +gentleman all in black like those whom they saw coming +to the house and who remained shut up in Papa’s +study. He at least was willing to lend a hand and was +not afraid of soiling it. He was a Henry after their +own heart with whom they could exchange a knowing +smile, for he understood the mysterious meaning +of the onomatopoeia of children who create a language +of their own before accepting another ready-made; +a Henry whom they respected though he did not growl +at them and was not one of these respectable people; +a Henry who was on secret terms with the world of +fairies, strange plants, astonishing animals and corn +that burst in the fire, and with the little folk who +were in ecstasy before these marvels.</p> + +<p>Do not try to play the child with children if you lack +the proper physique. Henry’s figure contributes greatly +to his success with young people. Small, thin as a wolf, +with a narrow chest, sloping shoulders, he looks like a +wise and cunning gnome. No matter if he is ugly, of an +ugliness for which not one of the seven deadly sins +would accept the responsibility, for this really makes no +difference to them. At the ends of his long arms are +veritable workingman’s hands; a spindling trunk, rather +<span class="pagenum" id="page_89">89</span>short legs planted on big feet. His markedly aquiline +nose points to a mouth with singularly expressive lips +and knows nothing of the receding chin. Sunk beneath +the saliant eyebrows are large, clear, wide-open eyes, +grey with a tinge of the blue of the sky, that look you +through and through. Light-brown hair, abundant and +fine. His sunburnt complexion, a certain rusticity of +manner, which his association with Harvard and its +fine gentlemen has not corrected, would make it very +easy to mistake him for some longshore-man on a visit +up country. As you see him pass, with his rough clothes, +worn alike on weekdays and Sundays, his hob-nailed +boots bound with leather laces, with the long, swinging +step of a man who is used to walking great distances, +hands behind his back and fists clenched, often with his +eyes on the ground, the impression of physical resistance +this thin little fellow gives is in flat contradiction to the +meagre frame. When he lifts his eyes and looks at you +it is as if a jet of implacable sincerity and perspicacity +had struck you; the whole man is revealed in those eyes. +Not a very easy fellow to teach, you say to yourself. +But the twinkling of the grey eyes has another meaning +which the children and his few friends know; under the +bold features of a face that can be serious to the point +of desolation, they know what fancy, what a vein of +caustic humour and sober gayety is waiting for a chance +to be released. And these diverse impressions melt in +the aroma of open air that breathes from his whole +person.</p> + +<p>Not easy to get on with, assuredly no. You can look +to him for adhesion or resistance, but never for submission. +You can do nothing with him unless you +accept him as he is, with his mulish obstinacy, his final +“noes,” his likes and his dislikes. They know him well +at the Emersons’: sudden bursts of frankness, resistance +<span class="pagenum" id="page_90">90</span>without any reason, fits of combativeness, a bluntness +that does not always conform to the code of politeness +are to be expected from this right-hand man, who shocks +them now and then. But it is always wiser to let him +follow his own fancy, singular as it may be. If they had +engaged a gardener by the year or a day-labourer, he +would have done his money’s worth—his money’s +worth exactly or a little less, done his job like a duty that +enables you to live. With Henry you always get more +than your money’s worth, because money to him means +nothing—or something so different. You have only to +let him choose his own hours and his own way of +working. There is no one who will do a job better +than he, as long as it has none of the grey tinge of a +duty.</p> + +<p>For the rest, who could deny the excellence of the +arrangement? A man who can do everything about the +house and yard is very valuable: how much more so if +he can be your literary collaborator as well! Margaret +Fuller, who is finding it very difficult to make a success +of the <i>Dial</i>, the Transcendentalist magazine that only +needs subscribers to be the first magazine of the continent, +has finally turned over the editorship to Emerson. +The latter asks Henry to help him. They will +work in the garden and the magazine together. They +have to assemble the copy, send it to the printer, read +the proofs, put it into pages, canvass for new subscribers. +A task not quite so familiar to Henry as grafting +and pruning, but he sets to work and does it. Under +his hands the magazine takes a new turn. It associates +the old Oriental sapience with the fresh wisdom of the +Atlantic shores. Henry likes his work as editorial secretary. +Here he is at the heart of the movement. And +now it is he, whose manuscripts the amiable editress +had refused, who judges and inserts the manuscripts of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_91">91</span>other people. He profits by the change to extract from +his Journal, revise and publish long fragments—accounts +of excursions, impressions of nature, studies of the +fauna and the flora of the country. The editor thinks +very highly of this gardener-subeditor who helps him so +earnestly in preparing the magazine and filling out the +table of contents.</p> + +<p>Can you imagine a boy looking back later upon this +time of his twenty-fifth year, passed thus in the confidence +of a little white house, and not finding in the +recollection the happiest of tastes? The best part of it +was not so much the privilege of having lived on such +intimate terms with a great man as the liberty they had +given him, the trust they had reposed in him in this +household. Henry, their confidential man—how wise +they had been in giving him their confidence!... In +return for his board, they had permitted him to live in +his own way, giving what he was able to give on this +condition. They had not asked him not to be the +Henry that he was by the grace of God, with all his +oddities and his pig-headedness and his nonchalance.</p> + +<p>Everything else could be forgotten, but this noble and +affectionate indulgence, this magnanimous faith in him, +a young man who had not yet shown his best, had +warmed his heart at a time when the future seemed dim +to a boy who had nothing to offer the world but what +the world had no use for. Whatever this future might +be, there would remain between his elder and himself +the magnetism of this friendship, the tie of these fraternal +years when they had cultivated the garden together. +Even if he said little about it, he carried this always in +the bottom of his shy, remembering heart.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>After a visit to New York in February, 1843, Emerson +was at home again by the end of the winter to welcome +<span class="pagenum" id="page_92">92</span>another spring in Concord. It would soon be two +years since Henry had come to his house to live: or had +he always been there, and was he to remain always? +It was time to do a little thinking. William, the philosopher’s +older brother, was looking for a tutor for one +of his children. What would the confidential man, the +Harvard graduate, say to this? He would have to give +up Concord, for William Emerson was living near New +York. A serious resolution, to leave his kingdom and +his own people. On the other hand, the neighbourhood +of New York would be favourable to his literary ambitions, +and might help him, who could say, to sell a few +articles. This chance to try was perhaps the most +tempting opportunity that might offer. And then he +would see a new country, another horizon would stand +out against the setting sun. Henry had had no further +glimpse of New York since he had gone there on business, +at nineteen, with his father.</p> + +<p>So it happened that, in the May of this year, the +confidential man found himself on Staten Island, the +island with its back to the continent like an animal +advancing to sniff that much larger animal, Long Island, +which has come out of the Atlantic, with the bay of +New York crowding between their two muzzles. It +was on the north side of the island that William Emerson +had his residence. A beautiful house, worthy souls +who did their best to be amiable. But one who had just +left a house like that of Waldo and Lidian recognized by +the smell, the moment he entered this house, that these +people were of another species. It was imposing, grave +and stupefying. Henry felt like a stranger among +strangers; even the title of Judge, borne by the master +of the house, weighed upon him. They did not understand +one another, they never would understand one +another; but for all that he would do his work as well +<span class="pagenum" id="page_93">93</span>as he could since he was a tutor and it was a question +of Waldo’s brother. Later on, he would see; meanwhile, +the tutor was obliged to stay in his room. For +on arriving he had caught a violent cold that kept him +shut up for a week. A misery to have had such a weak +chest ever since that bad case of bronchitis which had +made him so ill when he was eighteen.</p> + +<p>A bad beginning at the Judge’s, in an unknown country. +In front of the house, deep woods, and a mile +away the sea, which he heard roaring when the wind +blew. The house stood with its back against a hill a +hundred yards high, from which you surveyed the +immense panorama of the Bay, the Narrows, Brooklyn, +New York in the distance, the coast of New Jersey. +The first time he climbed it and took in all this horizon, +he was sure of one thing: this was the place he would +come to for the nourishment he would never find under +this roof, where there was nothing to hold him aside +from his duties as a tutor. His real daily repast awaited +him on the hill. He could live for a few months in a +strange house, situated at the foot of a height that commanded +such a quarter of space. Alone, up there, he +could collect himself towards evening, watching the +boats and the sea or reading a dear letter received from +far, far over there, beyond the boats and the sea—from +old Concord of which he dreamed and the forest paths +that preserved the imprint of his feet.</p> + +<p>Henry felt a void in his soul. A stoical boy has +remedies against homesickness and, wherever he is, his +own company helps him to endure it. Just the same, +the soul suffers from a sudden change of diet; it is slow +in acclimatizing itself. Over there were his own people +and the face of his own country, the voices of the two +rivers and the Mill Brook and the smell of the upturned +earth in Waldo’s garden. Here, everything breathed of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_94">94</span>exile, and the summer had a different language; in spite +of the sun he shivered.</p> + +<p>When homesickness prowls about, seeking for some +chink by which to worm its way into you, the best +thing to do, when you are not shut up between the +walls of a college, is to set out for discoveries over the +island, to see what it has to offer you. When you are a +mighty walker, a born vagabond, you hold homesickness +at a respectful distance. From nine to two o’clock +Henry makes his pupil work, then he is free. You can +see him setting out in his good Concord boots to seek +his fortune. The interior of the island is like a great +pleasure-park, with its valleys, its woods, its verdure; +fruit-trees abound there, cherry-trees are common along +the hedges, the tulip-tree flourishes, and the magnolia +in July is enthroned like a supernatural bride. A park +in which some care has been taken for the views; through +the long clefts in the earth you suddenly perceive, over +a field, a ship under full sail, passing thirty miles out +at sea—as in a magic lantern. In the valleys, shielded by +the foliage, are the farms of the Huguenots, the first +colonists; the old elm on the shore still marks the spot +where they landed, after placing the ocean between +themselves and the Dragonnades of Louis XIV—the +great-great-grandparents of your own people at Saint-Helier, +brought here not by the desire to make fortunes +but by their passion for spiritual independence. In the +northeastern corner, not very far from Castleton, where +the Emersons’ house is, there is another Concord. You +find them everywhere. The Sundays are free for long +excursions. The vast kingdom of an island seems still +more vast, for you are surprised that the seashore can +surround so much country. The walker annexes it +methodically. Everything is new to him. They raise +tomatoes and potatoes in the open fields. Henry has +<span class="pagenum" id="page_95">95</span>not left at home his old vigilance as a rover. Crossing +a field he stoops and picks up an arrow-head. It is +really almost laughable. At Concord or wherever he +may be, when a flint-flake emerges, however imperceptibly, +from the earth or a heap of pebbles, you may +be sure that Henry, tramping in that neighbourhood, +will fall upon it. He smells it. It is as if in his shrewd +glance there were a magnet that makes these arrow-heads +emerge for his benefit from the earth where they +are hidden.</p> + +<p>Henry scours the island. A surveyor, no doubt, this +lanky fellow whom people see crossing and re-crossing +the fields, examining everything with his old habit of +inventorying a piece of land, as if he were going to buy +it: he cuts across it in a bee-line, whether the ground is +good or bad, regardless of the regular road. Or perhaps +a man looking for a good site for some speculation. +He must be pretty well acquainted with the state of +things. A poor devil of a tutor, you say? Come now!... +More attractive still than the interior of the island +are its watery shores, the salt marshes, the approaches +of the sea. Henry wanders along the beach, waiting for +this enormous presence to define itself. Never before +has he had such a chance to be impressed by it. Perhaps +it has things to say to him which the pines about Concord +have forgotten to convey. He has the whole of +space to himself; there is nothing frivolous to distract +him, the hidden musicians play for him alone, and he +can walk and walk and walk to its ritornello in the +dazzling marine daylight. It is grand enough to overwhelm +him if he were not made of tough gristle. A +pack of half-wild dogs scours the beaches in quest of +carrion thrown up by the ocean. The smallest of them +stops and barks after him. He has surely rubbed against +mankind, this cur, for he was the one you took under +<span class="pagenum" id="page_96">96</span>your protection yesterday, driving off with stones the +big fellows that were chasing him. The only people +you see are fishermen who have drawn their boats up +on the shore—herring-fishers, with great nets. Far +away glide the boats with men on board who think as +you do. You feel as if you were one of these boats, and +you too long to spread your sails, instead of leaving +your footprints on the wet sand or walking on the +shingle like the crabs.</p> + +<p>Concord, you are in no danger of being forgotten, +but confess that you have no such sight as this to offer. +The best place from which to take it in is some height +where you are the monarch over this immensity. Then, +though you are too far away to reach the shore, the +ocean seems to you so near that you could touch it. +The whole radiant panorama of the sea, islands, bay, +shores, marshes, converges towards your own small self +that receives it and feasts upon it; your landsman’s soul +drinks in the sea and the sailors. From an old ruined +fort, Henry watches the arrival of the vessels; the +health-officer climbing on board, the messenger who has +come for his bundle of newspapers. Best of all is the +hill-top behind the house which he can ascend every +evening, the ideal observatory from which to count the +sails in sight as the sun sets, revealing more and more of +them the lower it falls—passing, returning, departing, +sometimes in a long procession, busy, stately, as if they +were coming here, between the muzzles of the two +fishes, to conclude their tour of the world.</p> + +<p>Before this huge spectacle of the bay of New York, +this incessant passing of vessels, this amplitude of ocean +that is offered to the eye of the little tutor, sitting and +musing there on the ridge, his rustic Concord soul communes +with itself and wonders if it could become acclimatized +here. This hour is the best of the day, and on this +<span class="pagenum" id="page_97">97</span>hill-top he recovers his balance. Yes, the sea alone can +mitigate the separation. It is like the winds that blow +in the woods at home. But if, at the foot of the hill or +on his return from a walk, there were only some friend +with whom he could talk as a brother! Or if he could +merely find himself again in some circle of familiar +silence bathed in an atmosphere of trust! For Henry +solitude is an old and honoured acquaintance: but never +till now has it wearied him as it sometimes wearies him +here. There are no human faces about him on the island—for +all these New York families who come over to +spend the summer—save an old fisherman, a neighbour, +who invites him to come to the beach and see the beautiful +shad he has caught. So Staten Island is not a desert +island; it is inhabited by old Smith in whose presence he +feels happy as a man and a fresh-water fisherman himself.</p> + +<p>In a rapid, sloping hand, cut with dashes for punctuation, +Henry writes affectionate letters to his family and +friends in Concord—an extraordinary number of letters +for him. This cheers him up when the unsavoury food +of his days, served on the Judge’s table, leaves on his +palate an after-taste of exile. He entreats his mother for +details of the life at home, for news of everybody, including +Aunt Louisa, whose benignant face smiles upon him +like an apparition from the wall of his room, and Cousin +George Minot. The lonely boy ingenuously commits all +sorts of enormities: he, with his sovereign contempt for +newspapers, asks them to send him the Concord paper. +Of course it is perfectly idiotic there, but how good it +would be here, alone on the hill in the evening, or in his +room, to have a taste of the printed news from home! +And business, the pencils? And the vegetable garden? +Henry is still so full of Concord that, when he wakes up +at night he can hardly believe that the sound of the +neighbouring sea is not that of the wind among the woods +<span class="pagenum" id="page_98">98</span>of his childhood. In his dreams he sits under the poplar +behind his father’s house, sure that he is going to spend +his whole life there. He has bought a new pair of pantaloons +which have cost him $2.25 ready-made; the stockings +are wearing well, for they are properly made—knitted +at home. His mother need have no fears: his +outfit will not have to be renewed yet—it withstands the +new climate as well as its master’s frame. Henry is +going through a period of strange mental lethargy, which +makes him think of his waggish Uncle Charles, the +famous wrestler who was so speedily overthrown by the +demon of sleep, in the very middle of a conversation or +even while he was shaving. And he also thinks of his +brother, in his grave now for more than a year.... He +writes to Waldo. How conceal the fact that he grates +upon William and Susan Emerson as much as these +excellent people grate upon him? His pupil is clever and +is making progress, but nothing about him wins the +affection of his tutor. He takes after the Judge. As for +your brother, your sister-in-law, your nephews, dear +Waldo, you can’t guess how much further away one +feels from them, thinking of you and yours and the years +passed in the little white house! He writes to Lidian. +How are the flowers getting on in her garden? Are the +weeds coming up too fast? She must have a new gardener. +And the chickens? And do they go huckleberrying +as they used to do? The poor woman is not +well and she has told him about her difficulties; and in +his own solitude, in his affection and respect, her old +right-hand man feels more grateful than ever to this +noble friend. Henry has a heavy heart, but as he breathes +these dear odours of Concord his hand does not tremble. +His advice to a sick friend is an exhortation to fortitude; +his letters to Waldo are as luminous as the conversations +they had had when they were off together on some +<span class="pagenum" id="page_99">99</span>excursion in the fields. The exile dreams, collects his +thoughts, struggles against his debility. The penholder +and the pocket inkstand which Elizabeth Hoar, Emerson’s +friend, had given him for his journey, are there +like a feminine invitation. He translates the “Seven +Against Thebes,” and even composes for the <i>Dial</i> a +piece that is full of visions of dear Concord, <i>A Winter +Walk</i>. If it comes out well he will send it off for the +next number. He can only follow from afar the little +review they are making among themselves, imprinting +it with a style all its own; but how he loves it as a ray of +light, an annunciation—and how he loves its disdain for +commercial methods.</p> + +<p>As for the nearby metropolis, visible to the North, +Henry was not satisfied with observing it from the hill-top +when his evening thought interrogated the horizon. +Since the first month of his arrival he had profited by +his Saturdays to go over and see New York. It was +easy: a half-hour’s walk on the road that passed in front +of the house, then three-quarters of a mile along the +shore to the village of Castleton, where you took the +boat. In the city he went at once to see two young +friends of Emerson, clerks in an office. They had a +drink together. Thanks to these pleasant boys he did +not feel alone in this pandemonium, where everything +shocked and grated on his country nerves. Then he +went to see a few sights that would serve as landmarks, +the Station, the Reservoir, the National Academy. +He was not living so far away; he would come back. +Such a big morsel was not to be swallowed at one mouthful. +But there was one sight that had struck the Concord +boy much more than any of the monuments mentioned in +the guide-books: the crowd, the flood of faces in this +Babel of a metropolis. The churches, the Stock Exchange, +the great pretentious buildings were mean, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_100">100</span>vulgar, insupportable. But the crowd surging through +the canyon-like streets was a phenomenon that surpassed +all these monuments, whether they were dedicated to +the worship of gold, God or the devil. Nothing like +this in Boston; it was a revelation. He would not forget +the name of this power. The crowd, yes, the herd that +counted for so little beside the individual. But what if +the hum that rose from these swarms of nobodies, this +surge of faces in the great arteries, did correspond to the +waves that he had seen rushing together in the Narrows, +or beating the shores of the metropolis? He had the +impression that this human flood could, when it wished, +submerge these stupid cubes of stone. The crowd had +imposed itself on little man.</p> + +<p>Henry returned to the city whenever he could. He +would have returned oftener were it not for the expense. +The boats left every hour, but you had to pay your fare, +and he was in rather bad straits. The distances were +great in the city, and he would have taken the stage +often had it not been for this miserable impecuniosity. +If only that wretch of an editor who had published one +of his articles with a promise of remuneration and who +pretended to be dead would only have paid him! He +was obliged to space out his visits to New York. He +went to see Henry James, the Swedenborgian, a little +plump, rosy, lame man who looked like a broker. Henry +spent three hours talking with him: in the questions +the latter asked he came into touch with a soul of wisdom +and goodness that refreshed him. One of those +men who were able to enliven a city whose tawdry +buildings disheartened him. By degrees the villager +became used to the monster. He went to read in the +libraries, where he found the magazines and one or two +substantial mouthfuls like Carlyle’s last article; especially +the Mercantile Library, the keeper of which, an +<span class="pagenum" id="page_101">101</span>old Harvard tutor, had given him a card of admission +for a month. Moreover, in spite of this mental lethargy +from which he suffered, he did not forget one of the +reasons that had led him to try New York. He had +come with the idea of seeing how the land lay in the +literary world. Horace Greeley, the editor-in-chief of +the <i>Tribune</i>, upon whom he called, made a good impression +on him. They talked over the experimental +phalansteries, in which Horace had more faith than +Henry. Horace was a strong and important connection. +He recommended the beginner to the <i>Democratic Review</i> +which accepted his paper “The Landlord,” for its +October number. This was no great source of wealth, +for the magazine was poor and only paid famine prices. +So he thought it would be a good thing to find something +else, for there was always this irritating question +of money. Henry held his lethargy in check and +boldly called upon publishers and editors; there might +be one who needed a young writer like himself, just +fresh from his village, a fruit of the orchards of Concord +with their bloom still on him. One of them proposed +some work that an honest man could not do. Another +jingled the $50,000 in profits which he made year in, +year out, just by letting well enough alone. No doubt, +no doubt. This chinking of dollars made Henry feel +that he was rich enough to despise them. There was +nothing much to tempt him indeed among fellows like +that. It was just as it was in Concord; no one needed +him, and those who would have liked to give him a +welcome were unable to pay him. He had gone the +rounds of the magazines; those that he had thought of +as possible had obliging contributors by the dozen. +There was, to be sure, the <i>Ladies’ Companion</i>, which +paid; but he was not likely to stray into that company. +Ask somebody else, dear lady. And yet he was absolutely +<span class="pagenum" id="page_102">102</span>obliged to earn a little money. So Henry spent a +whole day hawking <i>The Agriculturist</i> about New York. +This was less humiliating than scribbling for a trashy +publisher. If there was nothing for a writer to do in +New York, he would wait for luckier days. The Republic +of Letters would not die, nor would Henry either. +He would retire in good order, as light in money and +the hope of money as when he arrived. His flat purse, +on his return as on his departure, would serve to identify +him....</p> + +<p>But have you reckoned up exactly what you are +bringing back, my friend? It is more than your purse +would hold. Or even your portmanteau, between your +socks and your books. Your wealth, young man of +Concord, is solid and durable in a different way from +the ready-made trousers you have bought in New York. +The experience of the literary market—how much do +you think that is worth? You have watched these +shopkeepers, big and little, at their counters; while +they were talking, you have caught the odours from the +back-shop. These few glimpses were enough for you +to divine the flavour of their cooking, their motives, +the quality of their trade. The most generous of them +could not pay for your collaboration a more royal +price than that of this experience. At twenty-six, when +you are beginning, to know once and for all that the +literary market is a market like other markets, to which +you bring your merchandise, which will remain on +your hands if it does not suit the taste of the customer; +to know that the career of letters as you understand it +is not a trade that enables a man to subsist and that +there is no profit of money for you to hope for in this +way ... tie up this truth tight in your handkerchief +and keep it as the rarest of your arrow-heads.</p> + +<p>And this ocean of faces in the streets, on the wharves, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_103">103</span>the human flood of New York—how much is it worth, +from your point of view, to have coasted along that and +felt it beat against you? The passionate individualist +is in rebellion against the power of the mass. But it has +fascinated you, disturbed you; its magnetism has impressed +you at the first contact. A mob, undoubtedly. +But with a movement as grand and sweeping as that of +the clouds and the winds and the waves. And the +watery surroundings of the city, that luxuriance of +ocean and horizon and ships, absorbed from the hill-top, +and those long walks on the shore—do you imagine +they have not affected you also? Recall those crowds +of immigrants you have seen passing, stopping for a day +or two, pent up on a wharf, men, women, children, +tattered but so very human, so real, washing their linen +unconcernedly, cooking their dinner in the open air, +whole families come from the four corners of the Old +World to seek their fortunes in the hospitable West. +Always the mob, observed with a distrustful sympathy +by a savage who will never admit that man can keep +his quality as a man by mingling in the mob. Yes, but +in this swarm of poor wretches, encamped on a wharf, +among these playing, whining children, these mothers +sitting on their bundles of clothing, has it not occurred +to you as you observed them with the eye of an artist +fascinated by this picturesque parade, that there might +be some Henry going West with his tools and his fortune +and a soul as rich as your own or even greater? In any +case, your glances have scrutinized this horde on the +march and recognized human faces in transit. And what +remains to you from this must not be forgotten when +you balance your accounts.</p> + +<p>Have you lost your homesickness? Has even your +health been strengthened by the air of the bay? When +you go home, you will remember, with a leaping of the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_104">104</span>heart that will warm the November air, how much +you have been repaid for your months of exile by all +that those crowds, that ocean, those wharves, those +steamers have left in you—yes, and those hours of solitude +when, from the top of the hill, your sick soul was +fed by the play of the storm and the sunlight and the +moonlight at midnight over the bay. And that sound +of the sea which you have heard in your bed in the +silence of the Judge’s house, and the spectacle of the sun +rising from the Atlantic—do you think they will not +add something to the magnificence of the sunset when +you have contemplated it anew from your riverside +heights of Musketaquid?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_105">105</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="IV"> + IV + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The dear presences are ranged about you there, in +the centre of that universe for which you have longed; +it is good there, and what does the rest matter? For a +lover who has been nourished exclusively on his dreams +for six months, the joy of return surpasses everything. +It is winter; but what warms Henry is not merely the +sticks in the stove. All Concord offers its warmth for +his return.</p> + +<p>He finds his father still busy with the pencils. What +if he were to turn in and help? All right, the pencils. +The lead seems less grey in the delight of his return. +Since he has nothing to look for in a literary way, and +no opportunity offers for the moment, he will stay at +home and attend to the pencil business with his father. +Doesn’t it occur to you that a miserable little piece +of lead imprisoned between two sticks of cedar-wood +may be unworthy of your attention? It is not quite +what you have dreamed of, perhaps. But Henry knows +the secret. For there is a secret. So much so that it +would be a mistake for anyone who has no business +there to approach the workshop where the Thoreaus, +father and son, manufacture their product.</p> + +<p>The business had made progress since the time when +the unlucky store-keeper had bethought himself of competing +with Monroe, the Concord pencilmaker. It was +quite a story. The native pencils were not good for +much, even Monroe’s, in spite of the process he had +invented; they had the disagreeable grain of poor, +scratchy, brittle, inefficient pencils. No chance of holding +out in the market beside the imported English pencils, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_106">106</span>and especially the incomparable Fabers from Germany. +So something better had to be tried if they were +to satisfy people who liked good pencils. To obtain +a good pencil, everything depended on the treatment +and the preparation of the graphite, which came from +Sturbridge, then from Canada, and which the elder +Thoreau had especially ground for him at Acton. The +first thing was to reduce the graphite to a very fine +powder, which was obtained by means of an ingenious, +primitive machine that enabled them to collect exclusively +the finest dust from the material ground in the +mill. This was a great point gained. After this the +softness of the pencil depended on the product mixed +with the pulverized graphite, upon so composing the +paste that, once hardened, it would produce that delicate, +firm substance that glides on the paper between +your fingers, leaving a fine, vigorous mark, of a beautiful +grey-black, and not that dim, vague mark that bad pencils +have. Hitherto the elder Thoreau had produced +this effect, like his predecessor Monroe, by the use of +spermaceti or bayberry wax mixed with glue, while +there entered into the composition of the Faber pencils +a certain clay that was found in Bavaria. They succeeded +in procuring this. The result was remarkable. +After much groping and difficulty they at length arrived +at the goal of their efforts, the perfect pencil. It was +awarded a first medal at the exposition of mechanical +arts in Salem. Henceforth they could hold their own +in competition with the English pencils of pure graphite +or even the Fabers with their skilful proportioning of +graphite and Bavarian clay. But they could not think +of turning out a pencil as cheap as these. The Thoreau +pencils cost twenty-five cents, in spite of which many +teachers of drawing who saw how excellent they were +recommended them to their pupils. A friend, Horace +<span class="pagenum" id="page_107">107</span>Hosmer, was the traveller for the house. So the business +was not bad. But they also had to watch carefully +lest someone else should steal the process. This explained +the mystery that surrounded the great work—the +mystery of the mill at Acton where they ground the +graphite, the mystery of the very primitive workshop, +adjoining the house, where, with a workman who +could be trusted not to give them away, they manufactured, +finished, packed and shipped the choice article. +Six dollars a gross, and the daily bread of the family +depended on it.</p> + +<p>In these researches, these experiments, this final +success, Henry played an ample part. It was he who +had found out in some reference-book about this clay +which the masters of the pencil industry used in Germany, +and who had contrived two or three pieces of +apparatus of capital importance, notably for the cutting +out of the slabs of hardened paste and the drilling of the +blocks of wood that were destined to receive the lead. +So long as it was a question of producing a fine pencil +that would be satisfying to exacting draughtsmen, you +could count on his skill and his zeal; to conquer a difficulty +was the business of the admirable Henry, master +of ingenious arts. But when the end was attained the +pencil-factory left him rather lukewarm; it was a simple +affair of exploiting an invention and reaping profits. +All very well for his family who lived by it. But if the +equilibrium of the family rested on the lead-pencils, his +equilibrium had a less friable foundation. He would +help his father, yes, as much as was necessary. But sell +his entire life in pencils, no, thank you; he had other +fish to fry. With his life he wrote poems—even without +a pencil.</p> + +<p>Working in the paternal factory was then, after all, +only a makeshift. Always the same story: the pencils +<span class="pagenum" id="page_108">108</span>were his father’s business. Even though it was enough +to keep them all afloat, Henry was unwilling to be a +charge on his family. He must earn a little outside and +butter with a little independence the bread that he ate +at home. But how? School-teaching, tutoring, already +had a rather stale taste. A page turned—look further.</p> + +<p>This thing that is rolling in his head, turning over and +over, this trifle of one’s daily bread, is a great problem +when you don’t follow the beaten track that leads to +ease and self-disgust. He is not stupider or clumsier than +other people; he is qualified in all sorts of lines and has +plenty of good will. Who is going to profit by employing +him in some way in which he knows he can do a +good job? Mystery. Unless you are looking for a +flogging schoolmaster for your children, or a scribbler +of copy, or a clerk, or a servant by the year, or an animal +that will place himself in the shafts, here I am with +hands at the ends of my long arms, five strong fingers +on each hand, a trade at the end of each of my ten +fingers, and a head full of resources. I am twenty-seven +years old and have not travelled very much, but I know +enough about the world and myself not to sell you my +beautiful liberty, except in bits. Ask me for a day, two +days, three days of work; from childhood I have been +used to manual labour, I have always been a good gardener, +in a house I have taken the place of several workmen, +I can build a boat, and in the woods I am as much +at home as a wood-cutter. Give me the tools and you +will see. My hands and my brain and my good will +are for anyone who wants to take them for a dollar a +day.</p> + +<p>And you will get something for your dollar, I promise +you. <i lang="fr">Noblesse oblige.</i> When one has the honour to be +called Henry Thoreau, one doesn’t do one’s work by +halves. One respects one’s work, whether it is for +<span class="pagenum" id="page_109">109</span>someone else or for oneself, because one respects oneself. +At your service.</p> + +<p>After various experiments, Henry, graduate of Harvard, +son and grandson and great-grandson of merchants, +has already made his choice. The lot he desires most, +as the happiest and the freest, and the worthiest as +well, is that of a day-labourer, who cuts off a slice of his +time to sell, when he must, but takes good pains not to +sell the whole loaf. He knows that fifty days of work a +year will be enough to pay for his keep, such as it is. +And all the other days, six each week, will be for God +and himself, for his own private affairs.</p> + +<p>Manual labour is not only the most congenial to his +tastes: it is that which agrees the best with an intellectual +worker. Above your toiling hands, the spirit cheerfully +pursues its free play, thanking the hands for placing it +in so cordial a relation with this beautiful material +world, so richly veined, the sight of which refreshes and +attracts it. The day-labourer who treasures his time +escapes from the damnable routine of the salaried work +that devours your soul. When you engage me, I shall +do for you everything that a clever, skilful man who puts +his heart into his work can do. But when your work +is finished I shall go back to my own which requires no +assistance. I append to my offers of service a programme +of the things you can ask me to do: fence in +your land, plant your young trees, dig, build a wall, +set up the frame of a house, cut your wood, whitewash +your walls, hang wall-paper, etc., etc., etc.... And if +you have a leaking pail or a door that is off its hinges, +I shall attend to them into the bargain. I am not +particular. Work has no terrors for me. There is not +an Irish labourer of them all—you see those strapping +fellows who are laying out the ground about the village +for the new railroad?—who has waded in the swamps +<span class="pagenum" id="page_110">110</span>as much as I have done, for my own pleasure. It knows +me well, that mud. Tilling the ground for Tom, Dick +and Harry for a few days for the sake of earning five +dollars is what you call servile, back-breaking work. +(You tell me this, you who spend the day adding up +figures for an employer, you who bow and scrape to +customers from behind your counter, morning and afternoon, +sunshine or snow....) Come! Do you expect +me to shudder at this rough work? Feel the callous on +my palms. You don’t know how cheerily the handle +of a pickaxe or a hoe slips between fingers that have +smoothed and stroked it as fellow-diggers and delvers. +Servile labour? Fine masks with white hands, look at +Henry toiling out there in the field if you want to see a +fellow whose work does not enslave him at all. While +you are adding up your ciphers or calculating your +phrases, I am adding up my strokes of the pickaxe or +the billhook, and smelling the earth and the turf and +the bark around me. Yes, hire me to do work in my +own line and I shall do it less for the money than for +the love of the labour of my hands. Don’t worry, I shall +not give you time enough to disgust me. So take me for +what I am worth, and you will have a workman who +will treat you as he would like to have the other fellow +treat him.</p> + +<p>Henry looks about him. Who wants a fellow like +this? Don’t all speak at once. If he could secure a day +here and a day there it would encourage him to believe +that it is really possible in this world for an honest man +who can do everything to earn his bread. But the +lovers of good work do not seem to be very numerous. +Only the friends at whose houses he drops in for a meal +or who stop as they pass him seem to appreciate the +varied talents of a clever young man. And if you only +knew what a pleasure it is, for a fellow who flatters +<span class="pagenum" id="page_111">111</span>himself that he is no bungler, to feel that he is appreciated, +without any compliments, at his real worth. As +a general thing, you have to work for some dull soul +who naturally takes you for a creature of his own kind; +all he wants for his dollar is the strength of your hoofs +and your back, without the slightest regard for the real +extent of your competence. The employer, in short, +in all his worldly splendour.</p> + +<p>Suppose he were to try some of those little trades that +do not catch a man up in the greedy machinery of their +routine, only to leave him at the end empty of his pulp, +flat as an apple in a cider-press? Henry has often +thought of this. In summer when he sees the boys +bringing back baskets of huckleberries to sell to the important +villagers whose dignity or lofty occupations +prevent them from running about the fields, he says to +himself: I am as much of a vagabond as they are.... +I should like to do that too. Or he could make baskets, +trays and all sorts of fine, durable, useful things out of +birch-bark. Why not? The manufacture of sand-paper +would be lucrative if he could get a few customers. He +invents various contrivances that might be exploited, +such as a rule for measuring cords of wood. But the +superintendent of the city hay-scales in Boston tells +him that the wood-dealers would never hear of this +because it would put an end to their swindling. No, +the best thing is to try surveying. Henry has devised +his own compass and chain and is ready to measure +other people’s property to the very confines of the +earth. He can be relied upon as a surveyor.</p> + +<p>But whether or not the world offers him employment +for his faculties, it will never get him into the mill of +“wholesome work,” extolled by the preachers and held +up as an example to the sons of the family. Let the +parish make the best of its bereavement: he has not +<span class="pagenum" id="page_112">112</span>the makings of a respectable citizen. “You must get +your living by loving”—isn’t that so, Henry? And not +earn your bread by being turned into dough? That’s +the main thing. He will make shift as he can on the +ragged edge of society, if society has no place for an +individual like him. Meanwhile, far from groaning +over his lot, he loves it to the very marrow and would +not exchange it for an empire. Concord is richer than +all the empires in the heart of old Asia, and Henry +Thoreau, a day-labourer without a job, feels that he is in +the heart of rich Concord, the king of a limitless country +of which every day he brings back a little of the earth +sticking to his boots. Though he may end his days in a +poor-house, nothing can take away this triumphant +happiness which he experiences in living responsive to +the instinct that rings in him like gold.</p> + +<p>If you are industrious in your own way and not in +the accepted fashion, you must not be surprised if you +pass for a loafer. That is the way of things. In the +eyes of the sober folk around you an inaptitude for +business is the very mark of inferiority. Think of it, +an American who cares nothing about getting on.... +What’s more, a Yankee, without the slightest relish for +trading, who seems to be positively bent on remaining +poor.... It’s preposterous, it’s even rather presumptuous. +Among the mandarins of the village there is +scant sympathy for this little whipper-snapper of a +schoolmaster who has audaciously pronounced against +the rod and holds aloof from church, charitable circles, +politics. And that surly eye, the gruff tone of his replies +and his cutting words.... When they see him passing +down the village street, under the dome of the great +elms, or crossing their fields, a Henry who lives heaven +knows how and seems to have his pockets full of leisure, +the good people sneer, smile knowingly or shrug their +<span class="pagenum" id="page_113">113</span>shoulders as much as to say: “You bleed yourself to +send a boy to college.... He’s been spoiled.... Behaving +like a millionaire ... running about the woods +all day like a schoolboy, lounging in his boat on the +river.... If he had no brains it wouldn’t matter, but +he’s clever enough when he wants to take the trouble, +the lazy good-for-nothing....”</p> + +<p>If they were able to read the mind of this “lazy good-for-nothing” +who marches along, with head bent, +sloping shoulders, clenched fists, in his old workingman’s +togs, they might hear a much finer sermon for +their own sins present and to come. But the good +people are a little hard of hearing, and they would not +understand, anyhow! On the other hand, he has taken +their measure as exactly as if he had used his surveyor’s +outfit, when surveying their precious land for them. +If they are “society,” Henry, the simpleton, the ne’er-do-well, +the good-for-nothing, the village fool, is of the +unsociable kind. He sets out for adventure in disgust +at money and the evil-smelling varnish with which +money covers existence. There is no spite in this retirement, +none of the peevishness of the misunderstood +soul who has been deceived in his hopes. He goes +simply to seek elsewhere the feeling of another humanity +that must exist somewhere, perhaps under the bark +of the trees. Even in the main street of the village, how +much more moving is the presence of the great elms +than the fronts of the neighbouring houses!</p> + +<p>Come, good people, would you like to see a savage, +a real one, not one of those of whom your grandfathers +told you, whom they perhaps never saw? Watch this +little man passing at the bottom of your pasture, avoiding +the habitations that are set about like snares through +the countryside, on the way to his daily rendezvous. +Do not waste your precious time attempting to follow +<span class="pagenum" id="page_114">114</span>him, natives of Concord. His savagery would soon +leave you behind.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When you are neither the lawyer nor the doctor, nor +even the principal shopkeeper of the town, you naturally +have to go without the legitimate prestige that attaches +to these functions. To be a day-labourer, even though +you are the son of a pencil-manufacturer, is to be condemned +to live outside the luminous circle in which these +incontestable powers move. It is to dedicate yourself +to an obscure destiny.</p> + +<p>No doubt, but this has its compensations. They are +insufficient, you will tell me; but are you sure of this? +The great advantage of being a day-labourer, free to +hire yourself out as you please and cheerfully pocket your +dollar or two, is that you keep the brightest of your +time for your own affairs. These little personal affairs +are nobody’s concern; but, great or small, they are +your own. Admit that they have the same claims as a +vocation and everything yields to what is most important.</p> + +<p>Henry’s vocation is to start out every afternoon, +rain or shine, for half the day, three, four hours or more, +according to the occasion and the season, half for adventure, +half with an object, in search of.... In search of +what, indeed? Does one ever know? Simply in search.</p> + +<p>He does not set out for amusement like a sedentary +man who is taking his constitutional; he sets out like an +artist towards the studio where his work is awaiting +him. This excursion is the very core of the day, the +condition of the creative hours that will give him his +knowledge and his reward. Ask Henry for anything +you wish, money, a good pencil, a helping hand, but +do not suggest that he might sacrifice his precious afternoon; +he will send you packing. The afternoon is +<span class="pagenum" id="page_115">115</span>reserved for work, his work. Amid the little tasks of +the day, this is the big affair. Henry punctually responds +to the call of the hour, which has no sound of duty for +him: it has a commanding charm. If some obstacle +interferes with his outing, some urgent task or illness, +he is as miserable as a lover who has missed his rendezvous. +The day is spoilt. It is the empty day of one +who has failed in his work. And if he is forced to keep +to his room for several days running, he is as despondent +as a girl over a sad story. Henry in a cage feels himself +becoming soft. It is as if he were deprived of his food.</p> + +<p>As a rule, he goes off alone, for labours of love demand +this strict intimacy. No annoying person, no idler, no +lover of the “joys of the country” to pester you with his +questions, his chatter, when you are out on business. +Not at any price. But when your friend, who is a +congenial soul, accompanies you, there are three of you, +for William’s dog is of the party. The dog hunts for +his profit, as the two companions seek for theirs.</p> + +<p>On occasion Henry devotes himself to fishing, but this +is rare. He never hunts any more; he has sold his gun. +The game that he starts to-day is no longer that which he +pursued in his boyhood, with his brother. Instead of +the fowling-piece on the strap, he is likely to carry under +his arm, if it is the season for flowers, an old music-book +in which he can press specimens of plants that he wants +to keep. And in his pockets, which are as roomy as +wallets, you will be sure to find his field-glass for observing +distant objects, his magnifying-glass for examining +the ground, his big knife, a ball of twine, and perhaps a +bite to eat, if he has set out for the whole day. But you +don’t know him if you think that without the old music-book +he would have any difficulty in bringing back some +occasional vegetable discovery. He drops in at your +house for a moment on his way back from some expedition, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_116">116</span>and you notice the care with which he sets down +his old straw hat in the hall; its interior is skilfully +arranged for receiving frail plants or flowers without +bruising or crushing them. Henry carries his herbarium +on his head and braves under this friendly protection the +rain and the sun. He is indeed equipped from top to +toe for the most perilous expeditions, for the leather of +his brogues is proof against mud and brush. His trouser-ends +are thrust into his boots, a sign that he is not going +out for an afternoon call or even going to follow the +main road.</p> + +<p>Concord is connected with the world by the roads. +A villager only sets out from the village when his business +takes him to some neighbouring village. What lies +between the roads is indifferent to him, unless he happens +to have something to do there. For this reason there +are vast, empty stretches between the roads and around +the farms where you never meet a soul, for no serious +man could possibly find anything worth his while +there; haunts of animals, weeds, thickets, mud-holes +and trees that are allowed to grow as they please. +The surroundings of Concord abound in solitudes, and +these are Henry’s studio. He has his favourite nooks +and corners where the soil is bad or barren, untilled, +abandoned, chaotic, marshy, with clumps of trees, +large ponds, cliffs. The luxuriant, aromatic vegetation +of swampy ground is a feast for him, for he is a regular +glutton, this lean little fellow. Around Fairhaven, to +the South, there are stretches of country that will return +to haunt him in his last hour—Conantum, Baker Farm; +and over there, towards the west, as far as Second +Division Brook, one can walk in a veritable cloud of +revelations. It is just the same to the north, the Easterbrook +country, and Mason’s Pasture—abandoned orchards +that have surrendered again to the moss, the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_117">117</span>rocks and the underbrush, fields of huckleberries and +barberries, and wild apple trees among the birches and +pines. And the Great Meadows and Walden Woods.... +And those old grass-grown roads, wandering at their +own will, without a living soul, without a house or a +landmark, their forgotten tracks leading heaven knows +whither, but where you feel so much at home; brotherly +roads that take you by the arm as you leave the village +behind and lead you along till they are lost themselves +in the wilderness. The wild grasses that people call +weeds seem sweeter to you than the tractable plants of +good family. They belong to your own family. They +like to straggle along the old roads, just as you do, far +from the little gardens where the sober box-wood +grows.</p> + +<p>Concord is also united with the world by two rivers, +the lively one and the sluggish one, which are not navigable +for trade. The domain of the waters which, in the +spring and autumn floods, lops off an inordinate amount +of the surrounding country, belongs to no one and is +free to all. The two rivers are yours if you want them. +Accept their gladness and their freshness; no one will +dispute them with you. That fisherman over there +wants nothing but their fish.</p> + +<p>It is towards one or another province of this domain +that Henry, freed from the little tasks of the morning, +turns each day with the soul of an explorer. The house +where he has slept and spent the morning between four +walls has a musty smell. He must leave it behind to get +the poison out of his system, set out at midday to receive +the shock of the wind and the sunlight. He is off for +discovery. Soon the village and its rancid taste are far +in the walker’s rear.</p> + +<p>The point now is to keep clear of the tilled lots that +bore him, like those people who are so cultivated that +<span class="pagenum" id="page_118">118</span>he wants to turn his back on them. It is to foil the eye +of the house-fronts that are watching among the trees, +to avoid the roads and those people who, flourishing +some phrase of village wisdom, are capable of spoiling +his whole day. By foot-paths and short-cuts known +from of old Henry steals between the farms, like a +marauder who is anxious to escape the owner’s observation. +At last he has emerged from the danger-zone; he +is on the threshold of a region where his studious sauntering +will be troubled by no further undesirables. The +beautiful hours of the day begin, the fruitful hours. +The inspector visits a corner of the bad ground, pauses, +examines, calculates the harvest. How much this poor +soil yields! And how vast the domain is! Within a +radius of ten miles about the village, the surprises that +await him are so marvellous and so numberless that his +whole life will not suffice to exhaust them.</p> + +<p>So Henry is the busiest man in Concord. The rest of +you on your little farms cannot imagine the concerns +of a great farmer whose lands cover more than the +whole township. Nor can you imagine them, you men +of business. Henry does not close his store on Sundays +and holidays. Henry has no master who employs him. +He is an incomprehensible donkey who works for himself +and never stops. In other words, a skulker. Such is +the opinion of those great toilers who, after the day’s +work is over, twist about in their chairs with their +newspapers in their hands, enjoying their poor hours of +liberty and fulfilling the rites of the Sunday boredom. +This fellow seems to pay no attention to the rites. +Active in his silence, without appearing to be so, he is +off at his work. He alone knows the demands of this +work and the wages. A true loafer, this lad after whom +a certain farm-hand, emboldened by drink, shouts: +“Hello, Mister, what do you think of the walking?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_119">119</span></p> + +<p>Henry’s work? Yes, walking, just that. But how +explain to this country simpleton and his kind what +walking means for a born walker who practises the art +of walking, with all its emotions, its discoveries, the +great expectations that it arouses and the work at which +it aims? Two, three miles away from the village square +you are in the midst of the unknown, familiar as the +place may be to you. In you there awakens a world +of relations that Main Street in Concord has never been +able to set vibrating. It has a reality so strange that +sometimes you ask yourself if the country of the Arabian +Nights begins on the outskirts of Concord or if it is the +village ant-heap itself that is unreal. These streams of +living things flowing beyond human control for the +mere joy of being are fragments of a great poem that +will find their completion perhaps only in you—strange +man who comes day after day to surprise them, observe +them, weigh their words and penetrate to their rhythm. +All the confidences of which you have been the depository +since childhood have woven between this wild life +and your own (less wild?) a web of intimacy so strong +that to break it would be to tear yourself to pieces. In +what language, through what images, can you make the +tame people understand the force of this old passion +that drives the heart of an untamed man into the heart +of this wild nature?</p> + +<p>The object of your expedition? What does it matter? +At the end there is always some conquest, big or little. +Follow the direction that is indicated by the magnetic +needle of your instinct. Perhaps the thought of some +particular chum that you have promised to go and see +has decided you. For you have well-tried friendships +out there amid the waste of trees, weeds and ponds. +To-day Henry has passed and heard the news from this +old boy that lives far away over there, like a squire on +<span class="pagenum" id="page_120">120</span>his lands. He walks with an alert step, stops, his eye +watching, listens, bends over, picks some flower, +examines it, full of spirits, transformed, his heart high. +All these familiar faces salute him as he passes. He has +acquaintances on every side. No one who has known +him at such a moment as this could ever see him as the +stiff, purse-lipped fellow, bored and hardly concealing +it, who has to keep such a tight hold on himself and his +sarcastic impulses in polite company. It is a new man +that these friendly presences stir into life. Among his +own kindred he has recovered his humanity. He keeps +his wry face for society. Here he expands, he is himself, +he is real. Sometimes it is as if these open spaces were +all one fast friendship that intoxicates him like a drink +between old cronies.</p> + +<p>Does all this astonish you? Perhaps the only things +you know are the four walls of your room, the doormat +that lies before your threshold and receives without +a tremor the petty dust of your routine, and the grey +ribbon that leads to your daily bread. This may be +enough for your imagination. But confess that you +have never set out for an adventure beyond your dooryard. +You have never risen well before dawn to go and +watch the awakening of the water-lilies and bring back +a dozen or so to put in a dish of water; you have never +got up at the first peep of the birds to climb the Cliffs +and watch from up there the white sea of fog strewn +with the crests of the mountains like islands of which +you wonder if the inhabitants are not at this very moment +watching your own. At the end of the day, when +the summer moon is in its first quarter, you have never +turned towards Conantum to listen to the sounds of +the twilight, while you study through your spyglass +the neighbouring slopes that look as immense as the +Andes: a scrap of the song of a boy on his way home, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_121">121</span>the trumpeting of the bull-frogs or a horse in the distance +neighing in a meadow. You have never walked miles +and miles at a stretch to go and watch, from one season +to another, the growth of a plant, as many as ten times +in a fortnight, making detours and digressions to pass +other great friends of yours. You have not scrambled +up to the summit of a pine-tree to balance there, facing +an astonishing horizon, and climb down again to the +ground besmeared with resin but proud of having picked +the unknown flower that opens up there every summer +for the sole joy of adventurous man. You have never +even bent your spine—not once—to study the landscape +through your legs and observe the surprising +things in a sky that is hung with pictures of the earth. +No, you have never dreamed of the resources that procure +for a born walker a thousand means of feeling +himself live.</p> + +<p>Surprised by a heavy rain, he remains for hours under +a tree, in the shelter of a roof of bark that he has made +in an instant with his knife, delightfully occupied in +studying the texture of the fiber or the minute vegetation +at the foot of the tree, while the shower tumbles and +splashes the earth about this man who feels a strange +well-being (he never feels less alone than in this laughing +cascade of merry drops).</p> + +<p>He finds himself before a clump of shrub-oaks, as +compact as a thicket, and instead of going round it he +plunges into it like a savage, going through it in a +straight line, bending down, pushing aside these branches +that are as hard as iron, regardless of rips and scratches +on his hands, regardless even of blinding himself, lost +in the embrace of the foliage but happy in bending its +tough arms.</p> + +<p>He becomes so infatuated with a swamp that he thinks +of remaining for a whole afternoon weltering in the mud, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_122">122</span>not to doctor his aching limbs but for the sheer delight +of breathing the rich aromas and listening to the hum +of the insects, not as a stranger, an intruder, but as an +equal, as if he were himself a sweet-flag meditating on +the strange happiness of its fate.</p> + +<p>He listens and listens again to the ineffable evening +song of the woodthrush ... <i>hi willy willy—ha willy +willy—o willy oh</i> ... which sounds continually, like +a tender prayer to the heart of man that he may remember, +or the <i>de-de-de</i> of the chickadees, trooping about +him as if they were in a playground.</p> + +<p>He watches the departure of the balloonists when the +ripe down of the milkweed embarks, free at last, on its +great voyage, after having awaited this moment all +summer, one seed crowded against another. He returns +from his expedition in the brush, covered with clinging +burs that absolutely insist upon travelling with him.</p> + +<p>He remains for three-quarters of an hour motionless +in the most uncomfortable position to watch a turtle +laying its eggs, or to observe a female nighthawk, rigid +on its nest and peering at him through its all but closed +eyelids.</p> + +<p>In mid-July, he takes his bath walking, as if on a road, +down some shallow river, his straw hat on his head, the +water up to his knees, then suddenly up to his neck, +observing the incidents of the road, the wayfarers whom +he passes, the irregularities of the ground, the waterplants +as shapely as sea-weeds, the molluscs, moving +along like himself, a turtle shambling by, the entrance +to the apartments of a musk-rat and that mother pout +advancing toward his naked self with her procession +of infants behind her ... a thousand of them at least +and all so credulous, so confiding ... the mother, +frightened at first by the monster barring her way, +returning to them, then becoming accustomed to the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_123">123</span>monster ... the little ones approaching and examining +his legs, tickling his toes.... They form such a cloud +that he can no longer see his feet in the clear water.</p> + +<p>He takes his boat and listens to the grinding of the +oars in the locks, which evokes for him all the odours +and sounds of a harbour, the swinging of the vessels in +the docks, or spends hours on the water fishing up +driftwood that he will carry home and use for making a +trestle to pull his boat up on the shore.</p> + +<p>He feels, as he witnesses the felling of a great pine-tree +a hundred feet high and four feet in diameter at the +base, as much anguish of heart as if he were present at +an execution, and he curses the executioner.</p> + +<p>He leans with his companion over a rippling brook +and sees their double image, two black heads, as big as +thumbs, William and Henry, looking as if they were +bending towards one another in this mirror of convex +bubbles, with the reflexion of the branch of a young +elm crowning them.</p> + +<p>He feasts like a blackbird on those huckleberries +which they call low blueberries and carries them home +by the pocketful, thinking that if he were a Canadian +he would also call them “bluets” and that if he were a +native of the country about Oulme in Normandy, not +far from the home of his great-grandparents, he would +say to the little girls: “Let’s pick some <i lang="fr">maurettes</i><!--not attested anywhere!-->; we +can eat as many as we like and keep the rest for preserves.”... +As a connoisseur he runs the whole gamut +of the whortleberry family, the wild grapes and the +cranberries, not forgetting the barberries.</p> + +<p>Best of all, in the old abandoned orchards, he gathers +those wild apples that are sour and crabbed enough to +set your teeth on edge but that later, when you eat +them after they have been softened by the frost, refresh +your palate with a delectable cider.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_124">124</span></p> + +<p>He inhales the fragrance of the plants in the moonlight +when the earth is breathing and the sounds have a +supernatural delicacy in the silence, or listens to the +hooting of the screech-owls whose wisdom is older and +greater than that of all the sages. He would like to +trifle away the whole night.</p> + +<p>He feels that everything has a message for him and +is awaiting his response—the layers on the sides of the +railroad cut, the fireflies in the meadows, thistles, puffballs, +migrating birds, and the immutable mountains +that he sees over there by the setting sun with their +grassy slopes where he pastures so often the flock of his +thoughts ... as if the vanished Indians still spoke to +him, those Indians who sprinkled the soil with arrow-heads +(look here, one more for his collection) and left +the very embers of their fires intact under a crust of earth.</p> + +<p>He is like a trapper who sets his traps after sunset and +visits them before dawn, a skilful trapper who knows +the likeliest places and varies his bait, and keeps from his +catch only the thing he is looking for, a thing that is +better than fur or meat.</p> + +<p>You think there is nothing here to sustain a man, +saturate his life, fill him with the desire to spend in such +company not just a few hours of afternoon but the +whole day? The beings whom Henry comes to visit +may not communicate with the aid of articulate language, +but they have a soul just the same: how happy he +would be to find a soul so expressive among his own +kind! Did you suppose that such company was to be +found only in drawing-rooms or the halls of the hotels +in the city? Pretentious human race that regards itself +as the salt of the earth! A little modesty, my neighbours. +Out beyond that stretch of space where the murmur of +your words is no longer heard, a man sees and hears +many things, but never one that is absurd.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_125">125</span></p> + +<p>Think of calling oneself impecunious with the great, +beautiful day before one and this swarming life around +Concord! This poor fellow goes off every day on his +visit to the waste lands to watch the growing things +their two mingled poverties yield.... Henry enjoys +that elemental happiness which is the breath of the +soul, freed from the load that burdens it—knowledge, +morality, prudence, laws. If he did not have so much +respect for the skin of a tree, he would like to cut with +his knife in the bark of that oak three simple letters:</p> + +<p class="center"> +H H H +</p> + +<p class="noindent"><i>Henry Happy Heathen.</i> It would be a curious design +on the bark and would recall those mysterious signs +which the Indians engraved to mark their passing. Or +Three Hatchets, to puzzle passers-by still more. And +then dance a wild jig around the tree at the thought of +the beautiful epitaph there, to be cut off some day and +set on a flat stone among the crosses and urns in a graveyard.</p> + +<p>He is happy without reason, because things are as +they are ... happy just as the river is happy as it +hastens to join its great sister and run with her down to +the sea ... or as the leaves of the poplar, fluttering +as they prattle the news which this gay little wind has +whispered to them as it passed. In the delight that he +shares with all these things he strews the landscape with +imaginary beings after his own heart. There are whole +families of them of whom he has never caught so much +as a glimpse, but who, as he knows, live there in the +spots where his dreams place them. From afar he greets +them as he passes, sure friends who must not be disturbed +at their work or in their serenity; it is enough to know +that they are there. Their presence helps him to endure +cheerfully the misery of the town.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_126">126</span></p> + +<p>With his own happiness chinking down in his pockets +like an arrow-head against the steel of his knife, Henry +marvels that he never encounters anyone on his expeditions. +So he is the only one to profit by all this? Not +one of his own kind dreams of disputing his pleasure +with him. I am greatly obliged to you all. How kind +of you to abandon the earth to me, while you, sober +souls, measure cotton behind your counters or spend the +whole afternoon sitting with your legs crossed on your +bench like a penitent! Take care or some green sprig +may thrust itself between the pages of your existence; +this would spoil the pious images that slip into your +book. Work on, and let me carry off in peace what you +despise. You will not prevent a lad who is up earlier +than you and passes your yard in the moonlight without +waking you from drawing from your land the profits he +is pleased to put into his own pocket. Let each have +his own share: you bear the costs and the risks and take +the money, and he in his poverty will collect the tithe. +The hail that ravages your harvest will be music in his +ears. You will never believe it; but unaware of it as +you may be, it is for him that all your work is done, +good people. You think you are the possessors, but it +is he who possesses you.</p> + +<p>Henry exercises with impudent freedom the privileges +that are common to all men. He has not surrendered +for the ownership of a miserable field or two his claims +to the whole earth. Henry knows his rights. He will +build a fence for you now and then at so much a yard, +but you cannot talk to him about Holy Property.</p> + +<p>Henry is the largest farmer in Concord. He collects +the revenues of a whole township. There are other +men in this world who, through carelessness or lack of +skill, utterly fail to perceive what belongs to them by +right. They are the indifferent souls who forget to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_127">127</span>take their share of the spectacle of the setting sun, the +beauty of men and women, the sea, the day, the night, +the trees, the lands of their neighbours. Well, it is for +them that the little god with the big boots, the great +nose, the thin chest, the long arms and the sloping +shoulders collects the inalienable share of the common +property.</p> + +<p>Suppose, some day, the village authorities, perceiving +the value for everyone of these journeys of a little god +who so carefully keeps up the forest paths and maintains +the right of way wherever men might like to go, were +to coax him into accepting an appointment, as, let us +say, Conservator of Waste Lands or Inspector of Swamps +or Curator of Indian Relics? Something like a liaison +officer between the wilderness and civilization. Of course +they would have to be tactful and appoint him without +any formal appointment. For in what form could they +make him accept the frightful idea of being any kind of +town official! With a little imagination they might be +able to find the formula that would permit him to remain +his own free self and yet receive a small allowance just +the same. Perhaps a little fund, or a commission, as in +the case of an explorer.... Yes, assuming that you +could find in the bosom of the town-council the slightest +sense of these fine shades. Hm ... let’s not be too +sanguine about it. But what a fine thing it would be +for the town to be assured for some trifling sum of the +services of a young man who has an eye for these treasure-chests +to which everyone can go and take what he +likes when he feels his soul in a cage behind the bars of +his dull days.... Have you no sense of your own +interest, you poor silly people? He demands nothing, +he complains of nothing. He has had his choice and +finds that he is amply indemnified for having squandered +all his capital in tilling the wastes; but it would be rather +<span class="pagenum" id="page_128">128</span>nice now if they were to assure him a pittance.... +So Henry dreams and scatters his fancies to the wind +along his path. Yes, of all possible employments it +strikes him that this is the one he would have accepted +most gladly, for he is prepared for it by a long apprenticeship, +and he could put into it so much of himself, so +much love.</p> + +<p>If it is for the sake of one young man of Concord that +the seasons arrange and vary their pageants, you may +imagine what obligations this favour imposes on him. +Henry sets out in all weathers, from one year’s end to +another, favoured by a porous soil that is sandy enough +to absorb the water. The festival of summer offers the +most plentiful programme, of course, for there is room +then for the longest of processions from dawn till dusk, +and the manager of the show is a spendthrift. It dazzles +us and leaves us with the impression of an unequalled +pomp when, after its mad extravagance, it has vanished +in a golden stream, sounding a glorious fanfare amid the +blazing bonfires of October. The illumined brow of the +tiniest hill is a murmur that mounts, swells, ends in a +clamour of farewell to the great artist who is disappearing. +Every tree unites in this in the words of its own +language and the accent of its spot of soil. Listen.... +The hickories express their thanks with orange words, +the oaks cry out in scarlet that makes the blacksmith’s +forge seem pale, the maples shout with a mad note of +crimson and yellow that spreads panic among the sober-minded. +A red flag unfurled would disappear in the +fires of this conflagration.</p> + +<p>It is as if a whole wild race of beings at the point of +death were confessing at last without reserve the delirious +thoughts of the year that have ripened in the +August sunlight. Every weed, to the very rim of the +forest, every leaf tries, before it vanishes, to be as sumptuous +<span class="pagenum" id="page_129">129</span>and beautiful and tempting as a flower. Even in +the streets of Concord, under the golden ruin of the +great elms, one asks oneself how the passers-by can +still cherish such beggarly thoughts. Then Henry’s +eyes, gorged with the purple, the red, the lemon-yellow, +the flame-colour, do not lose a crumb of the feast. They +devour the oriflammes of the great flag-day, offered once +a year to children and barbarians to satisfy their joy in +lively colours. And at this season, when the villagers no +longer go into the woods and he is alone under this +great rose-like oak, the deep scarlet of which forms so +intense a contrast to the green of the pines, he feels +stirring in himself a veritable troop of bohemians, good-for-nothings, +ne’er-do-wells, burning to join hands and +dance, shouting as if possessed.... The long festival +of summer at its mad end! It returns later, appears +for a moment to offer a last farewell, with a calm, +purified serene magnificence, in the golden days of Indian +summer with their flavour of ripe fruit, ruddy, sweet and +sunny.... Yes, the summer bears on its brow the +assurance of its triumph; it has the easy pride of wealth. +But the other seasons.... Are you so blind as to ignore +them?</p> + +<p>Admit for yourself that you have never discovered +what a different face the seasons wear at home from +that which they wear in the calendar. You may know +what it is to walk with great strides over a bed of dead +leaves, hearing them whisper like a crowd in a church at +the entrance of some expected personage. But it is a +safe wager that you know nothing of the real quality +of those naked, desolate, paralysed days at the end of +November when a man feels that the best thing he can +do is to stay in his own hole, that there can be absolutely +nothing for him to glean amid this death of all things. +But Henry has set out just the same, without much +<span class="pagenum" id="page_130">130</span>hope in his heart; and lo and behold, in the course of the +journey through this windy desert a beautiful surprise +is waiting to feed and enchant his imagination. He +returns with the sunlight in his heart, “as if from an +adventure.” What he has seen it has required the +nakedness of this dying November to permit him to +discover, and it is the very thing perhaps that he has +been vainly seeking so long in the abundance of the +year. There is not a living thing abroad but himself, +not an insect, not a flower, not a reflexion of real light, +and here is this wandering lunatic, marching along with +his hands in his pockets, waiting for the dismal day to +confide to him for safe-keeping the particles of illumination +and warmth that are hidden under its desolate +exterior. At this season, when the wild geese pass in +echelon, a thousand sometimes in a single day, the fancy +seizes him, when he is out of doors, to imitate their cry. +The means are at hand. You flap your elbows against +your sides, then utter through your nose, with your +neck stretched out: <em>snowack</em>. It is so good that a flock +on their journey up there are positively deceived by it +and do you the honour to take you for a goose—a wild +goose, let us hope.</p> + +<p>Winter has come. His visit is due, and since the first +snow-flakes a new joy has come to take the place of the +little old pleasures that still linger on. For this jolly +newcomer, who has the blood and strength of youth, +needs all the room there is. Henry’s fingers are so numb +that he cannot open his knife, and he buries them in his +pockets to feel the pulse of this youthful joy. He puts +on his cloak and mittens: it is time for him to start. +Walking is hard work; he has to plough his way, and +he turns round now and then to look at the furrow he +has dug in the melting snow that covers the earth. In +this cheerful little soul who walks along with padded +<span class="pagenum" id="page_131">131</span>steps, the warmth of this pleasure is like a log-fire in a +hut in the woods in January; it is as if the evening +crickets had left their snatches of song in some nook in +the timbers to keep it cheerful till their return. Weary +of all this whiteness, his eyes fasten upon a twig of brier +glimmering with such an intense green that it seems to +be the bearer of all the memories of the shrouded earth. +Two men, seen from afar in this frame fishing for pickerel +through a hole cut in the ice of the pond, look as if they +had come out of some legend.</p> + +<p>Henry has walked into the land of metamorphoses. +The pine-tree, in its contentment, has deepened to a +brown green; with its arms trimmed to support the +weight of the snow, it rises like a mass of fantastic +architecture. The miracle has spread even as far as the +store in Main Street, where the arborescence on the +shop-window makes you forget the beautiful Christmas +presents that are on show there ... spread to the very +panes of your own window, which are being covered +with a fern-like growth. Winter is blossoming like the +orchards in May with these miraculous trees, each one +wrought like a shrine.</p> + +<p>He has put his boat up for the winter. But the river +is still there for those who enjoy the wind, for them +more than ever. It has prepared for them a solid floor +on which they can whirl as if they were on a race-track. +The skater has a double joy; he is the horse and the +rider at once. He moves swiftly wherever his fancy +takes him; the best runner is the merest lout beside him—the +man on skates makes him look like a fool. The +heavy boat was not of much use, anyway; its clumsy +body was never able to follow all the windings of the +river, and it was too timid to lead you to all the things +you discover as you dart over the immense ice-sheet of +the flooded fields where the little wooden bridges emerge +<span class="pagenum" id="page_132">132</span>like islets. Henry, an accomplished skater from childhood, +can make fifteen miles an hour against the wind +without straining himself. While the good William is +covered with perspiration from the strenuous efforts +he makes to keep up, Henry merely has a little watering +of the eyes from the wind of the race. No, without +winter and the kindness of the river offering its hard +back, the master would never know many of the aspects +of his domain.</p> + +<p>Winter, the severe winter that is not a mere picture +in the almanac.... When the snow-storms block trains +and roads and shut people up in their houses.... When +there is not a single sleigh to be seen in the village +square, nothing but a saddle-horse that has just brought +a farmer into town, Henry has gone out just the same, +as far as the post-office.... The bitter cold creeps +into the house, freezes the bread, the milk and the food +in the pantry till you dread the moment when you have +to go upstairs to bed, thinking of those sheets as stiff +as boards against your cheek.... Indeed, you no longer +know just how cold it is because the mercury of the +thermometer has taken refuge in the bulb, as a snail +in its shell. The earth cracks and splits; in the house +the wood-work creaks. This is no reason for ignoring +what goes on out of doors; after all, your skin is somehow +related to the skin of the earth. If it cracks too, +well, you will look through the cranny.</p> + +<p>No need to go far to find a polar landscape. Here is +Baffin’s Bay, there is Nova Zembla. The snow is waist-high. +No longer any trace of the embankment of the +railroad. The farmers have become cave-dwellers; the +houses are buried half-way up the windows, but the +smoke rises from the chimneys. The houses breathe. +The silence is prodigious, it hums in your ears. The +colours sing on the white sheet, red, blue, straw-yellow, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_133">133</span>purple, green, orange, russet, tawny. The light is pink, +and your shadow a deep indigo.</p> + +<p>What has the finest log-fire to say to those slippered +folk who have never left the chimney-corner when the +moonlight on the snow leads you by the hand through +an enchanted palace, or on those days when the south +wind melts the snow and the uncovered earth exhales +an odour that invigorates you like the scent of strong +meat, or on those evenings when you come back armoured +in ice because it has rained while you are out +and you are coated with rime like a gingerbread man?</p> + +<p>Is there any romance comparable to the events of a +walk on a winter’s day? The song that rises to your +lips ... the echo that comes back to you deadened +because the snow has kept a good share of the sound of +your voice ... those vermilion berries sparkling with +ice ... that hardened ground offering you a footway +in all directions where you were never able to take a +step in mild weather ... the living warmth that +smoulders under the red catkins of the alders and in the +blue of the silhouette of that Persian, with his hatchet +in his hand, so tall, so imposing, so admirable that you +would like to present your respects to him, just as if he +were not your own shadow on the ice of the pond.... +Winter, hard winter, great banks of snow without +which you would never have known that downy intimacy +in the padded hollows of the old earth, season of +the warm, quick heart under the frost! Now, remembering +the summer, you ask if winter is not also a person +of substance, concealing under his white furs the rarest +jewels of the year.</p> + +<p>And that matchless moment when the spring breaks, +just begins to break—what do you make of that? If +you remain in the back of your shop while outside the +wings of the swallows brush a man who is seeking for +<span class="pagenum" id="page_134">134</span>an answer to the disquietude he has borne within him +in the bleak February or March landscape, you are a +poor wretch who has deliberately deprived himself of +the cream of earthly emotions. You are to be pitied if +you have never prowled about then to receive the surprise +of the first signs. The winter for you has been +merely a torpor, and the end of winter will only be a +renewal of the same old play, Rubbing Along—with +the same old scenery.</p> + +<p>The first bee has come out with numbed wings in +search of the first calyx. This man has come forth too, +for he has been on the alert ever since that day at the +end of February when he found on the willows and the +osiers an unusual lustre of red and green. He is expecting +great news. Amid the dead leaves and the melted snow +of a ditch he has seen two yellow-spotted turtles moving. +He is greatly stirred because of a certain quality in the +air which makes him think he is going to hear a bluebird +sing. He looks for signs that will bear out his +presentiment. On the watch from the ridges, he scrutinizes +the deep blue of the inundated fields where cakes +of ice are drifting about, and upon this mass of water +which covers a good quarter of the land of the township +there is a little shining white spot that catches his +attention: he discovers through his glass that this is a +little sheldrake which, with its companion, has taken +possession of the waters. So one couple is already there, +awaiting the coming of the procession. No more does +he himself intend to miss the first measures of the music +announcing its approach.</p> + +<p>March thrills with the anxiety of a man who is following +the steps of the resurrection. A robin has called, +<i>svit, svit</i>. The black waves of the river have almost a +grassy smell. There are sea-gulls in the air. The lookout-man +scrutinizes the earth: bare and tawny, it +<span class="pagenum" id="page_135">135</span>reappears in spots, its bosom exposed to the rains that +are going to fertilise it. The buds of the red maples are +swelling. On a beautiful clear day, after a night of +frost the sap flows if he makes an incision. Henry +collects the sap to make maple sugar. He draws from +his tubes four and a half pints, boils them down and +obtains an ounce and a half of sugar. Fine. But his +father cannot understand why anyone should bother to +make bad sugar when it is so easy to get good sugar at +the grocer’s. His father is right, as fathers always are. +It is because he does not feel the maple-sap flowing in +himself. There is no sap in his pencils.</p> + +<p>Walking along his favourite path, the railroad-track, +towards the middle of March, when he hears the bluebirds +and sees them flying, Henry has a feeling of deliverance, +as if some band that confined his chest had burst. +He would like to fall on his knees and embrace the +earth. The sound of a wood-cutter’s axe in the forest +lightens his heart. What doubts can he have henceforth? +From a pool deep in the woods comes the +faintly perceptible <i>wurrk, wurrk, wur r r k wurk</i> of a +frog, a treasure to this keen ear that catches it. The air +grows softer, an overcoat becomes troublesome. When +the brooks break up, the saunterer sets out along the +banks to hear the song of their awakening and watch +the floating procession of the little rafts of ice. The fish +hasten up-stream, for they too have heard the great +news and wish to have the details. New arrivals are +to be observed on all sides, a procession of travellers +returning after a long absence. How many things they +have to tell one another!</p> + +<p>One day a boat appears, freshly painted, setting out +to reconnoitre in the cold clearness. In the distance +the village looks like a low island lying in the water. +The wind brings you an odour of musk. The note of a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_136">136</span>bird that has come back sounds joyously in the woods +as if he were giving a house-warming there. Since the +birds have returned, there is one man in the village who +rises before daybreak and goes out to hear them in the +dawn of things, a man who can sleep no longer when +he has heard that call flung from the tops of the elms +along the street. A man who must needs inhale the +scent of the earth in the early morning, a gardener who, +when he plants his spade in the soil of his garden, once +released from the frost, has a feeling of victory, not so +much perhaps at the thought of the seeds he is going +to entrust to it again as because of this new life which, +stronger than the shoots of April, he feels germinating +in himself.</p> + +<p>No use for you to say, to excuse your own inertia, +that this man owes to the unique quality of his senses +the enjoyment he derives from a spectacle in the midst +of which the village is monumentally indifferent. For +nature has made him all nerves—visual, olfactory, +auditory, gustatory, tactile. Henry, the virginal New +Englander, is repaid for his chastity by the most voluptuous +delights of the senses. It is a great pity if you have +not been repaid for your own; but is that an excuse? +The voice of sex has remained silent in him, or he has +silenced it by a strict discipline for reasons of his own—because +his race, his temperament, the gods of Concord +demand it, and then because ... because that is the +way things go, it makes no difference: nature will have +her due. Henry drinks water, but the essences of the +waste lands intoxicate him. There is no symphony +orchestra in the village, but a common accordeon or a +hand-organ in the street is enough to wring his heart, +and a simple music-box enchants him. He eats little +or no meat but no epicure could scent with a more +delicate nostril the savour of a solitude that is peopled +<span class="pagenum" id="page_137">137</span>with secret lives. If carnal emotion at the sight of the +human body has not been annihilated in him, it cowers +in the darkness of so deep a cave that you will never +catch a glimpse of it. But he has at his command five +scouts who always have marvellous things to relate +when they return to their master. They are able to +put such delicate perception, such freshness into their +reports that he could listen to them forever. Seeing, +tasting, touching, hearing, smelling are a matchless +intoxication when you are served by such stewards and +have a soul in which their least declaration echoes and +re-echoes.</p> + +<p>Henry’s virility lurks in his eye. He has a look that +envelops and penetrates pitilessly a piece of the landscape +and probes you to the bottom if you form a part +of it. Among the plants, the dead leaves and the debris +he distinguishes some tiny creature which, to the ordinary +passer-by, would be lost among the colours of the +soil. But this man with the senses of a savage relies +especially upon his ear and his sense of smell: a thing +betrays or confesses its presence by the sound it makes +or the odour it gives off. The thrush’s song in the woods +touches the depths of his soul, but all space is strewn +with fragments of music that ravish him, as a child is +enchanted by the tinkling of crystal or the tick-tack of +a watch. When he wishes to hear the news of the world +Henry puts his ear close to the telegraph-poles along the +railroad. You could never explain how astonished you +are by this murmur of the ocean that reaches you from +the heart of a vibrating mast. It is the same continuous +story that a shell tells you when you put it to your ear, +but far greater, infinitely richer and more sonorous. +The listener, alone at the foot of the pole, far away from +the post-office, receives a flood of communications; he +cannot make out the words but their music is enough +<span class="pagenum" id="page_138">138</span>for him. It is as if they had been round the world before +coming to ring through the pores of the wood; they +have travelled so far that to receive them you wish you +had a larger frame. The dispatches vary according to +the humour of the day, the direction of the wind, the +quality of the air. Henry never fails to stop as he passes +and listen to see if there is a message for him. Very +strange, the playing of this harp. You might pass +twenty times and hear nothing but a vague trill; and +then, all at once, some fine day, as if tremendous things +were happening in the world, the wires begin to vibrate +with an unheard-of intensity and volume. What you +hear is yours alone; you may be sure that no one is +eavesdropping at any other receiving-pole unless some +youngster is amusing himself as you are, listening to the +music, so much more beautiful than that of the locomotive +passing along the track.</p> + +<p>Henry’s big nose is no useless ornament: when he +breathes the smoke of burning leaves or the first waterlily +of the season that has just opened at dawn, all his +quick sensibility flows into the sense of smell. Of the +five messengers, this is the most faithful; its report +carries conviction. When he picks a plant, Henry first +smells it to see if he knows it; and even in re-reading +some page he has written he <em>smells</em> what is good and +what ought to be rejected. The surrounding country is +full of floating aromas that have come heaven knows +whence, varying with the hours and the seasons but +always there, and sometimes so fragrant as to make +you think that your adventure has led you to the shores +of the Moluccas, the Spice Islands.</p> + +<p>And you speak of renunciation in connection with a +penniless man who has for his daily bread such delights +as these! When you see the wanderer returning from +his rounds, perhaps chewing a stalk, you would not +<span class="pagenum" id="page_139">139</span>fling him a glance of contemptuous pity if you knew +what he has brought back with him. First of all, good +folk of Concord, the satisfaction of a man who has not +wasted his day. A good walker, he has zigzagged about +for miles. On the way back he has spent a quarter of +an hour perhaps on the cliff, watching the sun sinking +behind the Peterboro hills and blazing in the windows +of the first houses in the village. Wachusett, all by itself +over there, looked like a whale this evening at sunset. +And with this sumptuous vision he returns, as the bats +are flitting about, just as you are on your way to the +post-office to get your own news.</p> + +<p>In his pockets he carries the spoils of the day: notes +that he has scribbled on his walk as a painter jots down +a hasty outline in his sketch-book, and perhaps a few +lucky finds, plant or fruit, egg or bit of moss, flint or +bark. But among these finds there is one you would never +count, if you were allowed to plunge your hand to the +very bottom of his big pockets or even into that surprise-hat. +It takes up much less room than a handful +of huckleberries or chestnuts. The best of the spoils—can +you guess what it is? It is the invigorated mind, +the soul that has been stretched by the adventure of the +day.... This imponderable that he has brought home +from the wastes to fertilise his life and enrich his humanity +is a rather big affair, you see, brothers.... This +lesson he has received from the plants and the trees in +the art of self-expression.... These spoils that a rambler +has taken from your orchards and fields, you farmers of +Concord.... This barely visible green which the plants +and the mosses have left on his elbows and his knees.... +This earth that he brings back on his boots, full of things +to be born which have made the journey with him and +for which he cares so much....</p> + +<p>In the evening, in his room, when the shopkeepers +<span class="pagenum" id="page_140">140</span>are making up their books and the farmers are counting +the loads of hay that have been brought in, Henry does +not forget to note down these discoveries. They are not +expressed in figures, hardly in words. They are not even +palpable. But they fecundate the page that he is adding +to his Journal.</p> + +<p>For is it not a Henry-still-to-be-found that he has +followed as a hunter follows the trail through all the +zigzags of his walk? Is it not, after all, a reflexion of +himself, in these faces in the verdure and the water, in +these cries, this silence, this wildness, these odours, this +swarming growth, these blue shadows on the snow—is +it not himself that he has glimpsed at the end of the +path?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Extraordinarily enough, one April evening in 1844 the +man of the wilds returned from his walk not alone nor +with one companion but accompanied by a whole +troop of villagers. What was the meaning of this +unusual spectacle?</p> + +<p>It was Town-Meeting Day, a serious ceremony in a +democratic community and one at which every loyal +citizen, proud of being a necessary unit, was expected to +be on hand. Henry, who had no love for voting and +debating, nor any pride in the exercise of his civic rights, +did not feel that his presence was indispensable. If he +failed in his duty as a citizen and a unit, well, he could +survive it. This little celebration was not for him. Let +every man mind his own business. This day was plainly +intended for a spring-time exploration; young Edward, +still in college and Henry’s comrade because he was the +brother of his friend Elizabeth Hoar, was going with +him. They were to set off by boat on the river, and they +were not coming back till they had found the sources of +the Sudbury River. They were going to camp on the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_141">141</span>bank unless they found a farmhouse where they could +spend the night. They were taking their fishing-tackle +with them, having decided to live like savages on their +catch. A magnificent prospect, while the citizens, conscious +of their duties and their rights, were worthily +spending the day palavering.</p> + +<p>So they had set off, light-hearted, as in the old days +when the big brother had gone off with the younger on +a long adventure. They had forgotten the matches for +the camp-fire, an omission that could be repaired happily +at the cobbler’s, near the point of embarkation. It +would be no sort of day without matches for two +fellows gaily setting out over the world.</p> + +<p>As the spring had not been rainy, the river was low +and they caught some fish. When the time came for +lunch they landed on the shore of Fairhaven Pond, the +big bay with its little island adjoining the richest provinces +of the domain. The two explorers had started a +fire in a sunny hollow, a long way from the woods; they +were about to eat their fish and they had the appetite +of cannibals. But, lo and behold, if the tall, dry last +year’s grass didn’t catch fire like tinder about the camp! +They tried to put it out with their hands, then by beating +it with a board, but all in vain. The flames were already +eating their way up the slope and the underbrush was +crackling.... They were stunned for a moment. “Where +will this end?” asked young Edward, whose father, the +old Senator, was one of the bigwigs of the village. The +flames in their headlong joy were rushing towards the +top of the slope and the woods in a transport of victory +and Henry was sure they were going to devour everything. +The woods once reached, it would certainly be +the village next; the fire would descend upon the assembled +citizens who were debating and voting. So +there was nothing to do now but to run and charitably +<span class="pagenum" id="page_142">142</span>warn them of what was threatening. Edward, very +much excited, leapt into the boat to go back by water. +Henry, speeding through the woods by his usual short-cuts, +would reach the village before him and give the +alarm.</p> + +<p>It was a bad business, but how could they have foreseen +it? Many and many a time they had lighted a fire +out of doors and burned a little of the surrounding grass +without doing any harm. These furious flames had the +most definite and perverse intentions: they were like a +tidal wave of red rebels, even surer of their rights than +the citizens over there. Henry raced through the woods, +and, looking back, saw the great cloud of smoke behind +him. The first man he met was a farmer driving a team +who, when he was told what the smoke meant, cheerfully +jogged on again: it was not his woods that were +burning. But that other man over there in his field +happened to be the owner of the woodlot where the +flames were crackling at that very moment. He followed +the messenger on the run towards the fire: but +what could they do, two men, even if one of them was +the owner, before that crepitating wave of assault?... +A hundred cords of wood, ready for delivery, were +threatened with disaster. They must go for help.</p> + +<p>Henry was out of breath. He was going to stay there +and wait for events, while the owner went for reinforcements. +The battle-front now extended over half +a mile. Henry watched it rushing on. It was a fine spectacle. +He had forgotten all about Wheeler, the man to +whom the largest of the threatened woodlots belonged. +He was a deacon, yes, just so, as chance would have it. +You go off fishing and light a fire to cook your catch +and innocently set fire to a deacon’s woodlot. Just +Henry’s luck. It was too bad about that fellow—but +the devil take him anyway! Perhaps these woods that +<span class="pagenum" id="page_143">143</span>praised God in their own fashion were tired of belonging +to a deacon. So crackle, beautiful flames, be as red as +you like, beautiful logs! It will take away from you +the taste of the deacon. Henry climbed to the top of +the cliff to enjoy the spectacle better; and sitting on a +rock he watched the flames leaping for joy, escaping +with a hiss from their old prison under the bark, spreading +so rapidly that they threatened to surround him, +high up as he was—watching with the satisfied eye of +an artist. The fire licked the roots of the pines, then +sprang with one leap to their tops. The squirrels beat a +retreat, the wood-pigeons flew away through the +smoke. He heard the alarm-bell in the village. This +was a moment worth living. Just before, when he was +running to warn the people, Henry had felt rather +sheepish; but now a pure joy blazed up in him at this +conflagration that seemed to have been decreed by the +solitary Nero calmly seated on the top of the rock, +enjoying the spectacle while the rescuers were approaching.</p> + +<p>For several hours he fought the fire with the others +who were dashing about. Result: a hundred acres +burned over, including many young trees. He had no +reason to feel so proud—or to be astonished at being +called a “damned rascal” by those whose woods had +suffered. As for the crowd that had rushed up from the +village, they seemed to be tacitly grateful to the good-for-nothing +who had provided them with this free +conflagration to crown their Town-Meeting Day.</p> + +<p>After all, if anyone had reason to be grieved, was it +not Henry himself, thinking of the beautiful young trees +that had been destroyed? He who owned the woods +by a different right than the persons who had paid their +market-value in mere greenbacks? He who loved them +for themselves and not for the number of cords of wood +<span class="pagenum" id="page_144">144</span>that could be got from them? Walking through the +burned woodland alone that night to see if the insurrection +had been entirely quelled, the incendiary thought +of the fresh shoots that would spring up with new life +through the charred surface.</p> + +<p>On the spot where they had had their interrupted +lunch lay those blessed fish, shamefaced and shrivelled, +as if they were the real culprits.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_145">145</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="V"> + V + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>In spite of all, dear Concord, a man would have to +be very perverse and strangely made not to accept you +with all your faults, your absurdities, the petty prosaicness +of your townspeople.... Not to embrace you as +heartily as the river-bank embraces your Main Street, +without debating your good and your evil.... Not to +respond with a smile to the smiling unison of this little +world where farmers and citizens, tradesmen, workmen, +store-keepers, educated people, after the purest tradition +of democratic equality and simplicity, are scarcely +distinguishable from one another.... In the shade of +those great elms that spread harmony over all, how can +one fail to feel tenderly sympathetic with this family of +honest souls?</p> + +<p>See the two white churches there, the tavern and the +jail, where they will receive you without the least compunction. +Few of the things are absent from the village +that make the solid happiness of the world. Not even +a bowling green and a centre of high culture. There is +the Mill-dam, where the people gossip and munch the +news of the day, the blacksmith’s, the post-office, the +shops. And the little wooden houses with their Doric +pediments, painted white, with the gardens stretching +down to the willows to reach the water. Everything +is in its place, everything in concord. The village sings +in its grey-white, in the green of the meadows and the +pine-crowned hills, with the approbation of those +beautiful big maples on the common, as serene as philosophers. +And on Sunday, when no townsman would +have the bad taste to abuse the peace of the Sabbath by +<span class="pagenum" id="page_146">146</span>playing the piano or taking his skates to the river, and +an awful silence reigns over the wooden sidewalks, how +good it would be to allow oneself to be carried along by +the godly simplicity of the town, dozing blissfully to the +sound of the clock that spreads the enchantment of +submission.</p> + +<p>Yes, indeed.... And there are moments when Henry +could envelop in his affection all the households of dear +Concord. For example, when he sees the roofs smoking +far away over the crests of the young elms; when humanity +melts into the landscape or is only heard in the sound +of an anvil, the shout of a ploughman with his team. +At such moments as these he was in concord too. From +a distance it was so easy to believe that people lived there +whose daily life flowed like the river that bears you +along as it gives you its freshness. Why, when you have +taken part since your infancy in the activities of the +village, are you not the dupe of appearances? The smile +of Concord hides so many ugly thoughts, mean habits, +dull conventions; there is so much tacit deceit in its +simplicity. Why has not nature made you complete +by granting you the adaptability that accommodates +itself to the little frauds of ordinary life, to the devious +path that discreetly spins the thread of its days?</p> + +<p>It is not Henry’s fault if he is at odds with it all. +Instead of the treasures of indulgence that nature might +have given him, she has provided him with a sense of +smell too subtle not to be offended by its odours of +routine and rapacity. He thinks of that old farmer, +living alone on his big farm with a man to do his housekeeping +for him, who gets up every morning in mid-winter, +when everything is frozen hard, between three +and four o’clock, puts on his boots and his coat, lights +his lantern and goes out to the barn to milk his seventeen +cows. Of course it is warm in the stable near the cows, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_147">147</span>but just the same.... Rich, without heirs, he yokes +himself to this task of milking, his one satisfaction in +life being to fulfil punctiliously the function of a miser. +You see him returning to the house, his morning task +ended, and eating the breakfast his man has prepared +while the master was at work at the seventeen udders. +All very fine, you say. But how surprised he would be +one of these nights, when the animals begin to talk, +if he heard a sisterly cow say to him: “Go back to bed, +old man, and when you wake up glance over your +accounts again. See how much cream your life has +given you for all that your pails of milk have furnished.”... +Obstinate soul, perverse rebel, not to be +able to forgive these virtuous farmers because, while +their first concern is to fill their barns with good hay, +they think they absolve themselves from the sin of +avarice by posing as protectors of letters and the +arts.</p> + +<p>In the good society of Concord he finds himself +among notables of Philistia who like to feel that they +are the choice spirits of New England. These are the +upper spheres of the village. Henry avoids them, for +his lungs are not adapted to the air they breathe there. +The language and attitudes of society people have the +unfailing effect of precipitating the mercury of his +thermometer to the bulb. On the rare occasions when +he has been exposed to the hostile and malign influences +that float in the humblest parlour, the experience has left +him with a bad memory. It is there that you encounter +those people who say to you, with their faces shining +with amiability: “Oh, my dear fellow, how well I +understand your love of nature.... It is so poetic....”</p> + +<p>The victim has his ferocious words or silences for cases +of this kind. If the lover of “nature” and “the poetic” +were shrewd enough, he could collect a good pint of the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_148">148</span>most acid disgust this mouth and these pursed lips are +able to distil.</p> + +<p>He cannot always avoid the peril under its most +artful forms. When he has charge of the lectures at the +village Lyceum, he cannot refuse to carry the manuscript +of the distinguished lecturess who is going to +discourse this evening on Woman: she has rolled it up +in a handkerchief and he has thrust it into his pocket +before returning it to her. He would be very glad to +fulfil with stoical politeness for half an hour the obligations +of ladies’ man, but he would be happier if his +pocket, the next morning, did not retain such a fragrant +reminder of the lady, of her manuscript and her dressing-table. +Feminism and perfumery have craftily conspired +to get the best of his lining. Similarly, when he +has allowed himself to be taken across the threshold of +some stifling room where, under the pretext of a “soiree,” +thirty-odd idle women, young or not so young, +are chattering, simpering, warbling, in company with +various gentlemen who are dumb with admiration, the +sad thing is not merely the two mortal hours that he +has passed there, wretched and humiliated: the worst +is the shame afterwards of his own weakness which has +prevented him from fleeing on the spot or committing +some enormity that would spread panic in this dovecote. +The pretty girl to whom they have presented him +would have been charming perhaps if she had been +willing to keep still among all these ladybirds. In +masculine society, after a social dinner well seasoned +with anecdotes, he feels just as unhappy till he is past +the door and free. In vain Henry holds himself on the +defensive: on another occasion there is that benign +soul who intrudes upon him with an oily affection for +his person, an odious, vulgar familiarity.</p> + +<p>In the presence of these samples of cultivated humanity, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_149">149</span>Henry’s natural stiffness is intensified and he becomes +so icy that it is difficult to imagine him ever laughing—as +a good lady had the hardihood to remark to him +one day: she had never heard him in his gay moods, for +she had encountered him only during a call in a region +where, owing to the atmosphere, the laughter of this +laugher was extinguished. The polite people of the +village, the church-goers, those upright and self-sufficient +folk, provoke his curt witticisms, the sharp rejoinders +that suddenly rivet a fellow, with outstretched wings, +like an owl over a barn door. Henry inevitably reaps +antipathies and lasting enmities. The clever ones +think that he wants to astonish and scandalize people +by his paradoxes. They think he is pretentious. His +reputation for merciless satire and a cynical misanthropy, +odd to the point of perversity, is of his own making. +If you roundly abuse philanthropy and philanthropists, +of course it shows that you are not very anxious to win +the esteem of the world. The plain-dealer sometimes +amuses himself with this game of massacre, delights in +sharpening his sarcasms, but without wasting any +considerable time on the characters who play in the +village comedy: the keenest of his sarcasms is to ignore +them. When they come to his attention he packs them +off as intruders: let these fine-mannered gentry air their +graces somewhere else and leave common mortals +alone. A substantial citizen, whoever he may be, is +always a slightly ludicrous animal in the eyes of a +workingman like Henry. A man’s virtue is all nonsense +if it is disconnected from his sins.</p> + +<p>Happily Concord has something more than the silence +of its elms and maples to unite it with the true humanity. +It also possesses those congenial souls who gather about +the Sage in the household where Henry has been living, +a spiritual family whose friendship has a far better +<span class="pagenum" id="page_150">150</span>flavour than all the sarcasms. The pipe and frock of +Edmund Hosmer, that shrewd farmer who knows +what the earth is made of, make up for all these mean +peasants. Amos Bronson Alcott, who has returned +from an adventure in which he has vainly tried to consummate +the marriage of dreams and reality in a paradisical +existence, may be a cause of wit in others, but his +presence is really like an anticipation or a recollection +of the golden age. Henry has no particular taste for +the sky-blue tint of his idealism, so delightful to old +maids who are devoured by spiritual love, but he feels +a brother in this poor dreamer who is so helplessly +unfitted to follow the ways of the world. He lends him +a good hand and digs beside him, when Alcott is settling +at Hillside. In every stroke that he takes with the +pickaxe, as they sweat side by side on the slope, the +beautiful Platonic dreams incarnate themselves in the +shape of friendship. Henry is not unhappy as a comrade +and handyman in the service of philosophy. Who +knows but the good Alcott’s immense generosity of +soul does not exist to counterbalance all the miserliness +of the neighbourhood?</p> + +<p>With Hawthorne one doesn’t turn up the earth. In +the company of this imposing personage, a simple heart +sheathed in solemn gravity, Henry is inclined to present +rather an iron visage: like black cloth and corduroy, +they are somehow unable to be friends. In handing over +his boat to him—the boat of the great voyage, which +he manages like a virtuoso—Henry, the dry joker, +remarks: “It’s a boat that manages itself, you see.” +The grave Hawthorne tries it, with the awkwardness +of a beginner, and the boat, deprived of its soul, obeys +no more.</p> + +<p>Of this spiritual family, however, the one who is +most closely akin to him is William. They have been +<span class="pagenum" id="page_151">151</span>comrades since the days before Henry’s departure for +Staten Island. William Ellery Channing, one year +younger than himself, is the nephew of a Unitarian +minister, a professor at Harvard. He has married a +sister of Margaret Fuller, the animating spirit of the +<i>Dial</i>. An odd soul, whimsical, fanciful, not very sociable, +childlike, hard to please, charming, full of imagination +and in other respects the best companion in the world. +William also writes verses, but in other respects, in spite +of his independence, he is not wholly exempt from a +touch of Philistinism. He has a knack of sharpening +Henry’s love of paradox and leads him rather to force +the expression of his cynicism in regard to the civilised; +but he is an invaluable friend for toning you up again +when you are feeling a little slack. And when they set +out together for an afternoon’s ramble they are the +happiest of comrades, welcoming the surprises of the +road in the intoxication of an open-air chat. Of all +possible cronies he is almost the only one whom Henry +accepts, the only one who does not throw a blot upon +his afternoon landscape; with William he can have a +silent understanding. To whom but William then, and +those fields that are free from fine manners, do you show +yourself as you are, with your boyish zest, your fits of +gaiety, the bursts of buffoonery that make you dance +and leap over the ice when you are skating? William +is the witness of those spontaneous moments when the +spleen of a young man who has been frozen by the +sight of stupidity breaks and falls into pieces like a +mask of clay. What is under the mask reveals itself +only to this friendly nature, this friend after one’s own +heart.</p> + +<p>A lover of the wilds can enjoy friendships like this +that establish in the greyness of the village a few luminous +points proclaiming the presence of his own kind. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_152">152</span>Why are they not always complete enough to satisfy +him fully? Too often Henry feels a kind of embarrassment +in his relations with brotherly minds. The impediment +is not of his own willing. He asks to be filled +to the brim, and these half-unbosomings leave him dissatisfied +with himself and others. When he is away +from them, alone in the woods, it seems to him that +the silence of his surroundings speaks of a truer friendship +than that which he feels in their company: it is a +silence whose “yes” melts all discords. A tree knows +the art of winning you without discussion, while in the +presence of a human face you resist, you are a stubborn +mule, a bellicose intransigent who will not appear to +approve of what he condemns and then demolishes his +adversary—his friend—with blows of crabbed speechlessness +or bitter irony. A human face is a provocation; +at the least pretext you discharge a “no” that shoots +like an arrow.</p> + +<p>Even among such friends as these, if an opinion, a +gesture, an attitude happens not to suit him, Henry +rolls up into a ball and erects his quills. Touch him +then if you dare. Look at him, bristling with resistance, +ready to defend his position against all comers, fiercely +resolved not to yield an inch of ground. No doubt the +ground is too precious for him to sacrifice an inch of it. +Pride? Conceit? Touchy susceptibility? It is rather +an excessive, irreducible, militant devotion to various +axioms that he identifies with himself. The gods have +made a Henry who is all of a piece, and they have placed +him on the earth among objects and souls that are +different and queer. He reacts. He has no particular +desire to please you. But you happen to be his friend. +Well, one owes a friend the purest truth one has. If +friendship ceases to be a perfect harmony, it is a struggle, +not an exchange of concessions. So Henry abruptly +<span class="pagenum" id="page_153">153</span>says his “no”: forces rush from all the provinces composing +the individual Henry Thoreau, throwing into +disorder everything in their way. He must attest, +amplify, exalt the difference, to establish the fact that +he is this and not that. The Sage, a friend of long +standing, knows something about all this: the ferocity +of this instinct of contradiction shocks the man with the +exquisite and conciliatory smile, though it does not cool +his affection for this headstrong soul who sometimes +puts his patience to a severe test. The other friends are +also very familiar with their “terrible Thoreau” in +whose eyes esteem seems to be the strongest of reasons +never to capitulate. And they allow themselves to be +cut by his plain speaking or bitten by his caustic spirit, +on occasion, since he will not give himself on any other +terms. A naked simplicity is necessary to this fearfully +difficult man. Manners fill him with horror, like an +indecency. If you allow him to see that after all you +belong to a world in which the desire to be correct and +respectable taints your gestures or speech, well, for the +moment that is the end of your understanding. You +have shown the tip of the black cloth from which the +frock-coats are cut. To be a man, a plain man, would +be so fine and so sincere. Why this smooth, mealymouthed +parlour-talk? Henry retires into his shell of +silence. This is not the sort of thing he was expecting +from you.</p> + +<p>As for those people who are as sober as a church-pew, +they cannot understand why a savage wants to whet his +fancy and his paradoxes and gravely make a butt of their +respectable heads. Innocent souls who are skilled in +cleaving the interstellar spaces but whose terrestrial +envelope is of a prudently bourgeois cut have difficulty +in adapting themselves to the diapason of an artistic +sensibility. That is why Henry, who is both savage and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_154">154</span>artist, never feels so fully as at the times when he is +away from his friends the value of a friendship that +would have the serenity of a landscape in which every +blade of grass has a true word to say.</p> + +<p>However it may be with men and their manners, +Concord is in the centre of a territory that is rich in +living springs where all deceit is drowned, and Henry +has his home with his own family in the heart of Concord. +In the great kingdom of the afternoons—wind, +sun or snow—the little kingdom of morning, evening, +night—shelter, stability, ties: the house, the garden.</p> + +<p>The little kingdom is peopled, not like the great, with +secret lives and furtive encounters as he passes, but with +beings to whom he is united more closely than by blood: +by the memories of childhood and their sweetness, +strong as the memory of a brother, the sharing of every +day, and the tenderness that cannot refuse itself. There +is his mother, lively, talkative, full of geniality, the +animating spirit of the little house, skilful in the art of +making a little go a long way when times are hard, a +housekeeper as heedful of the comfort of the boarders +who are entertained at the family table as in mending +the pockets of her son’s trousers. There is his father +whom nature has endowed with a middling stature and +an air of prudence, a rather retiring man because not +destined to command but to find his way in a tacit submission +to the justifiable authority of his wife. As +nature has not developed in him to excess the imaginative +and poetical sense, he is the better able to play the +part of a cautious, circumspect little father who looks +after his pencils, attends to his work, silently, sedulously, +with a mind set on details, good man that he is. And +then Sophia and Helen, Henry’s two sisters—Helen, +the elder, with the big eyes, the strong nose and a mouth +as expressive as her brother’s. Finally, Aunt Sophia +<span class="pagenum" id="page_155">155</span>and the devoted Aunt Louisa, when one or the other +happens to be living with the family.</p> + +<p>This is the harmonious household the thought of +which filled with such ardent melancholy the heart of +the exile in the Judge’s house, as if he had heard from +afar the shrill sound of the delicious music-box, the gift +of Richard, Margaret Fuller’s brother, with which the +family regaled itself in the evening. At home, the +ne’er-do-well, the jack-of-all-trades cheerfully does his +share of the work, taking charge of all the small tasks +that need to be done.</p> + +<p>The valuable little services that he renders his family +extend even to his boat, which not only bears occasionally +the two noble dames, Sophia and his mother, who +enjoy a trip on the river in the evening, but serves him +for gathering driftwood to stock the wood-pile. The +wood that he hoists on board with a pole and then +carries on his back to the house, saws and splits with +his hands, has a tawny life that warms you a great deal +better than the rotten wood these silly rich people buy +at so much a cord; for you have already sweated in +transporting it and cutting it up, and when you see its +flames dancing the trouble it has given you makes them +dance all the more merrily. It is wood which, far from +costing you anything, gives you returns. It is of every +kind and has plenty of stories to tell you—old pickets, +old planks, old stumps, dead trees, condemned, adventurous +timbers which, instead of rotting in their abandonment, +are going to give the Thoreaus before they vanish +the last rays of their glowing hearts, leaving beautiful +ashes that will be valuable for washing.</p> + +<p>In the garden, it goes without saying, Henry’s function +is as important as that of his mother in the house. +He raises enough potatoes for the needs of the table and +occasionally has some to sell. You can order them by +<span class="pagenum" id="page_156">156</span>the bushel from the market, if you prefer. You can +settle yourself in your slippers in a corner by the fire, +without knowing what it is to have logs from your own +wood-pile. You can taste the joy of living like a potato +or a stump. But he is a gardener to whom the potatoes, +even before they have been gathered, have given something +more nourishing than their starch. Henry’s work +in his garden brings with it another recompense than the +beauty of the melons, the pumpkins, the fruit-trees, the +rose-bushes that he cultivates. Besides, the garden is +that one place in all the world where the home is contiguous +to the earth.</p> + +<p>When the family is obliged to leave the big house +where they have lived for seven years, the Parkman +house in the centre of the village where the school was +begun, a scheme is adopted which they could not have +conceived, still less executed, without the boy’s aid. +For the question is one of building a house. They are +going to live at the end of the world, in a lane on the +other side of the railroad. A big undertaking, a man’s +work, to excavate the earth and lay the foundations, +pave the cellar, take the measurements, collect the +materials. He would be happy to do it for other people; +he is still happier to do it for his own family. Henry +does the digging, the masonry, the carpentry, the slating +with his father. He plants the fruit-trees. There is a +fine view from the house; and besides, it is somewhat +sheltered from the routine and the tittle-tattle of the +village. He will be able to sleep well under this modest +roof that he has put up himself.</p> + +<p>Aside from the aid of his skilful and inventive hands, +the man of the wilds does not refuse his family that best +of himself of which he is far from lavish outside. What +the chestnut is to the bur the big child who amuses +himself by the half-hour with the kitten or dances a jig +<span class="pagenum" id="page_157">157</span>with his intimates is to the “terrible Thoreau” of those +sharp replies. Is he tamed then? Well, perhaps so, if +you mean by this that his resistance, in the family circle, +adopts a tolerant and courteous manner—which his +friends would greatly appreciate. If, at table, the +maternal voice occasionally interrupts your dialogue +with a friend, why vent your ill-humour instead of listening +till this gifted woman has had her say? Her son +patiently lets the downpour pass, as if he were under a +pine-tree in the woods, and at the last drops acquiesces +with a little bow: “Shall I take the liberty ... my +turn?”—then resumes the interrupted discussion. Because +he himself despises the newspapers, is he going +to cast a scoffing or disdainful glance towards his father, +deep in the paper he is reading from the first line to the +last, with the touching faith of an honest shopkeeper? +Nothing more natural than that the good man should +like to roll the lollipop of the “latest news” in his mouth +to get rid of the taste of the lead. Let him roll it as +much as he likes and go up to bed: his son will not +plague him with demands for advice, for he relies for +everything on his own personal experience and looks +for little or nothing from the knowledge of his elders. +Henry’s indulgence is not blind. He knows the prejudices, +the limitations of this beloved little house, and he +notes them on occasion in his Journal. But his home is +an indisputable reality to which he comes back every +evening, on his return from an adventure, finding there +certain special ways that may not have very much in +common with his inner life but that belong to him just +the same, exactly how he could hardly say—his father’s +love of good work, for instance, a perfect pencil or a +phrase that hits the bull’s-eye, and his mother’s vivacity +of imagination and lively spirits that are always ready +for a little mischief. And if the sisters, the excellent +<span class="pagenum" id="page_158">158</span>aunts alone had been there to warm the wanderer, all +his roads would still have converged towards this fixed +light.</p> + +<p>Is the little flame of the family fire fed at the same +sources as those wandering lights that attract his eye +on his walks and make him stop as he stops before his +friends the trees? But that is another story. These +lights are not will-o’-the-wisps but miraculous beings +that win the favour of an unsociable soul, as if they had +no connection with a humanity that he has tried and +condemned. Go and ask the cleverest person in the +village to explain this strange fact to you: you have +heard of a young fellow who is intolerably conceited, +who affects a gruff, stiff, top-lofty air when he is in +company—such is the report of the polite people—and +this workingman here, if you happen to ask him whether +he knows this boy, tells you that he is the most amiable +of companions.... Then there are two Henry Thoreaus +in Concord? The workingman tells you about a delightful +boy, sincere, simple, always ready to do you a +good turn and always to be depended upon; in describing +him he uses the sort of words that come to you when +you are speaking of a brother, without the least allusion +to his conceit, his stiffness, his sarcasms. He does not +know of any other Henry Thoreau; there is no other in +Concord.... It is simply incomprehensible. And you +will never understand it if you are not of the understanding +kind.</p> + +<p>There exist, in fact, among the human fauna of this +village, of all villages, magicians who have the power +of calling this other Henry instantly into life, the Henry +whose friendship is gained for all time by his own kind. +There are certain characters who have no part in Concord +society—obscure little nameless people, men who +do odd jobs, farm-hands, small farmers, and there are +<span class="pagenum" id="page_159">159</span>people of dubious reputation, bad boys, who are akin +to the waste lands, fishermen, Irishmen, wood-cutters, +small fry, loafers, weeds in the eyes of the village bigwigs. +Henry finds them very much to his taste. These +latter are real people, not play-actors. The artist is +touched, the heart of the man is captured. The grain +of sympathy that is buried in the depths of this unsociable +soul can rise to the surface just the same. And +he shows them his true face, which is unknown to the +prosperous townspeople, the well-to-do farmers and +the deacons.</p> + +<p>When he sees one-eyed Goodwin, the tough old +fisherman, making for the river-bank at any hour of the +day, small and thick-set under his old oil-cloth coat, +carrying his basket and pole or fetching home in a handcart +the wood he has collected in his boat, or dressed in +his short blue frock, chopping stumps for his winter +after having laid wall all day, Henry feels less isolated +among men. Goodwin, the vicious character, as the +good people call him, puts a little poetry into their +sanctimonious dullness. He lives his life cheerily in the +freshness of the river and the fields, far from all these +souls who are so poor in imagination and sincerity. +It is the same way with those hunters, drunkards, +rascals who are periodically sent to serve a term in the +House of Correction, like that big, lanky young blackguard +of a Melvin, with his baskets and his game-bag, +accompanied by his lean, bluish-white, black-spotted +hound, who are so much more your own kind than the +village lawyer. Their gunshots sound so free in the +woods, and you remember the time when you wandered +about the country like these blessed pagans for hours +with John. Melvin is an antidote to the morality of +the deacons. Melvin is a part of the beauty of Concord.</p> + +<p>And there is Rice sawing the planks in his workshop. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_160">160</span>He is a master of the art of living. Whether he is digging +in the earth or going off hunting or fishing with his boy, +everything seems to amuse him. The sacrosanct law +of stupefying labour was not invented for him, for he +always consults his own time and pleasure when he +works. At the mere sight of him you forget the ugliness +of humanity, you graze the reality of a life that is strong +and leafy as a poem; you are no longer alone in the world +with your dreams and your sadness. Rays of joy that +warm you as you pass, the gift that the poor make to +the solitary walker.... How could you fail to be enlivened +after days of misery by the childlike gaiety of +old Brooks who, at eighty, bent double with age, sets +out every day with his basket under his arm to gather a +little wood and whatever else happy chance may offer +to cheer his old days? To-day, dressed in an ancient +frock-coat, he has come back from an expedition, barefoot, +an axe in one hand, in the other carrying the +boots that he has filled with apples because his pockets +would hold no more. He has also brought back a +thrush with a broken wing that he has found, and old +Brooks is very happy in his find—as happy as yourself +as you stop to hear him tell about it on an autumn evening +made still lovelier by the old man’s delight. Bit by +bit he has gathered in two cords of wood for his +winter; but they will certainly warm him less than +this schoolboy’s joy in roaming the countryside which +has remained intact in the heart of a poor old grandfather +who blesses the life that puts thrushes in his +path.</p> + +<p>Why are there certain beings of whom it is enough to +have a glimpse to be happy? When you meet old Minot +and cross a woodlot with him, everything seems to sing +at his mere presence while he tells you stories of the days +when he used to go hunting. One glimpse of his little +<span class="pagenum" id="page_161">161</span>cottage on the hillside is enough to make you forget that +there was ever an ugly house in this world; it is the first +to show signs of the coming of spring and the last to bid +farewell to the beautiful season. How easy it is to +understand why old Minot has never wanted to budge +from Concord, when even his rheumatism cannot keep +him indoors! It is up there you must hear him, surrounded +by the old furniture that he has inherited from +his ancestors, to the tick-tack of a clock that was sounding +before Massachusetts existed, reciting to you the +stories that he knows almost by heart, stories that are +engarlanded with minute details and good old solid +and obsolete words that gratify the ear of an artist. +He has a tiny bit of land that he has always cultivated +himself, without help, mingling his work and his pleasure, +drawing from every inch of ground the great happiness +it gives him with his bread and asking for nothing more. +He lives with his sister, and his only regret is that because +of his rheumatism he is no longer able to go out and cut +his own wood. But what a clear flame his life yields! +He has the finest ear in the village for the thread of a +bird’s note, however thin it may be. How you would +love to toil away for an employer like that, to be the +man-of-all-work for the master of the little house on +the hillside where the spring first breaks!</p> + +<p>You perceive, solitary walker, how the ugliness of +humanity dies away at the foot of this hill? And how +it vanishes at the foot of other hills than old Minot’s? +You may not have realized this, you who walk with +your eyes on the ground, meditating, but look: the +sunlit smile of this old woman ironing at her window, +which is full of blossoming daisies, cleanses the whole +earth as you pass, as if you had never seen it before. +Take a good look around you, as you go through the +world. You may find that it is strewn with men and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_162">162</span>women whose beauty you have never suspected and +who belong to you as much as Goodwin or old +Minot.</p> + +<p>Henry is certainly not at war with humanity when it +presents itself in the form of this wood-cutter who knows +the woods so much better than the finest naturalist: +his clothes have a wholesome smell, he is happy enough +for two, and you could work beside him all day. And +you would like to follow old Hayden too as you see +him pass and repass with his team, with the serenity of +a good workman. The world of labourers is a friendly +world where you cease to feel that you are among +strangers. There is nothing in them that irritates you; +your love of sarcasm vanishes in their atmosphere; there +is nothing awry, nothing that you could find fault with +in them, nothing that is not assured of your affectionate +indulgence. No parlour, no store, no model farm in the +village shelters a face as human as the faces of these +Irish labourers, camping under their plank shanties along +the new railroad. Simple digging-machines, ridiculous +louts, in the eyes of noble, pure-blooded Yankees, are +these brawny souls condemned to their killing tasks for +a tiny wage. The scantiness of his own respectability +is confirmed in Henry’s eyes in the friendship he feels +for these slow-witted fellows, navvies, ditch-diggers, +scavengers, ice-cutters, indefatigable executors of the +heavy tasks of the earth. To his mind their accent, +their awkwardness, the dirtiness of their big, boyish, +sunburnt faces are far less to be sneered at than the +unctuousness of some doctor of divinity whose hands +have never rubbed against anything but a cake of soap +or the Holy Scriptures.</p> + +<p>How could one fail to like that big-hearted Michael +Flannery who toils away all day with such bubbling +good spirits! It is as if the more energy he spent the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_163">163</span>more inexhaustible were the good humour he has drawn +from heaven knows what miraculous fountain in his +native Kerry. Naturally the respectable exploiters of +other people’s work take advantage of this and abuse +his simplicity. Michael has won a prize at the Cattle-show, +and the farmer who hires him has taken the prize-money +away from him, maintaining that his wages pay +for his time and that his good luck belongs to his employer: +to swindle a lout of an Irishman is a good Yankee +joke that will never shut you out of the kingdom of +heaven promised to prosperous farmers. But this is an +act that completely upsets Henry’s serenity: he immediately +takes up a collection and returns to Michael +the money which the miser has cribbed. And when he +sees that little Irish monkey of a Johnny going to school +all alone through the snow from the shanty where his +parents live in the woods, as sober as a judge under the +rags that so oddly cover his four or five years, Henry +thinks of the satisfied air of the alms-givers and ostensible +philanthropists who brave the winter courageously +muffled up in their rich fur-coats. What does a mere +little weed of a wood-cutter’s child matter, toddling +along without stumbling through the intense cold with +scarcely a shoe on his foot or a rag on his back, looking +as if he found this world royally well made for little +Irish boys who go to school where there is a bench to +sit on and a fire in the stove? And in his mind he strips +these worthy rich folk and puts the rags of the poor +Irish on their backs to drape their philanthropy—takes +their purple and fine linen and tenderly envelops this +little scrap of half-naked humanity. Henry himself has +no purple and fine linen to give Johnny, but what he +has he takes to his parents: an old pair of pantaloons +and a coat from which Mrs. Riordan can work up some +trousers and a schoolboy’s cloak so that he will not +<span class="pagenum" id="page_164">164</span>have to miss school for the futile reason that the snow +is too deep this winter.</p> + +<p>For the rest, whether it is Irish Johnny or some New +England youngster, the world of childhood is an irreducible +power that tolerates no assumed formality nor +any veil of reserve. To make an end of the “terrible +Thoreau,” nothing is necessary but the two black eyes +of some little boy under a big cap or the manoeuvres of +four small kiddies bringing back a big horse from the +pasture. You will find then that he is just a big boy +himself, touched, captivated, won, a boy whose shyness +feeds upon solitude and wild nature and who, in order +to love you, asks only to be able to find in you that +simplicity and candour, that true and savoury quality +for which his childlike heart is greedy.</p> + +<p>Henry feels affectionately sheltered under his own +family roof: nothing in the world could induce him to +leave home as his grandfather did for good and all to +seek his fortune far away. But when he meets on his +path these poor, ignorant, simple people, small folk, +little souls, a strange feeling of kinship awakens in him, +stronger than the affections of home, as if at bottom they +were his real family.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was an old desire that had haunted him very often, +a desire that he had cherished no doubt from his childhood, +when he had been a great chief who had withdrawn +into his cave to inspect the spoils of conquest +and dream of future expeditions, to go and live alone in +some solitary spot—as Wheeler had done, a fellow at +Harvard who had established himself in a shanty on the +edge of Flint Pond to devote himself in all tranquillity +to the study of Greek. A well-tempered character, this +Wheeler, who slept there on the straw like a stableman +or a soldier and later went off to study in Germany, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_165">165</span>where the poor fellow died. Henry liked and admired +him greatly.</p> + +<p>Yes, it was the dream of having some sort of shelter +bathed in silence where he could listen to the things, +both within and outside himself, that were lost in the +Babel of the village. He had once been on the point of +realizing it when he had just missed buying the Hallowell +place, the beautifully ruined and solitary old farm +he had seen on the river as he passed in his boat; but he +had not come to terms with the owner and it had remained +nothing but a charming fancy sheltered behind +its screen of maple-trees. After all, it was better to have +missed this opportunity, to have been spared the humiliation +of seeing his name printed in the records as a +property-owner.</p> + +<p>But the old desire had not died. It spoke to-day with +more authority than ever. At twenty-eight, with some +experience of the solutions the world offered for the +problem of a livelihood and no inclination whatever to +adopt any of them, there still remained the old question of +supporting himself. His little jobs as an occasional day-labourer +gave him at best a precarious and insufficient +means of living. It had become clearer and clearer that +Concord was not very anxious to employ the particular +talents of an “amateur” who undertook to do his +work with the respect of an artist for his art. Well, +suppose he were to free himself from all these needs that +were not worth the trouble he took to satisfy them? +Suppose he were to simplify his life?</p> + +<p>Existence in his own home, to be sure, was frugality +itself. But when you looked closely, how encumbered +it was with superfluities! Cut down, cut down! This +luxury perverts the life of a man. It usurps the place of +true values that only ask for a chance to blossom. The +truth of life is a fragile plant that a gardener should +<span class="pagenum" id="page_166">166</span>protect against evil intruders. A house brings with it +innumerable duties. A village is a buzzing, trampled +thoroughfare, poisoned with gossip and neighbours. +You could get away by yourself for a few hours, but +there were times when domestic thoughts, village +thoughts clung so tight to your skin that you could not +shake them off in the open air and they reduced your +adventure to the vulgar proportions of some cockney’s +holiday in the country. You would give anything to +rid yourself of these leechlike thoughts, not just for a +few hours in the afternoon but for good and all, for days +and nights together. You would give anything, for +example, if the first sound you heard when you woke +up in the morning were not to come from some neighbour +who is clearing his throat. You would give anything +not to squander so many precious hours, sacrificed for +the privilege of being a citizen who is taught his P’s +and Q’s on the lap of a parish. And what wouldn’t +you give not to dream any longer of the beauty of +living, but to experience it completely for a while, +without alloy, unrestrictedly, in all its freshness, free as +the open air, naked and real, from dawn to the day’s +end, and the same to-morrow—to feel that you were +<em>existing</em> on this good green earth?</p> + +<p>There happened to be other needs that quickened this +desire for a little retirement. Henry had already written +a few pages with which he had reason not to be too +dissatisfied. His articles, his studies were only a prelude, +an incentive to exercise himself more rigorously at his +trade as a writer. There too he had to strip himself +of vain ornaments and find out exactly what he was +capable of and whether he was really worthy of doing +something. He would work well in this peaceful seclusion. +The outlines of a book were vaguely taking form +in the pages of the Journal. He would see.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_167">167</span></p> + +<p>Henry needed a retreat, to audit his books with all +care and discover just where his personal affairs stood, +to examine various true, essential matters, including +himself, face to face.</p> + +<p>It was a more serious business at bottom even than +the desire to clarify his existence and live more or less +alone, after his own fashion. It had the charm of a +great difficulty to be overcome; instead of running away +from it or trifling with it, he wanted to come to grips +with it and find out, without any beating about the +bush, which was the stronger. It was a tempting opportunity +to prove to himself that he could provide for his +subsistence with his own hands, without aid, giving +himself the beautiful margin of leisure that is indispensable +to a man if his life is to have a meaning and +yield its flower. We shall have a good try, my shopkeeping +friends. You set yourself up in business. Henry +is going to follow your example and launch out in an +enterprise of his own, at his own risk and peril, with his +ten fingers and the wits of a ne’er-do-well for his capital. +When you are the son and grandson and great-grandson +of merchants, you may turn your back on your patrimony, +but you do not discard from your destiny the +taste for certain kinds of operations. On the other hand, +you are not going to puzzle your brains trying to calculate +your profits if you succeed. And if your speculation +is unfortunate, you will still have the pleasure of +telling about your failure.</p> + +<p>A boy had been turning these thoughts over in his +mind while tramping over the fourteen acres of woodland +which his friend Waldo had bought for a little more +than $200 last September, a spot that had taken Henry’s +fancy above all the paradises of the domain of vagabonds. +It was on the banks of Walden Pond, where +the Sage carried his philosophy into the woods, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_168">168</span>drawn there by the sound of the name: Waldo ... +Eden....</p> + +<p>The circle of sombre branches reflected in the calm +blue waters was an impression that he had preserved +from his earliest infancy, and later it had been the goal +of many an expedition. As a child, as a boy he had run +off to go fishing, hunting, skating there, or to stretch +out in a boat in summer, letting himself glide over the +water to the waves of wild foliage that enclosed the +pond. The spot had an incomparable charm and wildness, +and although it was only half an hour from the +village it was so retired that all the villages of the earth +were lost and forgotten there in a distance beyond the +sea for the explorer who prowled about its banks. An +evil fame, a legendary mirage floated about these +regions—an additional attraction. On the borders of +the woods of Walden, on the neighbouring hill, in former +times, all sorts of lawless characters, pariahs, escaped +slaves, negresses who told fortunes and other riff-raff +used to live whose presence in the shadow of the church +would have been an offence to the purity of the village. +The blackened remains of their cabins were still to be +seen there. Henry liked to think of black Zilpha, who +spun linen and had such a beautiful voice, and Wyman, +the poor potter, unfortunate souls indeed. But the +pond itself! Sunk in the shelving semicircle, a dark +green mass drank in the deep blue of this miraculous +glade under a great stretch of sky. The whole world +was still, and he himself was a flood of silent wonder +amid this population of pines and oaks.</p> + +<p>How good it would be to come here and taste the +quality of the silence! Who knew but this pond, meditating +in its immemorial solitude, folded in upon itself +in the quiet of the woods, might not have some important +secret to whisper to him, if he became its confidant?... +<span class="pagenum" id="page_169">169</span>Many a time on its banks he had dreamed +of a Waldenic existence and had taken the road home +again to the village and his old ways. But now the +little voice murmured among the reeds: My secret is +not for a boy who has merely come on a visit. It is for +the faithful soul who will come and live beside me, +spending his nights and his days and mingling with his +existence every hour of my own.... The little voice +possessed an all-powerful sweetness for the senses of a +lover, a solitary. Yes, to come and savour there the +interminable summer evenings, drink in the first draught +of air before the dawn, allow the winter to blockade +him with snow as he listened to the beating of his heart +in the frosty silence. To plunge into the pond every +morning! To feel at home there, like a wild duck or a +skater-insect!... Suppose, instead of the summerhouse +which the Sage planned to set up there, some day, +on his land, he were to build himself at once a house +under the pines, on the side of the knoll that dropped +off by a gentle slope into the pond?</p> + +<p>When a beautiful castle in Spain that has been tenderly +cherished for years finds a foundation like this upon +which to rest, one hesitates no longer. The business is +settled. Spring appears like a notification. Towards +the end of March, in the year 1845 of the Christian era, +Henry goes to his friend Alcott and borrows his axe; it +does not cut very well, this philosophical axe—perhaps +it has been blunted at Fruitlands, in that unhappy phalansterian +enterprise—but he undertakes to sharpen it.</p> + +<p>The builder has chosen his site, felled the trees to +clear the space where he is to erect the house. The plan +is already settled. Those pines will do for the framework. +The other materials can be found at little cost. +Why new planks when second-hand planks will serve +perfectly well? A labourer’s shanty will give him plenty +<span class="pagenum" id="page_170">170</span>of timber, and he will only have to unnail it and transport +it with all the accessories, not forgetting the old +nails, which will serve a second time. For four dollars +and twenty-five cents, an Irishman who is working on +the railroad is quite willing to sell him the one he lives +in; it will only be necessary to let the planks dry a little +so that the air can absorb their Hibernian moisture. +The materials are all ready for the work. The cellar +is dug in the sand, where the provisions are to be kept. +There is nothing impossible about setting up the frame +for a man who helped his father to build their new house +the year before; no need of a gang of skilled hands to +plant a post upright at the corner where the roof is to +rest. But if his friends offer to come and give him a +hand with this heavy job of the timber-work, is he +going to renounce the rare pleasure of working in the +woods there with a few cronies who are not such good +carpenters as himself perhaps but who are full of hearty +good will? Alcott and Edmund Hosmer join in the +party. Everything they say sparkles in the resinous air; +all the preparations have taken time and it is May +already. A philosopher, a farmer and a ne’er-do-well +in collaboration nail together with affection the frame +of a cabin that is going to support the weight of solitude.</p> + +<p>It may be weeks since spring came to surprise old +Minot. But it has been just as long, if not longer, since +it took possession of the heart of a boy who, since the +end of March, has turned his steps every morning, with +his lunch in his pocket, towards his workshop in the +woods. The little glade is covered with shavings; the +work of building goes on amid the cheerful clatter of +axe and hammer, and the surrounding pines gaze with +a curious eye upon this neighbour who is coming to live +there as if they had never seen old nails driven by so +young an arm. It is only a house that is going up, a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_171">171</span>motionless house overlooking a motionless pond, but +for the workman, blissfully alone in the woods.... +April, May, June ... the light sings as in former days +when he was building his little boat for those faraway +expeditions—sings a chaplet of songs as long as the +work that he pursues unhastingly on this piney knoll. +The cabin is fixed to the earth by its roots, and it is to +shelter the sleep of an explorer who is promising himself +not a week or two but whole seasons of discoveries and +adventures ... seasons that will be reflected in the +eye of this big high window, seasons upon which this +door that hangs here will open with a gesture of welcome +and familiarity at the entrance of the cabin where Henry +is going to sleep on this holiday evening—for it is the +Fourth of July.</p> + +<p>Up before dawn on the first morning, the builder +stops on his threshold, goes out, takes a turn around his +castle, comes in again, goes out again, looks up at his +roof with perfect confidence in its power to resist snow, +sun and rain, and only asking himself if it is not going +to burst with the happiness contained between these +four plank walls. In the woods some neighbours are +singing and chirping. The fresh air pours through him +as if he had come out of a tent. But the cabin is not a +tent, it is spacious: ten feet by fifteen. You can stretch +your legs in it. It contains everything: bed, table, a +chair and, at one end, facing the door, a place for the +hearth which is not yet built. The household utensils +are in a cupboard. Under the floor, the cellar, and an +attic above, each with its trap-door. The room is +lighted by two windows, one in front and one in the +rear. It has all the comfort and brightness of a living-room +with the compact intimacy of a ship’s cabin.</p> + +<p>Thirty to forty square yards of ground, which do not +belong to him, offer their immovable base to this new +<span class="pagenum" id="page_172">172</span>man who has built the home of his dreams and come +here to sleep and means to sleep here to-morrow and +another to-morrow—who has touched with his feet, as +he leaps out of bed, the realization of his vision, touched +it with his hand as he opens his door, as he slowly makes +the rounds to reassure himself that it is all true, as, +from the threshold of the cabin, in the innocence of the +earth, emerging from the summer night, he sees down +there forty yards away the rocky little bay, his haven, +the great blue lake and the woods beyond, nothing but +water, sky, waves of foliage, without the least sign of a +human habitation, a whole corner of the world that +has kept itself intact to enchant the eye of a newcomer. +Like everyone else he had had his black and his grey +moments in life, but he cannot imagine at this instant a +discontent the vexation of which would not vanish +under the benediction of such a morning, in the air of a +hillside where he has planted his cabin to live an eternity +there. He is not cut off from the world: on the left is +the road to Lincoln and on the right the railroad to +Fitchburg. But the squatter cannot see a roof. He can +fancy as he awakens that the human race has gone +away for a time to nurse its sorrows under other skies, +leaving the place for the fresh happiness of a solitary.</p> + +<p>Yes, it seems as if one could live here. Everything is +clean, there is none of the litter that encumbers existence. +The true wealth is in the open; you can weigh it, drink +it, breathe it; it is solid, fluid, has a good resinous smell, +refreshing as ice-water, fills your arms like the stones +you pile up to build the fireplace. There is so much to +do, in the first place, living is such an absorbing, delightful +occupation, that the most beautiful page you could read +would seem like an impertinence: it would interrupt +your collaboration in the poem of the whole day. You +are no longer an afternoon stroller. The slow task of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_173">173</span>taking possession of the surroundings demands all your +hours, a continuous employment, going and coming on +the path that leads to the water, observations, saunterings, +surprises. But the hours about the cabin are free +from everything you have left out there beyond the +woods, the habits of a household, the family table, the +routine with its taste of pencil-lead, the house-fronts +in Main Street, the regimented faces. They wear new +robes, these hours, cut in the workshop of Walden; they +marvel at themselves and their labour is like play.</p> + +<p>What is there to do, all the blessed day long, living +alone on the edge of a pond? That is what puzzles those +charitable souls beyond the woods. Ah, good people, +if one were alone!... But Henry has never felt less +alone than he has felt since the day when he put that +little space between the village and himself, not for a +few hours but for good. He can feel alone in a Judge’s +house but not in a cabin in the woods which he has built +after his own heart. When is there a moment for loneliness +to worm itself into the course of the day? When +he is preparing his meals? Hardly. His main dish every +day is a gruel of corn, rye or rice; the preparation is +simple and pleasant. No need of a lot of saucepans and +ingredients, no need to devote himself to those rather +repulsive manipulations that are demanded in expert +cookery. And this is very nourishing too. If he feels +like it, the cook may also broil a little rasher of bacon. +When he wants to vary his ordinary diet, it is quite +simple for him to boil some acorns for breakfast as an +homage to the gods of Walden; boiled acorns are a little +more bitter than raw acorns, but you soon get used to +them. And what other bitterness can you imagine a +man feeling who does his housekeeping in the open air, +in front of his cabin, where he eats sitting on his doorstep, +with his bowl on his knees and the lake at his feet +<span class="pagenum" id="page_174">174</span>and the whole day entirely at his disposal? He has the +best of table companions around him, all drinking to +the health of a happy man. Music plays for him, and +it is a different music from that of the human voice. +Henry oversees the baking of his bread, placed in an +oven the mouth of which is covered with stones as +unceremoniously as in the days of the ancient Romans. +But the bread that is baked in this way has no flavour of +antiquity; a savoury odour comes from this rustic bakery +improvised on a piney New England slope. How could +a baker like this, watching his ovenful in the open air, +feel lonely? Nor is he any likelier to feel so as he does +his housekeeping, chops his wood or sets to work to +give his room a good cleaning. All his furniture is taken +outside—there is a whole wheel-barrowful of it—the +table faces the broad daylight without flinching, the +bed stretches itself in the open air, while Henry carries +up buckets of water and scours and rinses his floor with +the water of Walden. Imagine a boy who does his +housekeeping under the eye of the pines, carries his +furniture in again when the floor is dry, happy as a king +who is going to sleep to-night in a room that has a good, +well-washed smell—imagine a boy so happily busy +feeling himself forsaken! Solitude may prowl almost +anywhere, on the very pavements of a populous city, +but what could it ever find to pick up in the tracks of a +boy like this?</p> + +<p>To deserve this life he has chosen he must first make +sure of his subsistence. The cabin is not a philosopher’s +country cottage; it is a farmhouse, and the farmer has +his mind on his farm and his harvest. This bread that +smells so good when he takes it out of the oven is not +to be earned by listening to the hooting of the owls. +On Emerson’s lot at Walden there is a stretch of waste +land which, with a good deal of work and a little imagination, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_175">175</span>he ought to be able to turn into a field. It is +a piece of poor, sandy ground which the woods have +covered for the last fifteen years: virgin soil, still full of +stumps but with plenty of vigour and good will, in which +he can have some confidence—even if it did belong, at +the end of the last century, to a great uncle by marriage +who was a deacon. It certainly needs manure, but he +has not come to Walden to apply the methods of model +farms. The labour of his own solid muscles will have to +take the place of the manure, after the clearing, ploughing +and harrowing of the ground, for which the work +of a man with his horse and cultivator is indispensable. +Certain expenses are unavoidable in every enterprise.</p> + +<p>Henry has sown some potatoes, a little corn, a few +peas, a handful of turnips and a lot of beans, and they +all come up—all but the seeds which the worms have +eaten—come up, sprout and form an immense field. +But the weeds, encouraged by the ploughing, also spring +up merrily, and he has to grub them out to protect the +life of the beans and his own honour as a rash adventurer. +And what work! The sower has sown his beans generously, +as a farmer who sees things in a large way. He +has rows and rows of them, innumerable rows—seven +good miles if he placed them end to end—four times +longer than the distance from the cabin to the village. +On this immense battle-front the general defends the +land step by step. It is very painful for a man of the +wilds to see himself condemned to assuming the defence +of culture against these hordes of barbarians that have +grown so beautifully. But what is to be done when the +destiny of a legion of beans, threatened with being +surrounded, hangs in the balance? Since five o’clock +in the morning, hoe in hand, the squatter has been out +in his field, first in the dew, then, as the sun mounts, in +the glare of the summer day, weeding, putting fresh +<span class="pagenum" id="page_176">176</span>soil about the stems, without giving up till noon, his +bare feet in the burning sand, as steady as a negro in a +cotton-field.</p> + +<p>The man with the hoe is not slaving away under the +eye of an overseer. He works with a will, first because +that is his way, and then because he is not a hired man +but an obstinate soul who means to carry out with +honour a difficult undertaking; he must justify Walden +with the sweat of his brow. Walden is not a phalanstery; +there is only one person responsible for it, and +that is much more serious. The villagers who pass in +their carts on the road see a little skinny fellow bending +over his bean-stalks in his half-wild, half-cultivated field +and wonder why this strange workman is breaking his +back over such a piece of ground at such a season. It is +Henry the simpleton, toiling away cheerfully and letting +the world go by. He is thinking, under the heat of the +sun, of the sweet bath he is going to give himself in the +pond, after this glorious sweat, and how good it will be +to stretch out on his grassy bank near the spring, in the +shade of a vast white pine, with a book for a companion ... +But it is not enough to work himself to death +defending, weapon in hand, these wretched beans that +are surrounded with enemies; the woodchucks, which +are very partial to them, eat up a quarter of your acre. +For these blessed beasts the attraction of the tender +shoots is stronger than any fear of the trap; Henry kills +one of them and eats it in revenge. But in spite of all, +as the reward of his labours, the farmer harvests twelve +bushels of beans and sells them for $16.94, plus $4.75 for +potatoes. Something of a result!</p> + +<p>In all, $8.71½, deducting the original outlay, a total +that might not satisfy one of those knowing souls who +go by sneering on the road, but enough to yield the +farmer of Walden a good profit—if he adds it to the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_177">177</span>others which, shrewder than these shrewd folk, he +gathered in long before the harvest. The sneerers know +all about the sort of soil that produces a big crop, but +what do they know of these magnificent days of combat +for the beans? They have no Ganges in which to cleanse +themselves every morning, to begin the day as if with +a prayer; they have no poor field on a hillside on the edge +of the woods, where you sweat for hours scratching the +earth to persuade it to yield well-podded stalks; they +do not know the reward for all the toil of the toilers +of the world, or the delight of feeling one’s skin exhale +its gratitude after the bath and the rubbing. They do +not have the rest of the day for dreaming, observing, +wandering, turning their laziness into thanksgiving, +listening to one’s own life amid the throng of things. +They are clodhoppers.</p> + +<p>The summer has its great sunny spaciousness in +which friendship hangs like a scarf from every branch. +Just wait for autumn and winter, when some evil animal +cowering in the solitude of the cellar comes up from +below or descends slyly from a corner of the attic, in the +long evenings, to clamber up the legs of a solitary in his +cabin, or glide under his shirt and bite him—some insect, +some black beetle, some blue devil of doubt to plague a +boy who thinks he can get along without the village. +But there is nothing under this floor but the field-mice, +and they only want the potatoes. And there is nothing +in the attic but an old tent-cloth that dreams of distant +adventures and the wide air of the river-banks. The +spiders may have hung up their webs, but they are the +friends of man, weaving decorations for the roof-timbers +of a castle in the woods.</p> + +<p>No, there are no foul creatures prowling about this +cabin, not even an importunate cockroach. Henry has +made everything ship-shape. A log is smouldering in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_178">178</span>fireplace and the thoughts it has kept shut up till its last +hour surround him, dancing gaily. For the cabin, +finished at last, breathes. A house without a chimney +through which you can see the smoke coming out is not +a living house. It is a mere vulgar barn, a store-house, +a dead thing. Before the bad season William comes and +lends his friend a hand in setting up the fireplace; he +stays fifteen days, fifteen beautiful days of comradeship. +From now on there will be wood in the woodshed to +keep Henry warm in winter and in the evening when he +sits up late. He is living here like some old bachelor +of a forester who has just finished his supper, his day’s +work ended, and tells himself stories before going to bed. +The latter would probably have his pipe for company, +or some yellow-haired mongrel with grave, tender, +vigilant eyes. Henry’s only companions are his thoughts, +the ladies of the house who brush him lightly as they +pass as if they were sisters who had come out with him +to the woods. Henry reads or writes at his table in the +deep silence, where the singing of the fire gives him the +feeling of a presence. He revises his manuscripts, works, +writes an essay on Carlyle. He takes a good measure of +his inner powers in the silence of the cabin and toils +over a sheet of paper with the heart of a workman who +has swung his hoe through the furrows under the glaring +sun. There are the weeds to be dug out, the beans to be +defended. Sometimes Henry works at his table in the +morning, when he is in the right mood, in the freshness +of his strength. At the approach of spring the red +squirrels come and make love under the floor of the cabin +where a solitary meditates in his twenty-ninth year; +when he raps with his foot to silence them, their squeals +redouble, as if the lovers were affirming their rights in +the face of this scribbler whom their gambols do not +greatly disturb.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_179">179</span></p> + +<p>And in winter, when the snow covers the paths and +the approaches of the dwelling, weighs down the pines, +weighs upon the roof of the cabin, when the village is +further away than ever, in the overwhelming silence of +the snow and its dazzling splendour, what joy to feel +himself in this hollow in the woods, like a nest stamped +with the warmth of his body, and how the stumps he has +toilsomely split repay him for the difficult time he has +spent in loosening the embrace of their fibres! What +joy walking on the stiffened pond, making a hole in the +ice with his axe and bending over the opening, lying +flat on his stomach to peep into the aquarium where the +hermit fishes look as if they did not find it so bad living +in Walden, even under this opaque glass that hides the +day from them....</p> + +<p>And now, if by chance a friend comes to call on you +in the woods, you can do him the honours of your castle. +When there are two between the bed, the table and the +fireplace, the reception-hall is almost filled, but it is +large enough to make room for this chance accession. +One Sunday it is dear Edmund Hosmer—no miserly +peasant, that fellow—who comes to look in on his colleague, +the farmer of Walden; or his son Joseph perhaps, +whom the latter has invited to come for a feast at his +table. On this occasion there is a choice of dishes and the +cook has surpassed himself. You cannot do too much +when you are entertaining one of your own kind. He +has prepared a banquet: fish from the pond, beans, corn, +bread from the Walden bakery, all seasoned with that +fine salt of which there is always a full box at Henry’s. +It is Sunday twice over in the cabin. Nor does Alcott +refuse to make it the object of a walk to go and see one +of the two or three friends with whom alone he can +embark on one of those endless conversations in which +time and space are abolished. There is not much philosophical +<span class="pagenum" id="page_180">180</span>talk at Walden; you don’t press wisdom there +between the leaves of an old book; you live it, freshly +every day, as naturally as you turn to the water in the +pond. But with the master of the axe that Henry +borrowed to fell the pines for his house, what a feast he +has! The bean-field is soon left behind; they are in full +flight, and in a few hours they have surveyed numberless +continents and unknown archipelagos. If the visitor is +only William, who lives a good three miles from the +pond but whom neither snow nor storm can stop when +the fancy seizes him to go and say good morning to his +friend, there are no culinary preparations or voyages +into the empyrean: there are simply orgies of laughter in +the hermitage. They must say and do all sorts of foolish +things to express their joy in finding themselves there in +the woods as brothers, free from bores. How the +laughter resounds in the cabin on the hillside! Listening +to the response that comes from the heart of the woods, +you might think it had been built just for this day.... +They chatter like magpies, they chirrup louder than +those amorous squirrels, they roar, their boisterous +mirth shakes the plank walls. They have no good old +wine to drink as they eat their dishes of gruel, nothing +but a nut to put under their teeth. But they are able to +intoxicate themselves just the same, with the pure +gaiety of old cronies.</p> + +<p>Now and again some prying busybody also comes to +the woods. A boy who has had a little experience of the +world knows various tricks for getting rid of these +gentry—though they are not always successful. But +what a charm spreads about the cabin when other +visitors pass, those strolling railroad men, for instance, +who are not afraid to violate the Sabbath occasionally +by turning in towards the little house in the woods. +They are quite a gang, half a dozen of them, walking +<span class="pagenum" id="page_181">181</span>together and stopping in as neighbours, for Henry often +meets them on his comings and goings along his boulevard, +the railroad. They have put on their white shirts +and saunter along, airing their leisure and waving their +Sunday idleness like a little twig one cuts on one’s way, +the older ones with seamy faces, the younger giving you +a friendly greeting and wishing you good luck, without +showing the least surprise that a man prefers the company +of the pines to that of the villagers. The language +and bearing of some of these fine fellows reveal that +exquisite, simple, unaffected courtesy that bears the +stamp of the workingman and leaves you with the impression +that you have received a visit from great personages.</p> + +<p>One of those good apostles of the village who knows +Henry only as a harsh, dismal mask should pass at a moment +when his tempestuous laugh is sounding over the +knoll; he would understand better then what this mock +hermit has come to seek in the woods. Henry has not +broken with the world. He is simply holding it at a +distance for a while in order to find space for something he +wishes to create. Almost every afternoon the anchorite-in-his-own-fashion +crosses the woods and descends again +among men. There is an unimaginable charm in taking +a trip of this kind as a simple visitor into the regions of +the civilized, where he sees human faces. When you +have behind you a cabin that is waiting for you in the +heart of a kingdom of your choice, the Main Street of +the village is as pleasant as possible. You see the +strangest things there and you judge everything indulgently, +for you see it from another point of view. You +have all the enjoyment of a traveller in a foreign town, +observing the manners of the natives, the sights, the +shops, the fashions, the things for sale. Henry, in spite +of his change of domicile, remains on the same old intimate +<span class="pagenum" id="page_182">182</span>terms with his family and stops in regularly to see +if everything is going well at home, lend a hand in the +workshop, if it is necessary, or busy himself a little in +the garden. When he goes home again he sometimes +has to carry some tidbit cooked for him by his mother, +who is rather afraid that the gruel at the cabin may be +too slender a diet for a boy accustomed to the family +table. Sometimes too, at the end of the day, if the fancy +takes him, Henry knocks at a friend’s door and invites +himself to supper, as the bearer of the latest news from +the woods; then if night has fallen on the road, as he +gropes his way through the darkness after the evening +he has passed with his friends, it only deepens the serenity +of his return. And this is not to mention the times +when, even for a man who has no complaint to make of +his business, a dollar comes in very nicely and he undertakes +to go down and work for a day or two in the village +as a painter, gardener or mason. It is just so much +to add to the revenue of the farm.</p> + +<p>The farmer of Walden does not deposit his wealth in +the bank like big landowners and prudent citizens. +These good people lock their tills and bolt their doors +for fear of robbers. They are so afraid of being relieved +of a crumb of their bothersome money! When Henry +leaves home for a whole day, and even when he sets +out for several days on some distant excursion, it never +occurs to him to lock his door. One bother the less. +The door of the cabin has neither lock nor bolt; nothing +but a latch. It is open to all comers. The scorner of +men has confidence in humanity, in the unknown. +Come in, gentlemen, if you happen to be passing, and +you too, Mrs. Paul Pry. Inspect the bed, the fireplace +and the cupboard. A little something to eat? Eat to +your heart’s content. You will find a dipper to fetch +the water if you are thirsty. Make yourself at home. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_183">183</span>And if you have a mind to, after the feast, read a page +in one of those books lying there on the table. It will +not do you any harm. And if you like the book so much +that you don’t want to leave it, take it away with you. +It has gilt edges; the man of the woods makes you a +present of it. The principal of his worldly wealth is +there between those planks. But what are the sneak-thieves +thinking of? They never come to Walden.</p> + +<p>One evening, when he sets out for the cobbler’s to take +a boot to be repaired, the village resorts to a singularly +rough way of testifying its regret at no longer seeing +him except as a passing stranger. The town constable +places his hand on Henry’s shoulder and takes him off +to jail. He has refused to pay his poll-tax. His intention +in doing so was to protest against a power which +protects the purchase, the sale, the practice of dealing +in men, women and children, those colonial wares from +Africa—and which, on the other hand, makes war on +one of its neighbours in order to seize its territory. To +say “no” flatly to the tax-collector is a much more +serious matter than to refuse to pay the tax of a parish +of which one is not a parishioner. It is revolt, disloyalty, +the crime of treason, the perverse act of a bad +citizen who disowns the institutions and the enterprises +of his country. Off with his head!</p> + +<p>So here is a boy who only wants to return to his home +in the woods and who is invited to spend the night in +the middle of the village in a beautiful stone house. +Modest as he may be, this pressing and irresistible way +of showing him that he is indispensable to the equilibrium +of the village does not fail to touch his pride a +little. They lodge him in a princely fashion, for this is +not the old wooden jail where, in the days of the Revolution, +two of Henry’s great-uncles were imprisoned as +Loyalists—and from which their sister, his grandmother +<span class="pagenum" id="page_184">184</span>Jones, coming from Weston to bring them something to +eat in prison, helped one of them to escape. No, the +world has made great progress since then, and the jail +is in harmony with the world.</p> + +<p>On the threshold of the fine modern building, Henry +is accosted by his friend Sam Staples, whose cheery +bluster is not insensible to the honour of receiving under +his roof the son of the pencil-manufacturer. A former +innkeeper, Sam adds to this quality the importance of +the part he plays in the village; he is at once the jailer +and the tax-collector. He is almost everything but a +deacon. Sam is also the son-in-law of the innkeeper +celebrated by Henry in one of his best pieces, published +three years before in the <i>Democratic Review</i>. Sam owes +it to himself and his father-in-law to be polite in return +to Henry. His first remark is: “I’ll pay your tax, Henry, +if you’re hard up.” The pity is that Henry is by no +means hard up and does not want money. The only +thing he wants is to go to jail to meditate at leisure on +the beauty of the institutions of his country. Walden +is not propitious for this meditation; the hours there are +too precious to be wasted in such unclean thoughts. +But in this beautiful stone edifice, behind the stout, +bolted door, he is in a better position to think of his +country, and its laws and law-makers, while he is held +there between four firm walls, under the guard of a +jailer-tax-collector-ex-innkeeper who is going to sell him +at auction perhaps like a mere negro for refusing to bow +down to an enslaving and conquering State.</p> + +<p>The noise of Henry’s arrest spreads through the village. +Waldo hastens over to see his friend. The Sage is +a little shocked; it spoils the harmony of his universe to +find Henry in such a place. “Henry, why are you here?” +“Why are you not here?” the prisoner replies with the +cool impudence that great criminals have. You can be +<span class="pagenum" id="page_185">185</span>a sage and yet never be able to understand certain things. +The best thing Henry can do is to remain in the company +of his own thoughts, which, in spite of this magnificent +masonry that seems destined to annihilate them, have +not lost a jot of their serenity and their liberty. Yes, and +to talk with his cell-companion, an honest soul, accused +of having set fire to a barn, who had been imprudent +enough to go to sleep there in the straw when he was +drunk with a lighted pipe in his mouth; or to listen to +this other prisoner, whose voice comes from a neighbouring +cell and who never stops repeating in his misery: +“What is life?... So this is life!”... Through the +safe bars of the skylight there comes to you the clear +sound of the village bell, a strange sound to hear in this +way from behind these prison walls and this bolted +door. You have never felt so close to the soul of the +village, so close to its citizens, to the beautiful souls of +the builders of the prison, the makers of laws, the buyers +and sellers of human flesh, the plunderers of other +people’s territory. This voice of the bell, falling in the +naked intimacy of a jail, is just the one thing necessary to +strip you of the last shred of respect you have kept, without +being aware of it, for these blessed institutions. The +prisoner actually has a feeling of deliverance: when he +first came in he did not perceive that the parish was +really imprisoned on the other side of those bars and +that he had been summoned there as a judge to judge it.</p> + +<p>A man can find his happiness anywhere if he has room +for happiness in himself. Many a time Henry has said +that he would be able to live very well in an almshouse, +among the humble souls whom one saw about the +grounds of the Poor Farm. He is quite ready to remain +Sam’s boarder till Authority recognizes that it has made +a bad blunder. But he has reckoned without the indiscreet +solicitude of his family, who are all in a flutter +<span class="pagenum" id="page_186">186</span>over the incarceration of their Henry. While he is +meditating in his dungeon, his good Aunt Maria hastens +out after nightfall, concealing herself in a neckerchief to +avoid scandal, and deposits the sum which the tax-collector +demands, plus the costs. All the serenity which +his evening in prison has confirmed in this enemy of the +laws vanishes at dawn when the jailer comes in and +tells him of this transaction. The beautiful stone building +is to lodge him only for one night; he must leave it. +Sam is very happy to set this sympathetic boarder free, +but the latter is furious at finding himself betrayed by +his own people. Confound them! So he leaves. The +village has become odious to him. When he goes to the +cobbler’s for his boot, he exhibits on the visage that he +reveals to the gaze of his sly fellow-townsmen the +defiance of an army marching, with flags unfurled, +through a conquered country. That evening the discharged +prisoner looks like a man who has come back +from a long journey. As a matter of fact, in order to +efface the memory of that night and that awakening and +the humiliation of that enforced release, he has gone off +and spent the day gathering huckleberries.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Inestimable hours of Walden! Do you really imagine, +you poor simple souls, that he has nothing to do here, +nothing more important than to contemplate the image +of his own blessed purity in the mirror of the pond, or +to listen to himself playing his flute on the water amid +this encircling verdure? It is perfectly true that the +pond is a liquid gem, where the mysterious little rayed +breem lives, as perfect as a jewel. It is not bottomless, +as the good people say. Your sounding-lead touches +the bottom in more than a hundred places—a bottom +of pure sand, without mud—and you can draw up an +outline of its basin. But how far the discoveries you +<span class="pagenum" id="page_187">187</span>make here surpass the miracle of its limpidity! Why +does this prowler about the woods find more soul in +these desert places than among his own brothers, the +bipeds of the villages and cities? Is it possible that a +narrow-chested fellow with sloping shoulders carries +the whole load of it on his own back, scattering it about +the roads as he passes? And so saturates the earth with +his own feeling as to make it murmur, sing, pray, utter +words, force it to say what its religion is? Or does the +human quality reside in a diffused state under the bark +of the trees and in the sap of plants for the soul of this +vagabond to collect it and feed upon it?... In any +case, every hour at Walden is like the measure of sand +passed through the sieve of a gold-seeker; it leaves +enough of a residue to make a boy comfortable for the +rest of his days.</p> + +<p>These fresh things that flow about the cabin surprise +him in the midst of his labours with a beauty so pure and +so exultant that he is obliged to drop his spade, his book +or his housekeeping, sit down on the doorstep and +simply surrender himself to the unknown things that +are passing. You would say then that the earth had +chosen this poor, shy boy whom you see absorbed there, +on the threshold of his cabin, as an instrument for thinking +in peace of its own unity and eternity. How can he +say where he is? The planet is silent, time and space are +strangely annihilated, the notion of any journey is lost, +he may be at the antipodes. Under the pines of Walden, +this man who is lost in his dream is Mir Mohammed Ali, +perhaps, the painter of Ispahan; his American profile is +drawn in miniature in the colours of a precious stone on +the blue of the pond. Or is he some Chinese poet-philosopher +in whom mingle the souls of animals and +plants and hermits sitting under an arbour near a little +lake? There comes to this man, as he listens to sound +<span class="pagenum" id="page_188">188</span>beyond sound, a music that is deeper and more ample +than the music of his everyday life; he feels on his palate +as it were a taste of immortality—it grows clearer than +the clear morning about him. This beetle that buzzes +by, this sweetflag swaying on the pond are like messengers +charged with transmitting to him the friendship +of men who have dreamed the same dreams in the +depths of the old Orient. He knows those men, he has +invited them now and again in the evening to come and +bear him company under his roof; they have never felt +out of their element or constrained in a cabin as big as +one’s hand in the open woods. And the beautiful +stories they have told him are not discordant with the +cry of the whip-poor-will.</p> + +<p>At such moments as these, you would take him for a +fellow who has laid his hoe aside like a workman about +to take his rest. In reality, he is a man in ecstasy, ravished +by this miracle, and his life grows more and more +exalted and ascends in a perfume of thanksgiving till his +contempt for the little men whose stupidity has made +him flee is unravelled like smoke in the wind. Some +fine morning he will find them almost rehabilitated in +his eyes: in the first rays of the sun, at the first notes of +the thrush after the winter, it will be the end of all that; +there will be nothing left under the pines of Walden but +a man who is all feeling and who is ready to pardon his +kind for being such sorry automatons, repeating their +mechanical gestures in the dullness of their days. This +light of early dawn will be enough to set shining at the +bottom of their poverty a precious spangle which they +themselves do not know they possess, and which redeems +all their shabbiness.</p> + +<p>Two such years as these, two full years quite to himself, +far from every discordant sound, impregnate the +very tissue of an existence. The anchorite can leave his +<span class="pagenum" id="page_189">189</span>cabin. Very foolish would be the person who supposed +that the experience of his life in the woods had played +him false. It had crowned him. To have proved to +himself that a man, when he wishes, can be entirely +self-sufficient without hiring out either his arms or his +head, was one result: but he had derived something else +from it as well. He had not only provided for his needs; +he had learned how to economize. He could choose, +according to his mood, like a man of leisure: return and +stay with his fellowmen or remain by the pond.</p> + +<p>At the end of the third summer he abandoned the +cabin to the squirrels. Why, exactly? Will those who +know be good enough to tell him? He scarcely knows +himself. Changing one’s dwelling-place is a vestige +perhaps of the old migratory instinct. Was he right or +wrong in leaving? Did he have any reason to regret it? +Vain questions.... He simply went away in 1847 as +he had come in 1845. But aside from this? Perhaps +because it was better that an all too beautiful experience +should be interrupted before habit destroyed its freshness. +Or merely because he could not resist the invitation +of a great friend who begged his old right-hand man +to come and live in his house again during his second +voyage to Europe.</p> + +<p>For Henry Waldo’s house was like another home. He +had spent two happy years there; he would be glad to +spend another eight or ten months. During his stay in +the woods he had read to Waldo, under an oak on the +bank of the river, some pages from the book he was +preparing. He would be able to work in the Sage’s +house. He intended to include in this book a piece on +friendship that he would be able to write most fitly +under the roof of a perfect friend. On October 5th, +Henry went to Boston to see the traveller off and say +good-bye to him in his stateroom. (How small and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_190">190</span>dark it was after the cabin!) The boat was called the +“Washington Irving”—a favourable augury. The great +man was going to deliver some lectures before the +choicest spirits in England. He was going to see Carlyle. +He planned to make a tour of the Continent, stopping at +Paris. Bon voyage, and may the gods of Concord protect +you, dear Waldo. Have no anxiety about the garden +or your family.</p> + +<p>Once more in the little white house the children find +their Henry. Ellen has become a personage of eight; +Eddy, a new personage, is three and a half. And the +parties begin again. The right-hand man has not forgotten +in the woods how to win the confidence of childhood. +When they turn over together the pages of a +picture-book, the savage takes as much interest in them +as the little figures perched on his knees. He is on very +good terms with Ellen. He must never ignore these important +details in giving the traveller the news of the +little house. It is the middle of November, a good time +for long letters. In a hand not always easy to decipher +but one which the recipient will read without any hesitation, +Henry writes to his friend Waldo:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>I am but a poor neighbour to you here,—a very poor +companion am I. I understand that very well, but that +need not prevent my <em>writing</em> to you now....</p> + +<p>I have banked up the young trees against the winter +and the mice, and I will look out, in my careless way, to +see when a pale is loose or a nail drops out of its place. +The broad gaps, at least, I will occupy. I heartily wish +I could be of good service to this household. But I, who +have only used these ten digits so long to solve the +problem of a living, how can I? The world is a cow that +is hard to milk—life does not come so easy,—and oh, +how thinly it is watered ere we get it! But the young +bunting calf, he will get at it. There is no way so +<span class="pagenum" id="page_191">191</span>direct. This is to earn one’s living by the sweat of his +brow. It is a little like joining a community, this life, +to such a hermit as I am; and as I don’t keep the accounts, +I don’t know whether the experiment will succeed +or fail finally. At any rate, it is good for society, so I do +not regret my transient nor my permanent share in it.</p> + +<p>Lidian and I make very good housekeepers. She is +a very dear sister to me. Ellen and Edith and Eddy and +Aunty Brown keep up the tragedy and comedy and +tragic-comedy of life as usual. The two former have +not forgotten their old acquaintance; even Edith carries +a young memory in her head, I find. Eddy can teach +us all how to pronounce. If you should discover any +rare hoard of wooden or pewter horses, I have no doubt +he will know how to appreciate it. He occasionally +surveys mankind from my shoulders as wisely as ever +Johnson did. I respect him not a little, though it is I +that lift him up so unceremoniously. And sometimes +I have to set him down again in a hurry, according to +his “mere will and good pleasure.” He very seriously +asked me, the other day, “Mr. Thoreau, will you be my +father?” I am occasionally Mr. Rough-and-tumble +with him that I may not miss <em>him</em>, and lest he should +miss <em>you</em> too much. So you must come back soon, or +you will be superseded.</p> + +<p>Alcott has heard that I laughed, and so set the people +laughing, at his arbour, though I never laughed louder +than when I was on the ridge-pole. But now I have not +laughed for a long time, it is so serious. He is very grave +to look at. But, not knowing all this, I strove innocently +enough, the other day, to engage his attention to +my mathematics. “Did you ever study geometry, the +relation of straight lines to curves, the transition from the +finite to the infinite? Fine things about it in Newton +and Leibnitz.” But he would hear none of it,—men of +taste preferred the natural curve. Ah, he is a crooked +stick himself. He is getting on now so many <em>knots</em> an +hour. There is one knot at present occupying the point +<span class="pagenum" id="page_192">192</span>of highest elevation,—the present highest point; and as +many knots as are not handsome, I presume, are thrown +down and cast into the pines. Pray show him this if you +meet him anywhere in London, for I cannot make him +hear much plainer words here. He forgets that I am +neither old nor young, nor anything in particular, and +behaves as if I had still some of the animal heat in me. +As for the building, I feel a little oppressed when I come +near it. It has no great disposition to be beautiful; it +is certainly a wonderful structure, on the whole, and the +fame of the architect will endure as long as it shall +stand....</p> + +<p>I have had a tragic correspondence, for the most part +all on one side, with Miss—. She did really wish to—I +hesitate to write—marry me. That is the way they +spell it. Of course I did not write a deliberate answer. +How could I deliberate upon it? I sent back as distinct +a <em>no</em> as I have learned to pronounce after considerable +practice, and I trust that this <em>no</em> has succeeded. Indeed, +I wished that it might burst, like hollow shot, after it +had struck and buried itself and made itself felt there. +<em>There was no other way.</em> I really had anticipated no such +foe as this in my career.</p> + +<p>I suppose you will like to hear of my book, though I +have nothing worth writing about it. Indeed for the +last month or two I have forgotten it, but shall certainly +remember it again. Wiley & Putnam, Munroe, +the Harpers, and Crosby & Nichols have all declined +printing it with the least risk to themselves; but Wiley & +Putnam will print it in their series, and any of them anywhere, +at <em>my</em> risk. If I liked the book well enough, I +should not delay; but for the present I am indifferent. +I believe this is, after all, the course you advised,—to let +it lie.</p> + +<p>I do not know what to say of myself. I sit before my +green desk, in the chamber at the head of the stairs, and +attend to my thinking, sometimes more, sometimes less +distinctly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_193">193</span></p> + +<p>I trust a common man will be the most uncommon +to you before you return to these parts. I have +thought there was some advantage even in death, by +which we “mingle with the herd of common men”....</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Oh, yes, he must also send him the news about Hugh, +the gardener, who has been intending to buy Henry’s +cabin and the old bean-field. The fruit-trees he promised +to plant there are not set out yet. Hugh is busy elsewhere: +on the day after the Cattle-show he was among +the missing. The same old story, too much beer.... +The field at Walden is in good hands.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They have had a peace meeting here.... Some men, +Deacon Brown at the head, have signed a long pledge, +swearing that they will “treat all mankind as brothers +henceforth.” I think I shall wait and see how they +treat me first. I think that Nature meant kindly when +she made our brothers few. However, my voice is still +for peace. So good-bye, and a truce to all joking, my +dear friend.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_194">194</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VI"> + VI + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Henry weighs in his hand a book that has just come +from the press. A duodecimo, bearing on its back: +<span class="allsmcap">H. D. THOREAU—A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERRIMAC +RIVERS</span>.</p> + +<p>From it rises a faintly insipid odour of glue and ink. +But it is no cardboard tomb that he has wished to raise +to the memory of the dear companion to whom these +pages are dedicated. He is wondering how the delight +of a week like that, two adventurous weeks passed with +his brother, could possibly be contained between two +layers of brown cardboard, and he has half a mind to +fling the volume into the corner. It is less true than that +arrow-head there on the table.</p> + +<p>He is examining his first book, which has at last appeared. +It is a mere trifle of pulp or dirty rags, boiled +down, flattened into sheets, dried and finally blackened +with ink. And beyond that? How about all the things +he had meant to put into it? The best part has been +lost between the manuscript and the composing-stick. +A book that is nothing more than a book may be a very +attractive accessory among the drawing-room furnishings +of people of taste if the shade of the binding harmonizes +with the hangings and the rugs. To a man of +the woods whose eye prefers to linger on bare boards +and plain whitewashed walls, a book is a useless knick-knack, +a rather sorry one, mere dust in a cardboard box.</p> + +<p>In this scrap-book of verse and prose (the verse—old +verse, for he has ceased to write it—like dried flowers +pressed between the leaves) in which the glorious voyage ... +yes, ten summers ago now ... serves only +<span class="pagenum" id="page_195">195</span>as a pretext for personal digressions, he would have +liked to put the whole world, with its blowing winds, +its floods of light, the fragrance of the river-banks at +dawn and all the surprises under heaven that had been +gathered in by a twenty-year-old heart. A book of +which the first outlines had been sketched under a tent +and the chapters had been assembled in a cabin in the +woods was not intended merely for the mahogany +shelves of Mr. Pettifogger the bibliophile. It should +dance and plash like the boat that had borne the two +conquerors; it should preserve a little of the flavour of +the melons they had carried on board. What was the +use of it otherwise? There were enough cemeteries of +books already, full of the other kind, with mortuary +emblems watching over them.</p> + +<p>Did they amount to as much as one dip of an oar in a +river spangled with reflexions, these few hundred pages, +black on white? (See if you can find any black in +nature.) Well, anyway, the book had come out. Not +without difficulty. The publishers would have nothing +to do with it. In the end he had had to resign himself to +a “published by the author.” Another fling of the adventurer, +launching his bark for the conquest of the world, +with the good Jersey blood of the mariner in his veins. +It was for the public now to do its duty by demanding +<i>Weeks</i> and <i>Weeks</i> from the booksellers, enough weeks +to make up the life of a centenarian, or at least the age of +the author. Here’s a book for you, just out, a thousand +copies, by Henry Thoreau, out of his own head, every +word of it, from the title to the last period. Quite a +different affair from an article published in a magazine, +between a cream-puff and a sermon.</p> + +<p>When you have cherished from college days an ambition +to be a writer there is naturally a little warmth in +the hand that holds the back of the first book. You have +<span class="pagenum" id="page_196">196</span>made your bow in the world, you have started, you have +set out for the antipodes; you are off on a voyage that +will never end. You have openly confessed your secret +passion, accepted the ordeal of the daylight that shines +on a larger world than Concord. The Sage has encouraged +you to try your luck. You are going to see. The +author is not greatly troubled in advance about the +judgment of the world on the first fruits of a writer of +thirty-two. In his silent communion with his notebooks, +during the dozen years that he has been preparing +himself to write, Henry has fortified himself with assurances +that have nothing to do with success or failure.</p> + +<p>Curious Journal, curious confidant, a work that is to +be continued through many volumes—eight or ten +already exist—and that will never be finished till the day +when the universe ceases to surprise him, the day when +his two eager eyes are closed at last. As the farmer has +been in no hurry to sell his crop while he was reaping it, +his barn contains the harvest of several years. It has +been necessary to add one floor after another in order to +get it all stored away. Heaven knows whether all this +will keep; but he has taken good care that all the garnered +sheaves shall be quite dry.</p> + +<p>On his rambles the explorer scribbles on the spot a +note or a few cabalistic signs, while he is under the +direct impression of the phenomenon or the landscape +he is observing. On his return the note is copied out, +more deliberately. Later, in its final form, it will be +incorporated in the Journal. What Henry, the writer, +adds in the evening to the visions and thoughts of the +day’s walk in no way destroys their freshness, for they +are thoughts of a true Pilgrim, flowers that have unfolded +in the rhythm of the walk and that he turns over +in his hands at home, in the evening, with his spirit +bathed in the open air, so as to study their tints. It +<span class="pagenum" id="page_197">197</span>might be called, this Journal, the account of a journey +that never comes to an end, for the world about Concord +is immense and has a genius for metamorphosis; or +perhaps the review of a spectacle that is performed for +himself alone, with a programme that is constantly +renewed, action and setting, with the strange encounters +one has after a performance, the people one likes, the +people one laughs at. Or the “love story” of a boy who +is looking for his own affinities and finds them oftener +in the world of plants than in human form. It is illustrated +now and then by rude sketches carefully recording +some observation or discovery. But whether it is to be +called a report, a review, a story or the music of the +day, the notebook contains nothing that is not veracious +testimony. A descendant of merchants and like +them a hoarder of treasures, Henry reckons up in the +Journal the gains of the day. He too is in business, and +he keeps his accounts with the meticulous exactness of a +book-keeper. You can examine his books. Observe +the debits and the credits. If the profits do not strike +you as very clear, it is because you have singular ideas +about wealth, my dear fellow.</p> + +<p>The harvest might well have remained in the barn. +No purchasers appear, but at times the desire seizes him +to sell a few armfuls if only to see whether or not it is +keeping well—perhaps, too, for the fun of having a little +cash. Now and then Henry wants to buy some fine old +book, if only to escape the bother of having to go to the +library to read it, or he needs a good pair of boots. +Then he draws from his Journal the substance of an +article and sends it off to a magazine. Horace Greeley, +whose acquaintance he has made in New York, has been +of great service in finding a place for his work and has +even agreed to advance him a small sum. But Concordians +propose and editors dispose. The manuscript is +<span class="pagenum" id="page_198">198</span>too long, or they will not countenance some of his +audacities of thought. Or, what is more likely to happen, +the article is printed and the author is swindled. What, +dear sir, you are not satisfied with the honour of appearing +in print in my celebrated sheet? You expect to be +paid for it? You can dig in your own pockets. This misadventure +befell him long since with the editor of a +certain <i>Boston Miscellany</i> and more recently with that +of <i>Graham’s Magazine</i>, who published his essay on +Carlyle, written at Walden. There you are! You are a +Concord hayseed, and these fine gentlemen are giving +you a lesson in humility. One doesn’t write for money. +Pocket the lesson and clench your fist. And get back to +work at your Journal.</p> + +<p>And now it has appeared, after all, this volume he +has just brought back, freshly bound, from his printer +Monroe’s, at whose shop he has been to see it through +the press on this twenty-sixth of May. Henry examines +his first book, and he does not feel so very proud. He is +the author of <i>A Week on the Concord</i>. It has been introduced +to the public. What next? One must sometimes +have confidence in one’s fellowmen and place a figure +before a line of zeros.</p> + +<p>(Yes, a book is born, and almost at once someone +close to you dies, someone whose loss hurts you deeply +and blots out all thought of books. Henry loses his +sister Helen, the eldest—called back, she too, to the +grandfather—Helen who had his features, his eyes, +and was so sympathetic with his ideas. Helen has gone, +not yet thirty-seven, to keep John company in the +cemetery.)</p> + +<p>The writer also appears in public when he gives a +lecture. It is in the Concord Lyceum that Waldo distributes +the honey from his hives. Since he made his first +appearance at twenty-one, Henry has spoken there every +<span class="pagenum" id="page_199">199</span>year. He has been chosen secretary. The honour of +addressing one’s fellow-citizens from a chair that has +been occupied by a sage of European fame is worth the +effort of trying to do it graciously. From the fund on +which he can draw to organize his series of winter +lectures, Henry can offer in exceptional cases ten dollars +to an orator of note; he himself pockets only the thanks +of the committee. But the neighbouring Lyceums ask +him to come and speak in other towns. Last year his +friend Hawthorne, who has left Concord and now lives +in Salem, arranged for him to be invited there and asked +him to stay at his house. Henry received twenty dollars +for his trouble. A fine haul. This year he is taking his +eloquence to Worcester, where Harrison Blake lives.</p> + +<p>What do you think of the lecturer? Hm, hm.... In +the first place, he doesn’t speak, he “reads” a paper +elaborately written; he doesn’t drop his manuscript for +an instant, and he utters it all in a desperately earnest, +monotonous voice. A bad method. He pronounces his +r’s harshly. And he is not exactly engaging, this young +man. He doesn’t give himself. The people listen attentively +to this sober soul who talks to them about things +that interest them very little; they are not repelled, they +are not indignant, they are simply bored. And the +worst of it is that Henry not only believes in what he +says but is quite aware of the freezing effect his little +discourse has upon people; he plods along with imperturbable +gravity. It is as if he had started with some such +little preamble as this in his mind: You blockheads down +there listening to me, what do I care whether I interest +you or not? You seem to think I’ve come here to give +you lollypops. Here are a few sour apples and some +acorns I’ve collected for you. Do what you like with +them. What can a man expect from such frozen wits? +It’s quite useless to waste any finesse on these dolts. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_200">200</span>They wouldn’t see anything in it. They make no personal +effort; they don’t come half-way to meet you.... +If you go on speaking just the same, it is because you are +sustained by the hope of finding one or two living beings +among these mummies, a few simple and impressionable +souls thanks to whom your pains will not be lost. As a +rule, no one comes up after the lecture to tell you how +extraordinarily good it is. Well, never mind; you can +go home, ladies and gentlemen. There is something to +be said for you for having listened without a murmur to +such a trying pedant.</p> + +<p>No, Henry doesn’t hit it off with the audience at all. +You don’t get very far with these good people with +paradoxes and ferocious affirmations; you must have the +art of flattering and tickling them, putting them into +a good humour and touching their hearts. This fellow +here doesn’t know the first thing about his business. +There is nothing these people like better than to be +amused in a sociable kind of way, and he doesn’t even +know how to make himself agreeable. He is the worst +bore in New England. If you have all that faith, my +boy, hand it out in little sandwiches that can be taken +with a cup of tea. Add a little water-cress, sprinkle it +with a pinch of salt, and serve it with a smile. See what +will happen then.</p> + +<p>Henry, you are no sort of cook at all. You are only +up to boiling gruel in your cabin. It’s pathetic to see a +man satisfied with being as poor an orator as he is a man +of letters. This refusal to yield to the ways of the world +gets to be irritating after a while. No use for him to +want to be a writer; he will never enter the paradise of +the literary. He would merely bring to it an absurd +respect for his art and the firm intention of pleasing +himself before pleasing others. Henry, the lover of good +work, takes a workman’s pains in perfecting his page. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_201">201</span>Thanks to the erasures, this manuscript has become an +illegible scrawl, not because in the first draught the writing +was so uncertain but because the author is so extremely +severe with himself. He has a pitiless blue +pencil. No “almosts.” Nothing that savours of improvisation. +Every word that is not alive, that is merely a +word, must disappear. Struggle and toil count for +nothing, he must get there. If you could only find me +some sort of eraser that would obliterate from this page +the exact things that ought to be obliterated: that invention +would be even more useful than the best pencil +bearing the mark of Thoreau and Son. In everyday life +with your neighbours garrulity is irritating enough; in +art it is intolerable. The work that comes from Henry’s +hands is to the point. You can take it and see how +firm the texture is. The man who made it wears corduroy +clothes because they are durable and take on an +exquisite tone with time. Very well. But let me repeat +that with these principles you will never be anybody in +the literary world. There copy is knitted by the yard +for firms that do a thriving trade.</p> + +<p>And isn’t it just as odd to have such a passionate love +for plants, animals, minerals, to study with such fervour +all these physical phenomena, and yet to have so little +in common with the scientists? Science consists of +shells, stuffed animals, glass phials, long names, dissertations +in musty books, and what interests Henry is +the living animal in all its wildness and freedom, the +plant with its sap, the phenomenon seized alive in its +natural setting. In spite of his tastes and his gift for +exact observation, the poet and the lover in him are too +exigent to yield precedence to the naturalist. And +besides, there is a strange animal that interests him +enormously; namely, himself. This is a very poor sort +of recommendation among scientists.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_202">202</span></p> + +<p>On three occasions, however, he sends Concord fish +from Walden to Agassiz, who is preparing his great +work on the fishes of America. Agassiz is very grateful +and promises to pay a visit to his Concord “colleague.” +The latter has been appointed a corresponding member +of the Society of Natural History in Boston; he has just +sent it a goshawk, a rare bird. Even in the village, +people have fallen into the way of consulting him as an +authority on botanical and ornithological matters. +This does not prevent him from being very sarcastic +whenever the subject of science and scientists comes up. +Just speak to him about the specialists who write a big +book on turtles—to amuse a man who knows how +turtles live! Or about this or that communication to +some learned society.... He says very little about +his own zoölogical or botanical observations; he confides +them to his Journal alone, for the benefit of those knowing +persons who are going to jeer some day at the amateur +naturalist and his discoveries. Go ahead and stuff +your birds, pedants. Give them your Latin names. See +if you can find one that any tree or quadruped pronounces +with its branches or its caperings. In this +Journal living animals pass, birds call, fishes glide +through the water, the loon flings its laughter over the +pond, the sap rises in the plants, the trees quiver to the +tips of their branches, juicy bay-bushes scent the air: +Hebrew for your Latin. These fancies are enough to +show that he doesn’t belong to the profession. Leave +him to his innocent pastimes.</p> + +<p>Besides, this “amateur” places too high a value on +ignorance to be taken seriously by the academies. This +man who reads Latin and French as well as his mother +tongue, Greek fluently, German, Italian, Spanish a +little, has a thorough knowledge of old English literature +and is more interested than a philologist in the development +<span class="pagenum" id="page_203">203</span>of the life of a word, as a beautiful plant among +plants, runs about the country every day like a schoolboy +throwing to the winds the knowledge learned from +books. The consciousness that he knows so little +delights him so much that he is willing to make his +ignorance the very apex of knowledge. Absurd Henry, +to be so infatuated with his not-knowing.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, as seldom as possible, he goes to the city, +for now and then he wants to consult some book that +interests him. It is a sad business, reading in a big +library. Fresh books, vibrant, vagabond, libertine +books, how in the world can you stay so still among +those rows of shrivelled corpses? The friend who +comes to see you at intervals pities your distress.</p> + +<p>When he has finished his reading, the villager invariably +goes off to consume a dish of boiled apple pudding +at some cheap eating-house (he distrusts their accursed +stews), then crosses the town without stopping till he +reaches the end of Long Wharf, where his grandfather +had his store. There he looks at the sea, the ships, the +piles of merchandise. Save for a glance at the market on +his way, this is all he sees of Boston. The stir of the +metropolis means nothing to him whatever; the fronts +of the substantial houses and the faces of men seem to +shut him out. Everything here, to the very stones, +reeks of respectability. The windows full of idlers and +the brawling vulgarity of the streets make him ill. The +city is a pickpocket who wants to filch from you the +most precious possession you have and leave you on the +sidewalk dejected and destitute in a vast solitude. This +is because you were not born, because you never played +as a boy in one of these crowded neighbourhoods, because +you grew up on the bank of a river that wanders through +the fields, bathing the whole world with its freshness. +For others no doubt, among its stones, the city has +<span class="pagenum" id="page_204">204</span>wondrous gifts; for a boy who is thinking of old Minot’s +cottage on the hillside it is full of shams and shoddy, and +what this boy demands is the real. There is a club in +Boston made up of some very sympathetic people who +meet on the last Saturday of every month; among them +are Emerson, Agassiz and Henry James. But although +Henry has been invited he never goes there. Quick, take +the train and put twenty miles between yourself and +this dismal burden of stone house-fronts. Quick, get +back to Concord where the village is merely a shabby +excrescence amid the verdure. At Concord there are +no steamers, no Long Wharves, no crowds in the streets, +no immigrants, no big, bustling shops, no special editions; +and you feel as if you were at the heart of the +world. In Boston there are no humming and singing +telegraph-poles where you can listen to the news from +afar. Call it parochialism, if you like, but parish towers +answer one another. Concordance is no empty word.</p> + +<p>At Concord you have a chance to remain simple. +Suppose you were to become a great writer or a fashionable +lecturer or a light of science and lose the simplicity +of heart that alone permits you to have access to the +unknown riches that surround you. That would be a +fine advancement! There you would be with the +esteem of everybody, with your glory or your hard cash, +wondering how in the world you could get rid of all +these substantial advantages and recover your boyish +ingenuousness, and the keen, inquisitive nose, the gift +of marvelling at the commonest object that have always +so astonished the good William. You would have taken +a false step indeed. You would have been transformed +into one of those men who are too sober-minded, too +dignified or too intelligent to stop and pick a tempting +huckleberry beside their path. Your eyes would be +dead to the miracle of every day. You would no longer +<span class="pagenum" id="page_205">205</span>want to be a sailor and skirt the bays and promontories +of “some fair wild island in the ocean,” suggested by an +oak-leaf. You would lose your elasticity. You would +become old before your time, old, respectable and unhappy. +You might even pose as a little saint and cease +to feel yourself a man complete with his virtues and his +vices, no better at bottom than the neighbour he scoffs +at and lectures. You would be a success, and you would +have lost everything, while at Concord one never +becomes a success.</p> + +<p>There may have been a moment when Henry wondered +if the art of writing could not support the writer; +but this moment had passed. He understood the trade +and the taste of its customers only too well. Precarious +as his other resources might be, they were better than +that. As a small boy, running barefoot in the fields and +up to all sorts of mischief, and later as an ingenious older +boy, he had learned how to dig, plane, paint houses, +plant, survey. And now Henry continues to work by +the day, as occasion offers. A precious thing, manual +labour. It stops babbling tongues and toughens a frail +body. It gives a tone to what you write afterwards. +Your qualities as a workingman reappear when you +come to weigh and balance words. When you have +finished a fence of pickets and lattice at $1.50 for every +five yards, or built a woodshed by contract for six +dollars, it is very pleasant to receive the money; but that +is not everything. You must also reckon the pleasure +you have had. And add to this the profit you have +received in indirect ways, such as the quality of the +page on which you relate the impressions of the day. +Henry does surveying, and he also helps his father in the +workshop. When he is not engaged elsewhere, he gives +him his mornings. The family industry is being transformed. +The Thoreau pencils are selling fairly well, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_206">206</span>and a new market has opened for the famous plumbago +powder—the secret. It happens to fit exactly the needs +of a new invention—electrotyping—and the people +give them ten dollars a pound for it. Even though they +can sell only a few hundred pounds of it a year, this is +not a bad stroke of business for the little family. The +pencils have become only a side-issue; they work for the +big industry. But Henry makes a trip to New York to +dispose of a lot he has made, for he has a large debt to +pay.</p> + +<p>The poorer you are in Concord, the better you know +your true wealth. It is all very clever to create happiness +with a thousand costly accessories, but to create +happiness out of nothing, to be happiness yourself, is +much more interesting, and happiness of this kind has +quite a different quality. To have been born poor is a +privilege too. In the most authentic great man, no +matter how magnificent and complete he is in appearance, +never to have worn rags or gone without a meal, never +to have been able to toss his dignified respectability +to the winds, never to have known what hardship +means is a lacuna that can never be filled up. Think +of that poor, great Goethe, too well brought up, as he +said, to have had any intercourse in his childhood with +the boys in the streets.... Whatever you may say, +the boy who has never set his bare, smarting feet on the +hard ground has missed one of the best of gifts. He has +not been judged worthy of experiencing the real savour +of this world. Henry has no inclination to make a profession +of his poverty, to set himself up in the square for +the admiration of connoisseurs. He saves it for himself +because it keeps him warm, as a sheepskin coat warms a +driver in winter. It has a taste that he likes and it helps +him to keep up his good spirits. It lives with him like a +comrade in the attic he has arranged for himself in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_207">207</span>new house, the yellow one, where his parents have been +living on Main Street since August, 1850. He is very +much at home there and William lives across the way. +At the foot of his garden the boat is moored.</p> + +<p>There in his den Henry lives like a king among the +spoils of his expeditions, his collections of birds’ eggs, +mosses, plants, arrow-heads, his bedside books, his +manuscripts—and always a store of nuts to take the +place of pipe and bottle. There he sleeps and works +and talks with his comrade, enjoying the tawny shade +of the latter’s eyes and blessing the fate that has provided +for him so generously. Recently his classmates +have asked him for an account of himself for the record +they are preparing of the class of 1837 at Harvard. +Henry’s reply is as follows:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Am not married. I don’t know whether mine is a +profession, or a trade, or what not. It is not yet learned, +and in every instance has been practised long before being +studied. The mercantile part of it was begun by myself +alone. It is not one but legion. I will give you some of +the monster’s heads. I am a Schoolmaster, a private +Tutor, a Surveyor, a Gardener, a Farmer, a Painter +(I mean a House Painter), a Carpenter, a Mason, a Day-labourer, +a Pencil-maker, a Glass-paper-maker, a Writer, +and sometimes a Poetaster. If you will act the part of +Iolas, and apply a hot iron to any of these heads, I +shall be greatly obliged to you. My present employment +is to answer such orders as may be expected from +so general an advertisement as the above. That is, if I +see fit, which is not always the case, for I have found out +a way to live without what is commonly called employment +or industry, attractive or otherwise. Indeed, +my steadiest employment, if such it can be called, is to +keep myself at the top of my condition, and ready for +whatever may turn up in heaven or on earth. The last +two or three years I lived in Concord woods, alone, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_208">208</span>something more than a mile from any neighbour, in a +house built entirely by myself.</p> + +<p>P. S. I beg that the class will not consider me an +object of charity, and if any of them are in want of any +pecuniary assistance and will make known their case to +me, I will engage to give them some advice of more +worth than money.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>As he sends off this description and thinks of his +fellows at college, he sees this poor devil, at the head of a +factory, condemned to sweat money out of his machines +and his workmen ... this poor devil, launched in +politics or absorbed in business, deep in the auriferous +mire ... this poor devil reduced to working as some +high office-holder ... this poor devil, consenting to +spend his life manufacturing counterfeit money stamped +with the effigy of Jesus, the enemy of all money ... a +whole list of poor devils, with round shoulders or an air +of satisfaction, who have not wasted the money their +fathers sacrificed to send them to college. He sees them +with their positions, their prestige, their prosperous +households, their wives, their children, their mothers-in-law +and heaven knows what, and himself beside +them, the failure, without position, bank-account or +influence, with his workman’s clothes, earning a meagre +living by the labour of his hands, hands which, like theirs, +have thumbed so many books. And how glad and +privileged he feels in his attic with his tawny-eyed +companion! He would be only too happy to work in +their gardens or split the wood for their stoves, offering +them his pity in exchange for their dollars. If he met the +most fortunate of them all, he would feel like hanging a +placard round his neck: “Have pity on a poor rich +man”—for some passer-by with a generous heart to +slip into his hand a pennyworth of compassion. And if +no charitable passer-by appeared, he would gladly give +<span class="pagenum" id="page_209">209</span>the poor fellow his own mite. You are magnanimous +when you are a success.</p> + +<p>Is it not from the worst that we often get the very +best? Then why not meet ill fortune with a high heart +and refuse, on the dullest day, not to be happy over a +mere nothing, a trembling leaf, a swaying twig, or the +smile of old Minot’s house on the hillside—happy, you +don’t know why, because you are happy, happy as a +child who plays with his poverty as a comrade, finding +in its eyes the colour of your own real wealth?</p> + +<p>When you are a rich man like Henry you want to treat +yourself, now and then, to some little trip. For one +who disposes of his time as he pleases, this is merely a +matter of gathering together a few odds and ends. A +week or so of surveying, a windfall in the shape of a +lecture or a cheque for an article provides you with the +means of surveying good fortune for many hours, a +week, two weeks, not to mention a store of memories. +This is one of the satisfactions of the lot of a man who is +free, as all men ought to be free. It is good to work on +your manuscripts. But you never write a story to be +compared with those that are traced by your feet as you +welcome the surprises of the road.</p> + +<p>There are always more surprises in Concord than +anywhere else; but the world is wide and you want to +see how the sun shines in other places. And besides, +you want to give your old notions an airing; no matter +how wide open you keep your window, they are always +in danger of getting a little musty.... There are those +hills on the horizon towards the West behind which, +at nightfall, from the top of the Cliffs, you see that +blazing reflection. The land of the sunset is a powerful +magnet.</p> + +<p>What if you were to explore one of those hills that +rise up, like a challenge and a promise, beyond that +<span class="pagenum" id="page_210">210</span>stretch of country over there—climb it, brush your +boots on its brow, watch the sun rise from up there and +see if you can discover the faraway spot in the valley +from which you set out? That ought to do your soul +good and expand your lungs. There is that solitary +Wachusett, for example, forever crouching there in the +distance, as if it were watching over some treasure; you +would like to go and ask that brother if he finds his +solitude bitter or friendly. His younger brother from +Concord is coming to make him a visit. That blue wall +is not a fabulous vision; it is a solid reality, in harmony +with the woods, the fields, the river. It belongs to the +family too. Another time the thirty-seven hundred feet +of Monadnoc draw him up. He has to prolong his +visit, live with the mountain a while, become familiar +with the dawn and the sunset on those heights. The +visitor camps for one night, two nights, in the open, +on the summit of the vision that holds him aloft with +all its mass till a small man, on this pedestal, has the +illusion of being a somebody.</p> + +<p>On the day before, in the morning, well before dawn, +he had set out on foot with a companion. They passed +through villages and woods, with staves in their hands +like pilgrims. The fields were full of fragrance for the +early risers, the farms still asleep in the twilight of +dawn; save for one reaper already sharpening his scythe, +they were the first that morning to tread the July countryside; +they passed through the hop-fields, rested on the +fence-rails of a farm from which the sound of music +reached them; and in the afternoon in the valley they +sought shelter from the broiling heat and bathed their +feet in the streams they found there. And at last they +arrived together on a grassy plateau, strewn with clumps +of huckleberry and raspberry bushes, in time to see the +moon rising in this tremendous silence—two little souls, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_211">211</span>serious, lost in wonder, half frightened at finding themselves +so high above the rest of their fellow-townsmen. +And the dawn, the notes of the birds before the dawn +on these heights, the great waves of the slopes below +rise out of the shadows as if they were at sea—on what +a ship!—as the camp-fire pales and the day breaks and +the landscape unrolls in all its unreality: old Massachusetts, +the whole of it, bathed in the sunrise, at their +feet, spreading its panorama before them in the summer +morning! The air of the heights intoxicates them; it +has a quality that is unknown to dwellers on the plain. +It is not so much that it acts upon your lungs: its rarity +has a strange power of exalting the spirit. Henry revels +in it and feels at home on the shoulder of the mountain. +If he did not live in Concord he would be a mountaineer.</p> + +<p>And the charm of the mountains persists. Sometimes +he goes still further west, as far as Greylock or Saddle-back +Mountain, to pay a visit to Their Majesties. And then—wonder +of wonders—the mountains he has always seen +towards the sunset rise, in a spirit of contradiction, to +the east! Is he a new man who, without realizing it, +has taken a trip round the world?... Before beginning +his climb he stops in this mountain valley at the next +to the last house. It would be fun to spend a week in +that house if they would take him in. The mistress is a +young woman who continues to arrange her hair while +she talks to him in the friendliest way, without any fuss, +thank heaven; she is dark and her eyes are full of fire and +she questions him with as much familiarity as if they had +been children together. She makes him think of his +cousin in Bangor. And they really are cousins in a way. +She has taken him for one of those daredevil students +who often come on trips to the mountain. On the top +he finds bits of newspapers they have left about; it is +strange to read a stray sheet of some old paper alone on +<span class="pagenum" id="page_212">212</span>the summit of a mountain by the light of a camp-fire. +What wears the best at this altitude is the advertisements +and the market prices, for there is a bit of real poetry +mixed with them, though the advertisers are quite +unaware of it (fortunately); as for the rest, editorials, +news, jokes, reviews, heaven save us! And then, after +a cold night that he has passed without a blanket, the +day dawns over an ocean of fog that covers the three +adjoining States as if it were a dream-country rolling off +into infinity.... It is the earth that has become unreal, +and you are planted there as if you were the centre of +this tremendous glory that rises with the sun.... And +you descend Tabor again, a little drunk with this vision +and no longer in the least cold in spite of the night passed +without a blanket.</p> + +<p>In the other direction from the land of the sunset lies +the sea, quite close—another magnet. The peaks are +silent and contemplative, but the sea stirs and rustles like +a forest of gigantic pines, lulling its old anguish. On an +island in the middle of the ocean you might contrive to +have a rich existence if you could ever forget Concord. +Or in one of those villages about Cape Ann. The whole +Atlantic coast and all the width of the continent lie at +the ends of the roads that set out from the village +square.</p> + +<p>Yes, to go off for two, three, four days, according to +the occasion and the plumpness of your purse, to leave +Main Street and the church-tower and the sidewalks of +the grey little town behind you and attempt an unexplored +world ... that’s the thing, Henry ... the real +holidays of life. You must have them complete. The +first thought of most poor souls on such occasions is to +take the train or the stage. They are poor souls indeed. +When you are rich you have the means to travel on foot. +Henry has no intention of surrendering to a machine or +<span class="pagenum" id="page_213">213</span>animal the pleasure of treading the road and devouring +it for him; this traveller likes the taste of it far too much +to leave it to a mere auxiliary. It is a part of the adventure. +When a vagabond journeys on foot, the earth +invites him to her table and lets him roam all over her +domain; those other people are mere stupid tourists who +follow where their baggage leads them. Before they +set out, the latter are sure to worry about where they +will find a lodging; why do they leave home if they begin +a journey with the thought of lodgings?</p> + +<p>Henry starts off with a pack on his back. It’s a marvel, +this knapsack. See if you can find one like it in the +shops! The traveller has manufactured it to suit himself. +It is waterproof and has compartments; a notebook, the +map of the country, his old music-book for pressing +flowers, his change of linen are in no danger of being +injured. If he is going some distance he carries a little +bundle in his hand. It is a package tied up in a handkerchief +or a piece of brown paper. He recommends this +to you as preferable to any sort of handbag, first because +it is lighter and swings more merrily in your fist, and +secondly because it causes less trouble. Don’t forget +the inevitable accessory of any expedition, a good stout +umbrella. A raincoat or an oilskin might be more +becoming, but they keep you too warm and they are +unwholesome, while under an umbrella you are always +exposed to the air and you have only to shut it up when +the shower is over. And then you have the rare pleasure +of hearing the rain patter on your roof, while you are +perfectly sheltered yourself; you are a householder on +your own threshold, and you take it easy listening to the +rain dripping from the eaves. When you are tired of +carrying the umbrella in your hand, you can carry it on +your shoulder and even hang your bundle on it, or any +other prize you pick up—a bird or a bit of sea-weed. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_214">214</span>People may laugh at you. Let them. They will never +have so much fun in all their lives.</p> + +<p>The clever fellow has thought of everything, down +to the sewing-case for mending rips and fastening on +buttons that fall off. These accursed leather shoestrings +are always undone and cause endless bother in +walking; they really abuse their right to relaxation. +Henry and William have often exchanged their views +on this grave subject, a theme worthy of philosophers at +least who despise the fiddle-faddle of learning. One +day Henry finds the knot-that-will-not-come-undone +and triumphs. If everyone applied himself to solving +such problems, the world would soon stand on a different +basis. But above all, do not forget to take along some +old newspapers. You will find them providential. If +you don’t already know to how many uses old newspapers +can be put, on a journey or at home, try some +experiments. You are leaving your shanty for a week +or two or for six months and you are afraid that during +this time your kettle will rust. Wrap it up in a newspaper +and go your way in peace. Or you want to give +your copper basin a good scouring; take a wad of newspaper +and polish it up as it should be. Your face will +smile at you in the mirror you have brightened so easily. +And what a comfort a few old newspapers are on your +trip, if you have taken them along: they serve as wrappers, +as a tablecloth, as a plate, as a means of starting +the fire, or as a light, warm chest-protector if it turns +cold. And there are still so many fools in the world +who believe that newspapers are made to be read, to +inform you about accidents and politics. Among the +humble truths that might shed a little light on their +existence, this is not the least important: in spending +your two cents you are making a golden investment if, +instead of unfolding the sheet, you place it carefully on a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_215">215</span>pile of old papers for the approaching day when it will +reveal its true use.</p> + +<p>The question of provisions also demands a good bit of +attention and experience. Henry has weighed this for a +long time. He has been armed with certitudes ever +since he first took the road. For drinking on a journey +nothing equals good strong tea. Because you have seen +so many old souls busy over teapots, brewing and +stewing, don’t imagine that tea is an old woman’s +beverage. A grave mistake. Winter or summer, it is a +powerful and subtle tonic. For solid food, carry with +you a good loaf of heavy cake. If it is made by your +mother it will be A-number-1. You will thank me for +this advice. Add a little cornmeal, enough to make +some gruel, a small bag of rice, some salt. With a spoon, +a tin quart-measure, and, if you like, a saucepan—not to +mention the matches and the knife that a walker must +always have—you are the master of circumstance. No +longer any need to knock at a door, when the fresh air +of the road has given you an appetite, except for the +pleasure of a chat or to add a glass of milk to your usual +fare if you want to bring back your childhood. You are +both the inn and the traveller.</p> + +<p>These arrangements are very important for the success +of the trip. As for your clothes, they should be +durable and old, preferably brown or tan—the colour of +the earth. They will show the dust and the mud less, +and you will not offend the landscape as the figure of a +townsman in the country does with his funereal black. +In heaven’s name, avoid the “tourist’s” get-up. You +must slip through the countryside like an old family +friend, not like an intruder. One more recommendation. +A straw hat is one of those creations in which the inventive +genius of man triumphs. Light and as solid as +flexible armour, it places between the burning sun and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_216">216</span>your poor skull just the right amount of space for you +to be able to speak of the <em>good</em> sun.... Suppose a +shower, a downpour, surprises you on a day when you +have left your umbrella behind. If it does not last too +long the wide rim of your head-covering will shelter you. +If the straw is a little warped after this bath, well, it has +seen plenty of others. It will soon get back its proper +shape; your oval, square or pointed skull takes care of +that gratis. And this invention, you know, costs only a +few cents. If some accident befalls it, if it has not been +fastened firmly with your handkerchief knotted under +your chin, and a gust of wind blows it into the water or +some ditch, well, good-bye, old friend.... I shall regret +you because my head breathed its warmest thoughts +through you, but I shall find another like you for a mere +song at the first shop I reach.</p> + +<p>If you travel with this modest outfit, you must not +expect to be treated as a rich gentleman travelling for his +pleasure. That humiliation will certainly be spared +you. Nor must you be too surprised if, along the road, +you are taken for a pedlar by the women on the doorsteps +or the labourers in the fields. That’s natural enough, +and it will even please you, for nothing could be more +creditable. They may ask you if you are able to mend +an umbrella (why an umbrella in your hand in this +radiant sunlight?) or if you are not a tinker. Or a clock-setter. +Or one of those casual labourers who work by +the day in the hay-making season. You will certainly +not be offended by anything of this kind; indeed you +will be flattered, for it will show you that they don’t +take you for a fool. This is a compliment you don’t +often receive from your own fellow-townsmen. At +home they are not particularly struck by your ability, +but out in the world your ten fingers are in constant +request. Even if some theft has been committed in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_217">217</span>neighbourhood as you are passing through with a friend +and they look at you suspiciously and the constable +discreetly walks along with you, you are not indignant +at the inquisition. How could the police, with their +infallible noses, fail to suspect two mischievous-looking +young fellows, roaming about the roads without any +apparent purpose, instead of the traveller who puts up +at the best hotel and orders his dinner in a lofty voice? +You and your companion must be the criminals, or +good-bye to the constable and the constable’s nose.</p> + +<p>In case you don’t care to sleep out under the stars, +ask for a bed in some house along the way. It is so much +cosier. You will make the acquaintance of some very +good souls. Under their roof, as your wet boots are +drying before the fire, you will feel that you are in the +very heart of the country. And you will not have to +refuse the hotel boy the tip he has failed to deserve, the +wretch, because he has polished your famous boots +instead of greasing them with a rind of pork.</p> + +<p>So, no matter where you go, the world responds to +your expectations. It likes to be approached on its own +level, and it is for you, the man with the knapsack, that +it keeps its finest stories. Finally, you will spend less +money than if you stayed at home.</p> + +<p>Henry finds the highway tedious, for it is the road of +trade and traffic. He has not buckled on his haversack +to perform a military march. On the highway the gravel +crunches under your feet, the dust gets between your +teeth. If his itinerary obliges him to take the road, he at +least walks on the bank, stopping from time to time to +listen to what the wind has to say on the wires. What’s +the latest news? As a rule he follows the paths, taking +short-cuts across fields, jumping over hedges, clambering +up the little hills without slackening his pace. He +has a good wind. Once he has made up his mind to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_218">218</span>reach a point he has marked on his map, all the obstacles +in the world, natural and artificial, can get in his way: +he makes straight for his object, scaling every one. +Obstacles are made to be leapt over—a much quicker +way than going round them. He never loses his sense of +direction in the woods. He is a walker who can count +more years of experience than Christianity can count +centuries. A pagan of a walker.</p> + +<p>This time the man with the old umbrella is going off +alone. To set out in company would certainly be to +multiply by two or three the pleasure of the adventure. +But where can he find them, the rare birds that share +his tastes? He knows one or two perhaps, scarcely +three. Most of his friends are simply not to be thought +of as travelling companions. People who wear black +clothes and are impeccably correct to the very soles of +their feet, people who are charming in their own houses +but whom you can’t imagine eating a bowl of gruel +before a camp-fire. They would make you conspicuous +on the road. You can’t go and ask them to travel like a +common tramp, with an old umbrella and a bundle. +And besides, you who are an indefatigable walker and +as abstemious as a camel would soon leave your companion +behind. Half-way along the road you would +hear him complaining back there that his boot hurt him +or that he was melting with perspiration. He would +have to belong to a special type, a Henry number 2 or a +brother John.... Or a William. But William does not +dare to start out this time; he is afraid of what might +befall him with such an intrepid companion when it is +no longer a question of a mere afternoon’s ramble to +Nine Acre Corner.</p> + +<p>Some friends have sent Henry an invitation to lecture +over yonder; it is a chance for a little trip. If he sometimes +has to be urged a bit, it is only for the stupidest +<span class="pagenum" id="page_219">219</span>of reasons. When he goes to see some of his friends or +appears in public, he has to dress up more or less (a +remnant of respect for the conventions, you know).... +His old togs, frayed by all the thickets of the wilderness, +have such a beautiful patina and they are so well moulded +to all his movements and so easy at the arm-holes that +it is heart-breaking to be obliged to give them up and +harness himself in a frock-coat in which he feels as +cramped as a best man dressing up for his cousin’s +wedding. The mere thought of it almost spoils his +pleasure in advance. He would like to be his everyday +self, not this promenader in his Sunday best.</p> + +<p>But Henry is ready for any sacrifice. He is going to +take the train for Worcester and pay his friend Harrison +Blake a visit. The latter is an old Harvard man like +himself whom he met through Emerson when he was +living at Walden. A little too full of starch, this good +man—Henry would like to pinch him now and then to +see if he has blood in his veins—but a firm and faithful +friend. They write to each other regularly. Henry +is a little bored by the correspondence, and he would +be very happy if he could make this excellent Blake, +who absolutely insists upon regarding him as a sage and +a great philosopher, understand how seriously mistaken +he is. No, my friend, you are quite wrong; I am a very +ordinary soul and very much at a loss how to reply to +you, for to me two words exchanged with a carter mean +more than all the moral counsels in the world. You +insist on asking me for all sorts of spiritual directions, +and I am as threadbare in philosophical matters as I +am in the matter of clothes. You are throwing your +respect away, dear fellow. It is very hard for a pagan, +an artist and a savage to make himself intelligible to a +churchman, for he is a churchman, this good, faithful +Blake. It is a safe bet that in fifty years he would never +<span class="pagenum" id="page_220">220</span>understand. To appease this keen spiritual hunger, the +great “philosopher,” in his letters—after ten years of +correspondence they are invariably addressed to “Mr. +Blake”—copies out for him whole pages from his +Journal, carefully selected from those that are the most +“moral.” Their correspondence and their relations +always keep this grave tone. Henry feels the frock-coat +that cramps him at the arm-holes. But Mr. Blake is +certainly the most loyal of friends.</p> + +<p>Henry feels more at home with Daniel Ricketson, +who invites him to his house at New Bedford, the +whaling port. On the first occasion it is mid-winter, +and Ricketson, who is a Quaker, is clearing the snow off +his front steps and thinking of his visitor who is very +late in arriving. Up the carriage road comes someone +who looks like a pedlar, in a long overcoat, carrying a +little bag and a big umbrella. But it is the expected +personage, and he strolls up imperturbably through the +friendly snow; he has had no thought of preparing a +sensational appearance; they will receive him cheerfully +in this disguise as Santa Claus, for it is Christmas Day. +The following year Daniel returns the visit. He is a new +friend. There are good years for friendship as there are +for trees. It even comes to Henry from across the sea +in the person of that tall, fair-haired, distinguished-looking +young man, the descendant of Anglican bishops, +who, on his trip through America, comes to see Emerson +who sends him to the Thoreaus’ house, where there is +always room for a boarder. Rather an odd fish, this +Thomas “Cholmley,” and a little hard to swallow just +at first, but charming at bottom under his English +patrician’s uniform, fresh from Oriel College. He is +just back from New Zealand, where he has had a taste +of cattle-raising. They go off on several rambles together +about Concord; with William to make up a trio, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_221">221</span>they set out for the conquest of that old solitary Wachusett. +Henry has very little use for these over-civilized +young blades who respectfully ask him to take them +along on his walks; but he has made an exception of +this tall, fair-haired fellow who has been to New Zealand. +Some day he must take him to New Bedford.</p> + +<p>There, at least, there is no constraint. On the very +threshold he shakes off his gloom, the melancholy of the +northern pine; he is himself, he is a child. In this congenial +atmosphere he is ready for any joke, and he +laughs and sings. He doesn’t quite catch the tune, but +who cares?—it sounds just as well. The bathing is +excellent and they get up a boating-party. One afternoon—is +it the venerable Alcott’s presence that excites +him?—when Mrs. Ricketson is at the piano, the northern +pine, seized with a mad gaiety, actually begins to +execute a Zulu dance around the room, taking pains to +tread on the toes of Alcott who smilingly watches his +good colleague’s extravagant behaviour. If that blessed +Blake were only in a corner of the parlour too, on this +occasion, ready for a little nip from the dancer’s boots! +It would enlighten him better than the longest letter on +the nature of Henry’s philosophy. Henry’s face is as +long as a night-cap when he is with ceremonious people +who bore him. He writes deep, serious things because +he is not interested solely in trifles. And there he is, +forever pigeon-holed as the most dismal of souls. They +haven’t seen him, brimming over with nonsense, acting +a pantomime with his own intimate friends; they have +never heard him singing at the top of his lungs alone in +the woods or surprised him with the children doing some +marvellous trick. No, he is and he will remain the +morose ascetic who went off into the woods one day, +full of hatred for humanity, and pounded out his black +thoughts in a rough-hewn mortar. Rubbish!... Let +<span class="pagenum" id="page_222">222</span>them talk, Henry, while you go on dancing about the +room. And look out for your toes, Alcott!</p> + +<p>One day, towards the end of July, 1850, Henry sets +out hurriedly on a strange journey. He is not going to +spend Sunday this time with a friend who is waiting for +him; he has to find the body of a friend who has died. +Poor Margaret Fuller, whom he had never known well +but who recalled to him the days of the <i>Dial</i>, was returning +from Italy, married now and a mother, on a ship +that had gone ashore in a storm on Fire Island. She +was one of the victims, after having watched death +approaching for twelve hours till a mightier wave +delivered her with her child and her husband. Henry +has been commissioned by all the Concord friends—Margaret +was William’s sister-in-law—to search the +scene of the shipwreck and try to recover her pitiful +remains and her belongings. He scours the beach, +questions everybody, pursues his inquiries. Plunderers +of the wreck have been there before him. At first nothing +is found but a few papers, some love-letters and the +little body of Nino.... Then, eight days after the shipwreck, +Henry, who has got his direction from a lighthouse-keeper, +finds on a lonely beach the shapeless +remains of a body, ravaged by the rough jaws of the +sea—a few bones with a little flesh still adhering to +them....</p> + +<p>Concord enfolds a man very tenderly in the arms of +its river and woods when he comes back with roughened +skin from such trips as these. But when you are at +once a stay-at-home and a nomad, there are few holidays +to be compared to a long expedition when your confounded +circumstances permit you to think of such a +thing. And nothing could be happier than the happiness +of the preliminaries when you are making your plans +and studying your itinerary, inspecting your knapsack +<span class="pagenum" id="page_223">223</span>and your boots, and reading the books about the country +you are going to explore. Don’t talk about recreation +or satisfying some asinine taste for the picturesque by +following the footsteps of other travellers. Henry sets +out from his village to reconnoitre, to get light on some +very important matters and bring back something to +fill up his chests there in the garret. These are his campaigns.</p> + +<p>There is that crooked beak, shaped like a fishhook, +which Massachusetts thrusts out into the sea—perhaps +in an attempt to catch that big greedy fish Long Island, +if the latter, tired of sniffing the unprofitable metropolis, +should decide some day to turn to the North for its food. +Wouldn’t it be a good idea to go and see how the wind +blows there and have a look at the old sea-dogs that +incrust it like shell-fish? Cape Cod. A long tongue of +land curving out like a breakwater into the open Atlantic—an +immense organ from which the ocean draws its +grandest tones.</p> + +<p>This year, with his book out at last, Henry can give +himself a little extra treat. William has decided to come +too. They set out together at the beginning of October +(they are obliged to take the train so as not to spend an +eternity on the way) and stumble straight into a shipwreck +at Cohasset. The train is crowded with Irishmen +who are on their way to identify the bodies—from the +beach to the church the farm-wagons come and go, some +of them carrying the corpses, others the sea-weed +thrown up by the storm. Immigrants from Galway in +Ireland, and here they are, livid under their white sheets, +arriving, feet first, in the land of their hopes. The flag +of the shipwrecked vessel is drying there on the rocks +with pebbles on its four corners, still keeping its colours—not +dead like the Irish lads. The captain and the other +survivors will lead the funeral procession.... At the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_224">224</span>base of the fishhook they leave the train and take the +stage as far as Orleans, where the tongue of land grows +so thin: it is nothing but a sandbar sixty-five miles long +by a few miles in width. How good-natured the people +in the stage are! Simple and natural as if—O joy!—no +blessed social categories existed in their astonishing +country and they were all old acquaintances. Does the +nearness of the ocean teach people the art of living?</p> + +<p>It rains and blows the next day, when they start out +on foot. Never mind, they are not going to wait for it +to clear. They walk along the shore; the umbrella +shields them and the wind drives them on. They are +not loaded down like those two little Italians who are +walking towards Provincetown with their organs on +their backs. It is an entirely new landscape for the lads +from Concord. No trees. Here and there a cottage +with a red roof. Octagonal windmills, such as they have +never seen except in pictures. In the fields heaps of +clam-shells; the pigs, they say, are fattened on the clams, +those marine acorns. And see there, those stunted apple-trees +sheltered in a hollow, those little old toy-like trees +from which a child could pick the apples by hand. It +would be difficult to creep your way under them, the +branches are so low and shrubby. The little Cape Cod +horses are as amusing as goats. You great Concord +farmers, if you could measure the scantness of the land +the people cultivate here—about as much as a miser +could hold in his palm! But it yields a little rather +meagre corn and the vegetables in the tiny gardens +actually seem to be thriving. This is the country of the +sea.</p> + +<p>The best thing is to leave the road and march along +to this roar that you hear uninterruptedly on the right. +The companions have come here not to follow a road +but to enjoy the ocean. They cut across the fields in the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_225">225</span>direction of the three Nauset Lights. Then, in the wind +and rain, they are lost in an absolutely bare plain, shut +in by fog. The smallest object appears immense in this +desert and as if suspended between sky and sand. It is +just the way one should see this interminable plain. +Henry feels so happy that he could sing. He is going +to try to keep clear of the villages up to the very end of +the Cape so as not to break the powerful charm. At +the end of this vast plain, and after crossing a stretch of +upland covered with shrub-oak and beech-grass and a +strip of bare sand, they suddenly find themselves at the +top of a Bluff: at their feet lies everything they have +come to seek—the beach and the Atlantic. The ocean +is dark under a stormy sky—as Atlantic as possible. +Those white lines of foam, some distance out, reveal +the sandbars. And beyond that nothing ... nothing +but Europe, and faraway Jersey ... so people say. +It is too beautiful here for you to have any desire +to go over and see it. From this point on the two umbrellas +set out to skirt the shore, as close to the water as +possible where the sand is hardest.</p> + +<p>Twenty-five good miles lie before them to the tip. +As they sail along under the umbrellas that shelter and +aid them, with the wind at their backs, the walk side +by side becomes glorious. Two happy souls under their +whalebone turtle-shells travel along so close to the +water’s edge that every now and then they have to leap +quickly aside to escape a great wave that has watched +them from afar and flung itself upon them: perhaps it is +the umbrellas that have provoked it into lashing them +with its kelp-weed tails. And when you have played +with the waves it is a delight to scramble up the sandbank +that forms the back-bone of the Cape, so as to +have a wider view of the ocean and look off into the +distance and over to the left, to the desert of sand. The +<span class="pagenum" id="page_226">226</span>rolling country yonder, covered with autumn-tinted +shrubbery, permits them at intervals a glimpse of the +bay. Walking now on the ridge, straddling the Cape, +now on the fine sand—there are no rocks to break the +wonderful monotony of this shore—the wayfarers take +their time, resting now and then; for the sand, soft as it +is to their feet, makes walking difficult after a while. +Not a sail in sight, for the sea is too heavy; not a soul +on the beach. It is as if the ocean preferred to see no +one about him when he is roused. Days might pass +without your encountering two natives of the country, +those plunderers of wrecks with faces hard as a stone, +a stone that the sea has rolled from the beginning of time +and is ready to go on rolling for as many ages as it +chooses.</p> + +<p>But they do not ask for any distraction. The enormous +spectacle fills the scene. It is better even not to talk +amid this continual roar that obliges them to shout; +and if they do it is only to thunder some Homeric lines +to put themselves in tune with this bass voice. Surprises +strew their path, marvellous plants, dragged up +from the sunken palaces of the sea, all of which they +would like to carry away if they could only keep them +alive in their flexibility and their lustre. Henry chews +a tip of one of them. The beautiful sea-medusas that +strew the beach in their tattered finery are as if struck +with consternation not to be swinging any longer, +delicate and transparent, in the hollow of the waves: +dispossessed princesses whose hearts shrivel on this +alien strand. In spite of the noise of the sea they hear +the piping of a plover. Suppose they have a little lunch? +It is noon, time to settle themselves in a hollow of the +bank and eat something, as two good boys should who +have gone a long way since breakfast in the inn at Orleans +and are famished by the salt air. Some dry sticks, a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_227">227</span>fire, a superb clam cooked over the sand as the principal +dish; the meat is a bit rubbery, but with a cracker and +sprinkled with the cries of the sea-gulls it is quite edible +and even savoury. And look there, the weather is clearing....</p> + +<p>By evening the pilgrims have reached Wellfleet. They +must think of shelter for the night. In that little house +over there, with the gable pierced with those small +irregular windows, there will surely be a corner for two +fellows who are not hard to please. No one at home. +How about the other? An old woman who has had her +eye on these two suspicious-looking individuals fastens +her fence-gate, then resolutely goes back into the house. +Hm.... We’ll see. Knock, knock. An old man opens +the door and asks them with a distrustful air where they +have come from and what they want. They explain. +Of course we might be almanac-vendors, but no, my +friend, we’re not. We’re from the famous Concord +where the great battle took place at the time of the +Revolution. The old man is eighty-eight, so he was +fourteen when that historic event occurred. These +pedlars who are not pedlars are too much for him. +Well, walk in, since you’ve come from the country of +the Revolution. The old woman relieves the strangers +of their bundles and their hats, while the grandfather +grumbles: “I am all broken down this year. I am under +petticoat government here.”</p> + +<p>The hospitable family is composed of a daughter who +looks as old as her mother, and a brutish-looking, heavy-jawed +son who goes out abruptly at the sight of these +strangers; there is also a boy of ten. “These women,” +the old man says to Henry, “are both of them poor +good-for-nothing critturs. This one is my wife. I +married her sixty-five years ago. She is eighty-four +years old, and as deaf as an adder, and the other is not +<span class="pagenum" id="page_228">228</span>much better.” The good soul is an old oysterman who, +since sailing the seas in his young days, has had much +intercourse with oysters and the Bible. He likes to +gossip and they converse in a friendly way about oysters, +surveying and apple-raising. The half-witted son returns +and begins to mutter, without lifting his head: “Damn +book-pedlars—all the time talking about books. Better +do something. Damn ’em. I’ll shoot ’em”.... Whereupon, +the old man, assuming an air of authority as if he +were used to it, says: “John, go sit down, mind your +business. Precious little you’ll do—your bark is worse +than your bite.” But the sullen imbecile persists in +muttering, goes and sits down at the table, eats up +everything that is on it and reaches out for the apples +which his mother is paring for her guests’ meal. She +draws them away and sends him about his business. +There are many of these imbeciles in the villages of +Massachusetts.</p> + +<p>But it is a pleasure to listen to the old oysterman who +relates his recollections in a language as salty as the +water that you swallow with an oyster. He well remembers +seeing Washington, a man with such a fine bearing! +And to show how well the great general sat his horse the +old fellow strikes an attitude, straightens his shoulders +and bows ceremoniously to right and left, sweeping the +absent three-cornered hat with a wide gesture. It is +just as you see him in the school-books, but in what +picture will the general ever have such a grand air as he +has in this little house on Cape Cod, evoked by the +mimicry of an old oysterman? After this they all go to +bed. The boy, who is in the chimney-corner, takes off +his shoes and stockings, and as he has a sore leg they rub +it with salve before he goes upstairs. The imbecile takes +off his old shoes and follows. Then the old man, removing +his shoes in turn, without ceasing to discourse on +<span class="pagenum" id="page_229">229</span>the miseries of the world, exhibits with pride a pair of +calves as plump as a baby’s.</p> + +<p>William and Henry retire to their room. Someone +behind them draws the bolt and fastens them in. You +can’t be too careful. After all, you never know with +these clever people who are up to all sorts of tricks.... +(Ah, good people, how right you were to distrust two +strangers who had dropped from the clouds. Two days +later the Provincetown Bank was robbed and the +police were looking for two men who must have done +the job. Good heavens, to think you might have had +those two scoundrels under your roof.... Nothing +more prophetic than the instinct of an imbecile who +wants to execute them out of hand. Put this in your +pipe and smoke it, you sham pedlars, even if you are +not the thieves. You have been taken for tinkers or +almanac-vendors already—it may be pickpockets next. +If you had never left your own hole-in-the-ground, how +would you have ever known that you had in you the +makings of all these characters?)</p> + +<p>The door is unlocked before dawn and Henry runs +to the beach to watch the sun come out of the sea. They +have breakfast. The old man begins to spin his yarns +again, forgetting to eat, and says to his wife, who reminds +him of this: “Don’t hurry me; I have lived too +long to be hurried”.... Meanwhile, the two comrades +breakfast a little gingerly, not being sure of the exact +spots on the hearth sprinkled by the old man’s tobacco-juice +while the meal was being prepared there. They +pay their score and set out. The weather is marvellously +clear this morning, swept clean by the wind that howled +in the chimney.</p> + +<p>They follow the dunes. The tide is coming in. The +vessels are skimming like gulls over the ocean; one, a +barque, furls her sails and drops anchor a gunshot from +<span class="pagenum" id="page_230">230</span>the shore. In this miraculous brightness of the ocean +how large and strange objects on the sand appear: at a +distance a bit of wreckage looks like a cliff. The most +absurd little rocking-horse here would have the size of +some monstrous steed. And always, under your feet, +those gifts of the sea that would go so well in your +collection: a wet pebble, gleaming like a jewel, debris, +come heaven knows whence, rolled by the waves heaven +knows how long, roughly modelled by the ocean, polished +or tarnished, a beautiful crab’s shell, a sponge, a +five-franc piece, bearing the image of Louis XV the +Well-beloved. Henry’s eyes, with their Concord habits, +even find an arrow-head, placed there in his honour. +They must bathe in that little basin formed by a sandbar, +then sit down to dry and watch the coots dancing +like corks on the waves or the schools of menhaden, +with their back fins projecting two or three inches out +of the water. In some patches the sea is as purple as a +grape. That sail yonder comes from some port of +dreams for which you are homesick even without +knowing what it is. It speaks mysteriously to a man, +naked in the sun after his bath, who hears the pores of +his skin murmuring together how marvellous it is to +belong to a body that is freed from its braces and buttons.</p> + +<p>It will be best not to stop at Truro but to push on to +the Highland Light where they will find comfortable +quarters. Indeed the keeper receives them without +asking them who they are, receives them, in his simple +brick dwelling attached to the white lighthouse, with +the generosity of a lonely soul. They climb with him +up the winding iron stairway to the lantern when he +goes up to light his fifteen oil lamps. (What a job +keeping them in order! There are the wicks, the oil +that congeals in winter, the reflectors, the windows, +and on warm summer nights the moths that glue themselves +<span class="pagenum" id="page_231">231</span>there by the million, dimming the lights—and +yet everything is neat and in apple-pie order in the +lantern.) Think what a fine place it would be for a lad +with studious tastes who was too poor to feed his own +lamp! And what a beautiful inn! There you are, all +night, close to the waves, snug in your bed, a part of the +lighthouse, yourself a light towards which the lookout-men +at sea direct their eyes. Wonderful!</p> + +<p>The Cape narrows and is soon nothing but a shrunken +tongue of land along which move two insects in holiday +spirits. They are approaching the point of the hook. +Three or four days along the seashore, tramping in the +October wind, and there is Provincetown at last, a mere +dot. A compactly built little town, a barking cur, +people going about their business—all these things cut a +sorry figure before an ocean that swings from one +continent to another. The two hundred schooners of +the mackerel fleet that lie there in the harbour are like +toys scattered on a green carpet. There is a smell of +drying fish along the plank sidewalks of the little town, +which is engulfed in the fine sand that filters into everything, +into your shoes, into the houses. To bid farewell +to the Cape they push on across the deserted region to +the North of the port. The wind from the open sea +stings and caresses them and makes their skin smart. +The whole burden of the Atlantic comes to die at their +feet in the whiteness of the foam and a rumbling as of +the end of the world.</p> + +<p>It is Sunday. Some sailors are engaged in painting +their boat at Provincetown when a tithing-man comes +along and tells them they are disturbing the Sabbath. +That’s all very well for you, my friend. On Sunday you +lounge about the house after church, smoking your pipe +with your family, looking at the picture-papers or getting +drunk if you like; it’s easy for you to observe the Sabbath +<span class="pagenum" id="page_232">232</span>without causing any scandal. But from where I +sit, peacefully watching the harbour and the sea, I can +hear the shouts of a preacher from the meeting-house +over there with its windows wide open to the sunlight. +(Wouldn’t you think he was a drill-sergeant or a boatswain +giving his commands?) Now, tithing-man, why +not tell that fellow to stop making a nuisance of himself? +Those sailors are not disturbing a soul as they paint their +boat, but that fanatic poisons the beautiful Sunday air +for everybody.</p> + +<p>Monday, the departure. They set off for home by +sea, saluted, as they leave the harbour, by some red-shirted +men who, from their boats, watch the little +steamer passing: a Newfoundland dog, with his paws +on the rail of one of the boats, watches them too, +watches as a big sailor’s dog knows how to watch. In +no time at all the Cape and everything over there behind +them is a mere pale beak almost level with the sea, and +before they know it they are tying up at Long Wharf +between two big boats ... Boston ... the train for +Concord. Oh, to get to Concord quickly enough to +bring home before they are gone that scent of codfish +and oysters and that drone of the sea in the shell at +your ear....</p> + +<p>It is so beautiful, this desolate coast, so powerfully +appealing, this Atlantic solitude, that Henry returns +alone to the Cape the following summer and twice +later, alone or with William. Cape Cod has become the +first colonial possession of an affluent lover of the wilds. +But the danger of these long expeditions is that one +becomes insatiable. A rich man always wants more. +Having gone to the extremities of Massachusetts, +to the mountains and the sea, he has taken it into his +head to press on to the boundary of the United States, +and beyond....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_233">233</span></p> + +<p>Henry, you are ready to throw your money out of the +window. William has agreed to go up to Canada with +you, or is he the tempter who has induced you to go? +However that may be, the matter is settled between the +two accomplices. They are going to take advantage of +a special excursion train. It is very disagreeable to +travel under such conditions, packed in with those +idiotic tourists, but it enables them to go a long way for +very little money, and once they are there they can get +rid of the other reduced-price gentry soon enough and +set out by themselves on a tour of discovery. They will +have a week before them.</p> + +<p>They leave Concord in the morning, before eight +o’clock, and by six in the evening they are on the shore +of Lake Champlain, which crosses the frontier ... on +the map. For it crosses nothing on the landscape. But +is there a single one of these fifteen hundred excursionists +who, at this solemn moment of passing from one +country into another, is not looking for some mountain-chain, +some gulf, some gigantic gate—heaven knows +what—to show that here one nation begins and another +ends? A frontier, and the face of the earth goes straight +on as if it knew nothing about its own political geography? +But they begin to hear people speaking in a +different language (is that the looked-for gulf?), and +already they feel far away from home—on the “foreign +soil” of the romances.</p> + +<p>More than anything else, Montreal is the church of +Notre Dame. A deep cave like that in the heart of a city +deserves a visit. It is very still there. The church can +hold ten thousand worshippers, but at the moment it +seems to contain only three women who are praying, and +the latter do not even lift their eyes to look at two +fellows who are softly making the tour of the nave with +their hats in their hands. A troop of natives come in, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_234">234</span>countrymen on a visit to town whose first thought is to +kneel before the high altar, with the rather awkward +movements—as Henry thinks—of cattle preparing to +lie down. The glitter of the altars, the candles and the +images do not impress him, but he is touched by this +ingenuous respect. The silence is good in this cavern. +There reigns here a little of the mystery of the deep +woods; it is open every day to all comers, a retreat to +which you can come and meditate, away from the +crowds, and really feel at peace with yourself. If you +were condemned for your sins to live in a town like this, +you would certainly come to Notre Dame, with the +same respect as these good women, to pray in your own +fashion between services. If it were not for the priests +and their mummery, this Catholic religion would not be +a bad thing at all. It has such beautiful shrines for +meditation. Even the holy water in the basins would +not disturb you very much if, in the minds of the faithful, +it were sacred like the water of a fountain dedicated to +a goddess. This Roman religion merely needs to be +brushed up a little by a pagan. Notre Dame is certainly +an astonishing cave.</p> + +<p>In the streets, priests and Sisters of Charity. These +latter must have been weeping all their lives long to have +such scalded-looking eyes; they have the faces of people +who have been buried and dug up. They all go about +with lowered eyeballs, as if they had made up their +minds never to smile again. The sight of them insults +the daylight. There are also a great many soldiers +about, mounting guard or drilling. Henry wonders of +what use all these puppets are. They are probably to +amuse the citizens, like a Punch and Judy show. And +there are market-women in the square with beautiful +apples, pears and peaches for sale. (It is the end of +September.) Henry buys some, hazarding a few words +<span class="pagenum" id="page_235">235</span>of the language of the country. These honest fruit-sellers +at least are flesh-and-blood women, and their +apples are apples and not church ornaments. And the +old French names that he reads in the town have as +much flavour as the apples, or as the chronicles of the +navigators who set sail from Saint-Malo in their immense +old tubs and landed at Tadousac, at the confluence +of the Saguenay. Henry has read those chronicles, +and they enchant him.</p> + +<p>The zigzag fissures there in the rock are Quebec and +its climbing streets. And the citadel—and the barracks +and the barracks. High up there on the ramparts he +perceives from afar a terrible warrior with an immense +cocked hat; he wonders if it is the god of war stuck up +there like a scarecrow, or if that horrifying puppet with +its gun is preparing to destroy the world. These soldiers +are the ornament of Quebec; they are set about everywhere +to make it clear that the English are energetic +people. In the citadel the Highlanders are drilling. +They have the graceful, elastic step of mountaineers: +strong, healthy young men, condemned to a humiliating +and ridiculous occupation that is stupefying them and +turning them into automatons in the service of Her +Britannic Majesty. Their movements make a sad +impression upon a man who stands there, with his old +umbrella and his bundle, staring at the soldiers, as if they +were a new species whose habits are unknown to him. +He is poorly dressed, as his way is when he travels, +with a thin, twenty-five-cent palm-leaf hat on his head +and a brown linen sack to conceal the raggedness of his +coat. The spectator compares himself mentally with +that superb officer there who, without his disguise, +would probably look just like anybody else. He would +almost like to hand him his own duster out of charity, so +that he wouldn’t have to look so much like an old bogie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_236">236</span></p> + +<p>But he had better climb down again to the town and +have a look at the milkmen’s dogs, harnessed to the +little carts containing a single immense can, and the +market by the water-side, and the old women sitting in +the open air behind their vegetables and fruit—and the +ferry-boats continually going to and fro with their +motley, chattering crowds. The cabmen talking in +French to their old hacks remind him of the ancient +France that still keeps its aroma here. In this restaurant +he has just entered what interests Henry is not the +bottles and the glasses on the table but a great map of +Canada hanging on the wall. This table is made of +mahogany, and it would be a pity to scratch it. The +guest spreads out his handkerchief, then climbs up on +the table and begins to study the map. When he sets +foot on the floor again, without having broken any of +the dishes, he has had his meal; the food itself will be +merely dessert.</p> + +<p>But it is to see the country that he has come to this +“foreign soil.” The two friends set out on foot to +explore the Falls of Montmorenci. They promise themselves +a good deal of pleasure. There may be less uniforms +and nuns along the roads. It will be a great +experience to see simple human beings.</p> + +<p>The peasant women are working in the fields, buxom, +healthy-looking creatures with ruddy cheeks under their +broad-brimmed hats, and much more agreeable to look +at than the natives of the stronger sex. The villages +straggle along with their whitewashed houses. Thank +goodness, you no longer feel yourselves strangers as +you did at Montreal and Quebec. Isn’t it odd? No +matter where you wander on the planet, as long as there +is a tree of any species, a blade of grass, a glint of running +water or a beach where pebbles have been washed up, +you are immediately at home; while a score of miles +<span class="pagenum" id="page_237">237</span>from your own church-tower you have only to set foot +on the sidewalk of a town to feel yourself an alien, with +all communications cut with the world and your own +kindred. A strange business, this “foreign soil.”</p> + +<p>Evening falls. They have reached the village of Beauport. +It would be much cosier if they could put up with +some of the inhabitants. They are in the heart of the +Canuck country, where you have to speak the language. +Even the little curs bark in a kind of French. Henry +courageously knocks at a door, and when they shout +“Entrez” from within some fine little phrases emerge, +the fruit of his reading since school-days. His accent +may not be very good, but often enough the people +understand it. The only trouble is that he can make +scarcely anything of their voluble replies. And the +blunders are very amusing. These honest Canucks are +full of good will, but unfortunately they are poor people +and have no bed to offer the strangers. So our friends +are compelled to enquire in their best pigeon-French: +“<i lang="fr">Y a-t-il une maison publique ici?</i>” Who would ever +guess that these two boys are looking for a simple inn? +The Canucks of Beauport have no inn, as they have no +<i lang="fr">maison publique</i>. But there may be room at the mill or +the grocery. At this other house, where the travellers +sit down for a moment to drink a glass of water, the +people politely excuse themselves by showing them the +loft where the whole family sleep, the only bedroom in +the house. At last, under a less poverty-stricken roof, +they are offered the best room and a bed with coarse, +unbleached linen sheets. But there is no coarseness in +the hospitality of the Binets, who do not lock them +into their room like that funny old oysterman who had +seen Washington; they even ask their guests if they +would like some brandy with their breakfast. No, good +lady, a plain apple will taste better to us than any drink.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_238">238</span></p> + +<p>The next day they set out for the Falls. The spot +from which they can see them best has been appropriated +by a mill-owner, who has his mansion and grounds +there. Very sorry, dear sir, but we are going to cross +your land with as little fuss as if we were in Concord. +It appears that you supplanted on this spot a mighty +lord of the last generation. But mighty lord or not, +there is a great natural spectacle here, and the view +belongs to the humblest of walkers who comes from a +distance with his bundle to see the Falls. What do we +care for your land-title? Sir William and Sir Henry here +have a right to enjoy the sight to their hearts’ content.</p> + +<p>There should still be time to go and see the Falls of +Sainte-Anne, a simple matter of thirty miles on foot. +On the road they constantly pass wooden crosses and +little shrines to the Blessed Virgin with ex-votos. Now +and then they meet some villager wearing a cap of red, +blue or grey worsted who bids them a polite good-day +and lifts his hand to his bonnet. How civil and human +they are! Even this fat, friar-like personage in his black, +priestly robe—what can these fellows do for a living?—who +appears at the door of his parsonage, where they +have knocked to ask their way, gives them a friendly +greeting. There is no inn at Sainte-Anne any more than +at Beauport, but here too there are good souls to put +them up. The master of the house, in his red cap, has +the true Norman stamp; he talks with his stubby pipe +between his teeth, which makes his Canuck French very +hard to understand. Just the same, two fellows who +have come from New England feel very near home here, +very near and very far away at once, much further away +in time and space than the excursion-ticket had given +them any reason to expect. They are in the heart of old +Normandy—Henry has returned for one night to sleep +in the cradle of his race. He may not be thinking of this +<span class="pagenum" id="page_239">239</span>perhaps, but it is very much to his taste here. The +villages, the streams have such charming names: Rivière +de la Blondelle, Rivière de la Friponne, Rivière de la +Rose, Rivière du Sault a la Puce, Pointe aux Trembles ... +How can he help feeling that he belongs to the +race of poets-without-knowing-it who thought of such +names as these? All the little houses turn their backs on +the road, perhaps the better to preserve the fragrance +of the old country.</p> + +<p>After the visit to the Falls and a good stiff walk along +the Saint Lawrence, they stop again at nightfall at a +farm where they pass a very agreeable evening chattering +French in the great kitchen. It is Sunday. William’s +pipe pays a tribute of incense to the little Canuck gods +who have never died on the cross. What they cannot +make intelligible because of their accent they write. +This little girl knows how to write. Henry amuses them +all by drawing a map of the country in chalk on the old +oiled table-cloth. They are the best of friends in no +time. With the few words at their disposal they talk +about the soil, for that subject can be expressed in very +simple terms. The good people talk about “senelles,” +and Henry at first supposes that they mean snails till +they show him the little red apples of the hawthorn. +They also go out for some real apples to give the two +strangers, beautiful, firm, glossy apples that have just +been picked. In the autumn fragrance of ripe apples, +Mother Earth says thanks in a universal language.</p> + +<p>These poor Canucks, who are so gentle, with their +rather humble politeness and an intelligence that seems +to have been arrested in its development, are pitiful +creatures in the eyes of you Yankee tourists, and you +make fun of them because you are so clever and so +strong. But what would you have been if it had been +perpetually rammed down your throat by your father +<span class="pagenum" id="page_240">240</span>and your father’s father that the one great thing in this +world is to obey our holy mother the Church? You +would have been dunces, and you would have been +mean, hard-hearted dunces. You would not have had +the openheartedness, the simple courage, the good +nature and humanity of these people. (Henry is thinking +of the clear, laughing “By gosh” of the wood-chopper +from Quebec who had come to see him in his cabin.) +A little of the wealth of these “poor souls” would not +come amiss in your pockets, shrewd fellows that you +are.</p> + +<p>But they must rejoin their fellow-excursionists. Quebec. +Yes, the soldiers in red, the priests in black, the +nuns, the seminarists.... You have seen enough of +them. To Montreal on the boat, and then the train +that is to carry you home. In the car the inevitable +wag of the party begins to imitate the cry of the cabmen +in the streets of Quebec. Among these prosperous +Yankees a silent man is thinking of the landscape along +that tremendous river, so many miles wide, with its falls, +its islands, and the little children who said good-day so +politely to the strangers on the road. Reckoning all the +expenses, the journey to Canada has amounted to $12. +A little more, to be sure, than the net profits of a year of +farming at Walden. But he does not regret his money.</p> + +<p>Henry has cousins at Bangor, in Maine, the stepsons +of his Aunt Elizabeth, one of whom is in the lumber-trade. +He has never gone back there since that time in +his twenty-first year when he had wanted so much to +find a place as a schoolmaster almost anywhere. While +he was living at Walden, he was seized with a desire +to go up and shake hands with his cousin and do a little +exploring with him in the forests up there. Henry lived +in the woods, and the woods are cousins of the forest. +One special attraction was that mountain which was +<span class="pagenum" id="page_241">241</span>more than five thousand feet high and in the midst of the +wilderness and still almost unknown, Ktaadn. A royal +mouthful, with that dense primitive forest he would +have to penetrate before reaching the giant and offering +it the homage of a very small cousin who had come a +very long way with his knapsack to dine with His +Mightiness.</p> + +<p>On the last day of August, in the second year of his +stay in the woods, he left his cabin (no need to bolt the +door) and set off with his outfit in his haversack. From +Bangor, Henry and his relative, the lumber-merchant, +reached by buggy the meeting-point of the two branches +of the Penobscot, where two companions were to join +them. On an island in the river, where some degenerate +Indians were living on their lands, they engaged two of +the latter who were to serve as guides. One of them +pathetically called himself Louis Neptune. The real +journey began here.</p> + +<p>Humanity, in this region, already presented the rough, +honest features of a wood-cutter in a red flannel shirt. +A solitary store stood for trade; it was filled with all +kinds of “sweet cakes” upon which the lumberers +threw themselves like starving men after their long +fast in the woods. They also sold cartridges and toys +for the children who were anything but visible. Perhaps +these too were to amuse the wood-cutters. The road +stopped here; they marched forward in Indian file. The +forest had engulfed them; from an elevation they saw, +as far as the eye could reach, nothing but its sombre +green bosom. Pines, beeches, birches fraternized and +struggled over the moss. There was no animal so scarce +as man, and what a surprise it was to encounter him in +the form of Uncle George, as he was called, living here +on his lands so far from everyone, with another man and +two women and his beasts, like a pasha! They were to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_242">242</span>spend the night under his roof, for it was here that the +two Indian guides were to join them.</p> + +<p>Excellent Uncle George, offering his hospitality with +such an open hand to four travellers, and refusing to +take any recompense! It was easy enough to see that +his ancestors belonged to the good Scotch race. And +what hospitality! Henry saw them preparing a royal +dinner over an enormous fire with logs as long as an +axle-tree: on the table were ham and eggs, wheat cakes, +cheese, salmon, shad, sweet cakes and stewed cranberries, +all in profusion. And butter in such quantities +that they gave it to you to grease your boots with. +Henry felt very much alive in this land of Cockaigne. +Henry the sober rejoiced in this munificence, for it was +all seasoned after his own heart and everything was so +simple, so grand and so beautiful in this forest setting. +He dreamed at Uncle George’s of that “larger and more +populous house, standing in a golden age,” where his +blessed fellow-townsmen, those dear little provincial +souls whom he knew all too well, had died of their +stinginess, and the large spirit, the magnificent generosity +reigned that he had found here in the remote depths of +the woods.</p> + +<p>Louis Neptune and the other Indian did not arrive, +and Uncle George consented to serve as their guide. +They would lose nothing by this. With a neighbouring +settler whom they persuaded to join the party, there +were six of them in a boat that played in the cleverest +fashion with the current, the rapids, the whirlpools +and rocks on a level with the water. George and his +neighbour Tom were quick and sure-eyed boatmen. +Henry was enraptured with the sport, which was all +new to him. This was the logging country, where the +great felled trunks adventurously jostled their way +down the watery road and came to a stop in piles, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_243">243</span>waiting for the flood to dislodge them. It was a country +of lakes too, big and little and strewn with islands. They +were now on North Twin Lake; it was evening, and in +the moonlight they rowed by turns, singing, pausing +now and then to listen to the voices of the solitude. +Henry no longer knew where he was nor what adventures +lay before them through these interlacing waters +and islands....</p> + +<p>At the loggers’ camp where the expedition halted in +the afternoon, they had had some tea and sweet cakes; +this was the last human vestige in the direction they +were going. And now as evening had come they made +camp, cooked their supper, and then, stretching out +with their feet to the fire, gossiped a little before going +to sleep while they studied the starry sky. By daylight, +through the clouds that encircled it, they had already +caught a glimpse of the giant’s brow. This was a trout +country too, and the fish fell upon the bait ravenously, +shimmering like flowers as you heaved them out of the +water and flung them on the bank. Henry, the veteran +fisherman, had a dream about them. He dreamed that +he was fishing the whole night long in a miraculous +shower of these flower-fishes. The vision was so acute +that he was compelled to get up early in the morning +and go and see whether it was true or whether he had +only dreamed it. He went to the bank, cast his line +and in the moonlight caught as many as ever he could +want: trout and roach leaped and fluttered just as they +had in his dream. They were like flying-fish.</p> + +<p>The party was obliged now to leave the boat and turn +towards the mountain on foot. Uncle George had never +been further than this spot. So now it was Henry, +rover of the woods, who took the head of the column. +Following his old custom he took the compass and +steered straight through the dense forest for the foot of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_244">244</span>the mountain, without seeing it. By noon they had +breasted their way over so many firs and birches that +their stomachs were groaning, and they broiled some +trout on sharpened sticks, each with his own fish and +stick. Gathered about the fire, they were like six sorcerers +fishing in the flames. That night they camped +within sight of the summit. But the guide was too +impatient to wait for the next day; he scrambled up +alone, on all fours, hanging by branches, slipping and +recovering himself, till at last he reached a rocky plateau +where he could reach with his finger the skirt of a cloud. +And the next morning, while his companions were still +struggling in a chaos of rocks, there he was on the summit, +on the last ridge, pressed on all sides by the clouds.</p> + +<p>He had hardly expected to find the Giant in such a +savage humour. The little man who had come to pay +him a visit felt rather overwhelmed; the spirit in him +was silent, intimidated. He had hoped for some sort +of rugged smile. But no, the Giant sounded as if he +were muttering between his granite teeth: “What the +devil are you doing here, you little worm? Go back to +your mother.” The Giant had no invitations for a +little man who had made such a long journey and run +the risk of breaking his neck to see him. He was a +crabbed, secretive Giant who didn’t like people to meddle +in his affairs. Had this rather cold welcome somewhat +disheartened Henry? The country through which +he passed on his return, after having tumbled down the +mountain by the bed of a torrent, drenching himself to +his heart’s content, was stamped with an almost menacing +severity that chilled him at times. The desolation of +these dense, infinite forests, without a suggestion of a +path, without the faintest sign of anything akin to this +biped who was groping his way and had to scramble up +to the top of a fir-tree to get his bearings was so enormous +<span class="pagenum" id="page_245">245</span>that he felt excluded, baffled, effaced—so utterly +that he wondered, as he touched his own body, if it +was not itself matter without a soul.... Had he had +to come all this way then to find the limits of his own +wilderness? Was such a region as this, absolutely devoid +of any relation to humanity, outside his domain? Would +the gods of his own wilderness at home refuse to haunt +the forests of Upper Maine? In that case Walden would +find its master here. Was that so? Strange, anyway—very +strange.</p> + +<p>He did not become himself again till he heard the +laughter of running water and found the boat once +more. That was human at least. The Giant no longer +weighed on him, nor the mighty roof of the forest. They +descended the stream; the rapids were terrible. You +should have seen the two men with their spike-poles, +catching hold again of the empty boat after letting it +drop over a fall, leaping into it and allowing themselves +to be whirled down the rapids, cool and collected, +familiar with all the tricks of this crafty water. When +they reached the neighbourhood of Tom’s house, whom +should they see but Louis Neptune and his companion, +each in his own canoe! In their old clothes, broad-brimmed +hats, broad capes, they looked like veritable +blackguards. And their explanations were like their +looks. It was not their fault that they had missed the +rendezvous; they had been the victims of a wild jollification +and had not yet recovered from the effects, poor +devils. It was all right. And they were welcome to +their muskrats too.</p> + +<p>A glass of beer at Tom’s, a farewell to Uncle George, +whose dogs were mad with joy at the sight of their +master and fairly devoured him; then off for Bangor, +Boston and Concord.</p> + +<p>Henry was coming back to see his cousin again. This +<span class="pagenum" id="page_246">246</span>mass of virgin forest, with its watery veins, dappled +with lakes as the lakes were dappled with islands, +attracted him as a kind of challenge; and this ursine +wilderness disturbed a little the thought of his own. +Seven years later, the pair were off again, in an open +wagon, on the road from Bangor to Moosehead Lake. +This time the Indian they had engaged as guide and +paddler met them as he had promised. No drunken +Louis Neptunes this time. Joe was a good-looking lad +of twenty-four, short and stout, with small feet, a +broad face, eyes narrow and slanting towards the +temples, wearing the red flannel shirt of the lumberman. +Although he knew all the American slang, he was a full-blooded +Indian.</p> + +<p>This time they were not going to disturb a Giant in +his stony meditation. They were setting out by water +for Lake Chesuncook, another solitary majesty but a +less lofty one. After crossing Moosehead Lake on a +little steamboat, they carried their canoe and provisions +over to the Penobscot. It was a joy to Henry to watch +Joe tarring the little boat, which was nineteen and a half +feet long and painted green. They sat in the bottom on +birch-bark mats, and there were two big paddles which +they used by turns; they sat with their legs stretched +out or tailor-wise and sometimes knelt. Whenever a +bird appeared, Joe said its name in the Indian language—a +strange melody, as if the bird were naming itself. You +couldn’t help thinking how happy the creatures would +have been at the Creation if that great poet, the Redskin +god, had been there in his paradise to name them.</p> + +<p>This was the country of the moose, as big as a bull or +even a powerful horse, with two palm-leaves on his +head for horns and delicate hoofs that divide very far +up and are flexible when he bends over. It was a long +time since Henry had done any hunting, but his curiosity +<span class="pagenum" id="page_247">247</span>was too lively for him not to accompany the two others +when they pursued the moose, whose tracks they saw +on all sides.</p> + +<p>Joe, in the silence in which they glided along in the +moonlight, imitated the call of the animal by blowing +into a birch-bark hunting-horn. No reply this evening: +nothing but an occasional dry rushing sound as of the +closing of some faraway door in the forest, a falling tree. +But later, as they were ascending a little tributary +stream, a great head appeared which, when they took +good aim, dropped into the water. It was not Henry’s +shot, needless to say. The animal was as big as a good-sized +mare; the long fall from the high shoulders to the +receding rump gave it almost the look of a giraffe. +Henry watched Joe, skilfully removing the skin, making +a fearful butchery of what the moment before had been +a clothed and perfect form. Henry was no milksop, but +he did not like to see life destroyed. It was true that this +evening he did not refuse to eat a moose steak, which +tasted rather like pickled veal. It was also true that +three comrades eating together fried moose-meat cut +directly from the animal and cooked over live coals in +the open wind, in a magnificent solitude, while they sat +with their backs against the towering fir-trees to the +sound of the rippling water that rocked their canoe, +was a very different thing from seeing a similar scene +pictured in the almanac or in the tales of missionaries. +You felt as if you were living a mighty life. And as for +savagery, you didn’t have to aspire to it any longer; +you were eating it, you were partaking of it.</p> + +<p>In the moonlight, the fairies had taken possession of +the prospect, erected their scenery, arranged their lighting +effects, and Henry half thought he was some personage +of the forest of Arden in the brain of Shakespeare and +not just a little fellow from Concord crouching in a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_248">248</span>canoe with Joe the Indian and his cousin the lumber-merchant. +Henry was sleepy and he fell into a dreamy +state: he was floating through prodigious gardens and +avenues bordered with fantastic architecture where he +heard the sound of Joe’s horn calling the moose: <i>ugh, +ugh, ou-ou-ou ... ou-ou-ou</i>.... The venison had +gone to Henry’s head. The others were hoping for the +chance of a second shot. But for him the hunting was +finished. One moose was enough. That great despoiled +carcass had impressed him too painfully, and he had not +digested the moose-steak very well. He had not made +the journey with any such intentions as these. And +there were enough of these red-shirted woodsmen coming +in the pay of employers or a company to massacre +trees and animals; the forest should know the face of at +least one disinterested friend.</p> + +<p>Henry left the others to their pleasure and sat down +by the camp-fire to examine the fruits of his own hunt—the +botanical specimens he had collected that afternoon. +Then he took out his notebook and jotted down his +impressions, just as if he had been in his own bedroom at +Concord. But his room was vast this evening, and +what an evening it was here for a solitary man with +that stream of moonlight on the river ... with those +great shafts surrounding him with their sombre profiles ... +friendly shafts destined for the axe, destined +for the saw, for the crime of being great and brawny +and for holding under their skins the promise of such +beautiful timber. The common destiny of trees and men, +to be doomed to trade, to be sold in planks or pencils, +instead of being understood, loved and glorified. In the +dancing light of the flames the little men and the tall +trees looked as if they were bending over the shoulder +of a boy who was writing instead of joining in the chase.</p> + +<p>At Chesuncook, that great log-house belonged to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_249">249</span>Ansell Smith, who had cleared a good stretch along the +lake. It was enough to see the assembled logs of which +it was made, lapping over one another several feet at +the corners, enough to see that forester’s broad-axe +leaning by the door to love the fine, manly air of the +place and be happy at the prospect of spending the night +there in a beautiful room where the wooden partition +creaked with every movement. On the way back to +Bangor, they stopped at an island that had been left as a +reservation for the Indians. The Governor was a rare +old boy whom they found sitting on the edge of his bed, +in his shanty, dressed in a frock-coat and well-worn +black pantaloons, with a red silk handkerchief about his +neck and a straw hat. He was deaf, but he had hardly a +grey hair in spite of his eighty-nine years. His corpulent +squaws were gathered about him. They were tamed, +Christianized, slatternly Indians. They were interested +in politics, and were not in agreement on the question +of the school which the priest, the sole holder of the +Roman candles, wanted to close. Henry stopped for +some time by an Indian who was making canoes. He +would have liked to spend a whole season there, as an +apprentice, and master this fine, primitive art. But he +was obliged to take the trail for Concord again.</p> + +<p>How was he going to like it after having gorged himself +with this wild nature? Very much indeed, you may +be sure. It had variety and all sorts of fine shades, and +he never wearied of his old domain as he would have +wearied after a while of the deep, monotonous forest. +These solitudes of Upper Maine were like a strong wine +that he liked to have a taste of now and then as a tonic. +But they would never have done for every day. Those +dear old attaching surroundings at home were ... +how was he to put it?... “nature humanized.” +Exactly. You would never have believed it perhaps: +<span class="pagenum" id="page_250">250</span>hu-man-i-zed. A fellow does not come back from +Upper Maine, you see, without a curious little memory +to accompany the indigestibleness of the moose.</p> + +<p>Four years later the taste of this strong wine tempted +Henry again. He had made another visit to Cape Cod +early in the season and had scarcely been home a month +when he started for Bangor. This time it was not his +cousin who was going to make the journey with him +but his friend Edward Hoar, the beloved companion of +many a ramble about Concord—including the one when +the two “damned rascals” set fire to the woods. Rambles +of long ago, for Edward had been living for eight +years in California. They meant to reach the Allegash +Lakes and return by the East Branch of the Penobscot. +In this way they would encircle Ktaadn, giving it a +sufficiently wide berth not to disturb the Giant.</p> + +<p>They could not do this without a guide. The Bangor +cousin recommended one whom he had known from +boyhood. He was another Joe—Joseph Polis; a very +different sort of fellow from the Joe of four years back. +This Joe was a grown-up man, forty-eight years old, +who had spent his childhood exploring the solitudes +around the sources of the St. John. He now lived with +his wife in a pretty house surrounded by a vegetable +garden, just like a New England villager who subscribed +to the county paper. A stoutly built chap, of rather +more than middle height, with a broad face—the true +Indian type. He spoke a passable English, using l’s for +r’s. He belonged to the aristocracy of his tribe. Joe +was glad to join the expedition and agreed to the price. +He was to carry his own canoe—literally, for he bore +it on his head to the stage, where he installed himself +beside the driver. As an old hand, he brought with +him, along with the great knife that dangled in a sheath +from his belt, nothing but his axe, his gun, a blanket +<span class="pagenum" id="page_251">251</span>and a good supply of tobacco. Joe had bought a new +pipe. He was very economical with his words; when +you spoke to him, he muttered some vague phrase, as if +all such things interested him very little. At the tavern, +when a tipsy man asked him if he smoked, adding, in +reply to a kind of yes: “Won’t you lend me your pipe a +little while?”, Joe looked straight over his head and +answered with an absent air: “Me got no pipe.” Joe’s +silence would be the greatest relief after the palaver and +smartness of white people.</p> + +<p>As there were three of them in the bark canoe, with +their baggage, there was no room for them to stretch +their legs, but even so it was better than it was in the +stage. And in the evening how much better than the inn +was the little tent, set up in a dense wood where it was +as black as an oven. They were in no need of a lullaby +to put them to sleep as they rolled up in their blankets; +but Joe, at Henry’s request, sang in Indian a slow, +rather nasal chant on some well-known themes, obligingly +furnished by the missionaries, about the only and +sole Almighty, ruler of the world. But there was such +a fine simplicity about it that you utterly forgot the +flatness of the performance: it was like a child singing +his childish thoughts. Henry, who slipped outside the +tent some time after midnight, saw a bit of phosphorescent +wood. With his knife he shaved off a few chips +which, when he placed them in the hollow of his hand, +lighted up the lines of the palm. It was the first time +he had seen this. He was so entranced by his discovery +that he had to go and wake up Edward and show him +his magic night-lamp.</p> + +<p>In the morning, the piercing <i>ah, te-te-te, te-te-te, te-te-te</i> +of the white-throated sparrow ringing through the wood +sounded the Sunday reveille. Joe wanted to stop for +the day. Joe was a good Protestant and he had principles; +<span class="pagenum" id="page_252">252</span>at home he never failed to go to church. Of +course if they were absolutely determined to go ahead, +he would have to go with them, but the money he +earned would be the wages of sin.... Well, perhaps +this could be arranged ... later.</p> + +<p>Joe was exquisitely ingenuous. He was full of admiration +for pious people. He said his prayers on his +knees, in a loud voice, in his own language, morning +and evening. If, by inadvertence, he happened to lie +down at night without having said them and remembered +it, he immediately scrambled out of his blanket +and said them in double-quick time. You could see +that he had been to a good school. This evening, to +atone for having worked on Sunday, he said a particularly +long prayer. But how much more natural a Joe +he revealed when, glued to the bank on his stomach, +he began to talk to the muskrats in their own language, +calling them with a strange squeaking sound with his +lips.... Or better still, when he named in his own +tongue some incident of the forest life. The Indian +word for echo was <i>Pockadunkquaywayle</i>: kindly place +the accent where it belongs and see if you can find anything +like it in your own language. Henry was quick +to note every scrap of this music; it enchanted him. +The words of his own tongue had been worn away like +pennies that have been passed from hand to hand for +centuries. Joe’s words were like butterflies—he wanted +to catch them without hurting them at a moment when +they were motionless on a leaf, with their wings open +and still beating. How he would have liked to write a +dictionary of all these earthy words, which had the +quality of the pressed leaves he brought home in his old +music-case or those veiny pebbles on the beaches of +Cape Cod.</p> + +<p>Two white men and an Indian plunged into the immense +<span class="pagenum" id="page_253">253</span>forest of fantastically shaped larches, where the +mosquitoes poisoned them and made an infernal buzzing +din about the fire when they stopped. Sometimes, in +the depths of the night, a man rolled up, still awake, in +his blanket on his arbor-vitae mattress heard in the +dense silence the long-drawn call of the loon, rather like +the hallooing of a man on a very high key. They reached +Lake Apmoojenegamook, the goal of the excursion, and +then Heron Lake, where a procession of sheldrakes +passed them.</p> + +<p>But no creature could have been odder than this odd +fish Joe. As sharp as a weasel, by turns lively and taciturn, +sparing of words and gestures, he was always +master of himself except when he had made a good shot, +when he trembled with emotion like a novice. If you +asked him the same question twice, his silence gave you +to understand that you had asked him once too often, +and if you suggested that he might explain one of the +numerous tricks he knew, he would oblige you to swallow +this reply: “There are some things a man does not +even tell his old woman.” And then sometimes, along +the trail, or when he was paddling, or, more often, in +the evening, after he had said his prayers, when you +were not asking him anything he would suddenly begin +to tell you some interminable yarn. You should have +heard him describe his interview with the famous Daniel +Webster whom he had gone to see in Boston. After an +endless wait, he was received like a dog by the great +man, so rudely that Joe said to himself: “You’d better +take care. If you try that I shall know what to do.” +A humbug, that Webster, a talking-machine. No Indian +would ever have received a visitor so bluntly.</p> + +<p>Joe had preserved the old Indian custom of leaving a +trace of his passing by making an inscription on a tree +or hanging up a bit of birch-bark. Once all of a sudden +<span class="pagenum" id="page_254">254</span>he said to Henry: “Me make a bet. We two follow +the path. I take canoe and you take the rest. See +which gets there first.” And he at once pulled off his +boots and stockings, tossed the boots to Henry and set +out ahead. To make up a bundle of all the utensils, +the moose-skin, axe, paddle, gun, frying-pan and the +rest, would have taken time for a little white man who +merely gathered up everything he could, dashed off in +pursuit, overtook the Indian, passed him.... But he +was forced to stop, for the innumerable utensils slipped +out of his arms, and Joe overtook him in turn. The +obstinate little white man, however, hugging all his +traps desperately to his sides, outran the Indian again +and saw him no more. When the man-canoe came up +with him, both were out of breath. Joe explained that +he had cut his feet on the rocks and concluded with a +laugh: “Oh, me love to play sometimes.”</p> + +<p>One night Henry had a bad scare. In a desolate +region where a great stretch of the forest had been +destroyed by fire, he suddenly noticed that Edward was +missing. It was inexplicable. Among the standing or +fallen corpses of the trees, he vainly searched for him in +the twilight. Near a waterfall that made the earth +tremble, Henry camped with Joe, but he could not +sleep. From time to time he thought he heard the voice +of his friend calling him through the roar of the water. +What could have happened to him? He was nearsighted, +and he might have fallen over some precipice. +On the morning after this terrible night, Edward was +found again, smoking his pipe to soothe the cry of his +hollow stomach which had been empty since the day +before. He thought they were ahead of him when they +were behind. After this they could have eaten two +moose-steaks each for breakfast.</p> + +<p>The great journey was ended. They were back again +<span class="pagenum" id="page_255">255</span>among men, or almost. That evening, the new-mown +hay on which they were sleeping in an open barn was +like a foretaste of the feather beds that awaited them; +the hay was full of grasshoppers, but the smell was +delicious. Now, from time to time, they met an Indian +in a canoe on the river, and Joe would exchange a word +with him in his own language. Before reaching the end +of the voyage, Joe, who had taught Henry the proper +way to paddle, asked: “How you like ’em your pilot?” +There was his house at last. The two friends stopped +there for an hour to rest after the rough journey. They +caught a glimpse of Mrs. Polis, who was wearing a hat +and a silver brooch; but the Indian did not introduce his +fellow-travellers to his “old woman.”</p> + +<p>That very evening, two veterans climbed into the +train for Bangor, with their battered belongings, back +again from the lakes of Finland perhaps or, who knows, +from a journey across some <i>terra incognita</i> of the map.</p> + +<p>What a beautiful trip! Joseph Polis.... He was just +a poor devil of a denatured Indian who said his prayers +like a theological student—a fallen sovereign who hired +himself out as a guide to strangers. Just the same, it +was Joe who had made of this fortnight the richest of +the three expeditions to Upper Maine. Henry was full +of him. He could talk of nothing else but their guide, +mentioned him in his letters to friends, thought of him +every time he ate something that Joe had taught him +to like. Joe had entered his life for good and all. Poor +Joe was going to find himself placed, without knowing +it, on a level with heroic and immortal figures; he had +earned on this expedition a great deal more than his +dollar and a half a day.</p> + +<p>Joe had spoken for his whole race, which had always +appealed so strongly to Henry’s heart. Every time he +had found himself in the presence of an Indian—degenerate, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_256">256</span>catechised, mere shadow as he might be—the +blood had spoken in him; not the old Norman blood, +nor the Scottish, nor the English, nor the Welsh, but +this subtler blood that is mixed, in everybody, with the +red blood. There was no romantic passion in this cult; +it was like an avowal of a secret kinship. Yes, it was of +Joe especially that he would think if he was able to +carry out some day the work he dreamed of composing +so lovingly on the North American Indian. Joe’s coat-of-arms +should be a bear paddling a canoe. There were +far less proud artists than these to whom America could +turn for the designs of its armorial bearings.</p> + +<p>So many dreams of childhood, affinities, old desires, +found their embodiment in Joe.... The artist’s love of +the finest shades of instinct, admired in a descendant of +the race that scattered music as it scattered words along +the way. The taste for the primeval so ingrained in a +man to whom, in spite of college and the classics and his +environment, a valueless arrow-head spoke more intimately +than a verse of the Bible. The ambition also +of a writer to secrete the flint-flakes under his phrases, +so that other vagabonds, finding them there some day, +might make a collection of them and keep them in their +dens. All this found something in Joe.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_257">257</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VII"> + VII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>At the end of October, 1856, Henry was asked to go +down and survey an estate in New Jersey, giving some +lectures at the same time. Alcott persuaded him to go. +The two friends took the boat at Norwich, Connecticut, +so as to reach New York by way of the Sound. Norwich +was on the Thames: breezes blew there that seemed to +come from afar.</p> + +<p>Henry was leading a very dissipated life these days: +visits to friends, expeditions, lectures. For here and +there, outside of Concord, people were inviting him to +come and utter those obscure or unpleasant truths that +fell on the fallow ground of their understandings. It +was all the same to him: he sowed as chance directed +him, and the sower for his pains gathered in a little cash +that had a more genuine ring in his ear than the applause +of the audience.</p> + +<p>Just two years before, during a brief trip to New +York, Philadelphia and back to New York, he had had +another glimpse of Horace Greeley who had taken him +to the new Opera House to hear Grisi. (It was like a +dream when you went to the theatre with a man as +well-known as Greeley; you didn’t pay for your seat, +and you even had a little usher to conduct you to your +place as if you were the Ambassador from Brobdingnag.) +He could offer as an excuse the long, long period of +vegetation from which he was just emerging and the +natural desire, as soon as he felt less limp, to get out and +see a little of the world. And yet he reproached himself +for this dissolute life. You see what it means to have a +few dollars in your pocket at last; you squander them +<span class="pagenum" id="page_258">258</span>as fast as you can, just like the “fortunate ones of this +world.” It’s a foolish business, and you will soon deserve +to end your days at the Poor Farm with those +half-witted souls whom one sees planted about the +fields like boundary-posts at the foot of Brister’s Hill.</p> + +<p>Surveying.... For he was not just treating himself +to these delightful outings. He was obliged to earn his +daily bread, even if he no longer baked it in the open +air in the woods where its fragrance mingled so well +with the aroma of the pines. Of all the various little +manual trades that Henry had practised since his youth, +surveying had turned out to be the most substantial and +profitable. When they spoke of Henry in the village +they now said: “Oh, yes, the surveyor....” You were +free to suppose that there was a touch of malice in these +words and that the good people really meant: “That +fool who goes off every afternoon to survey the waste +lands instead of making pencils with his father....” +Well, perhaps they did mean this—not that it mattered +to Henry. As for lecturing, that was just another way +of surveying the waste lands, the swamps, property, +propriety and the improprieties. It was even a preferable +way, for it was much less trying to spin words +than to drag the geometer’s chain.</p> + +<p>A surveyor: not everybody can boast of becoming +that at thirty-five, after having tried many other trades +without any dazzling success. Henry was decidedly +unjust in accusing his fellow-townsmen of not finding +any use for his talents. The people of the village were +very glad to turn to him when occasion arose, for they +knew he was scrupulously exact in his measurements. +To draw up a plan of other people’s land was to remain +free to gather there what seemed good to himself, +without the knowledge of the owner, whose only desire +was to keep within his own little bounds. With his +<span class="pagenum" id="page_259">259</span>instruments, made to suit himself and partly with his +own hands, the compass, the staff and the chain, Henry +was ready to make surveys for anyone who asked him, +whenever he had the time. It was often in the winter, +the slack season on the farms, and then, when he was +aiming at the staff, he could no longer distinguish so +clearly against the snow the white trunks of the birches +which were usually so useful. But the work occurred also +at the season when he took off his coat for greater comfort. +Sometimes it was a matter of a few days, sometimes +an operation that required a week or two weeks +of brisk work (a loafer turned then into a model workman ...). +There were times, of course, when, in the +face of this landscape that flouted them, he consigned +all these boundaries, and all this business of fixing them, +to the devil; naturally, but no layman could guess all +the pleasure this work brought with it, aside from the +routine and the wages.</p> + +<p>In the first place, you must have a companion to carry +the chain, set up the staff, etc. You shout something to +your helper over there, and the echo joyously replies as +if some practical joker had hidden himself to play a trick +on you; whereupon you feel like shouting at the top of +your lungs till the rascal shows his mug. And then, no +matter how seriously you apply yourself to your work +it cannot completely absorb you. You are out of doors +and there are two of you; the helper is not always as +stupid as a surveying-staff. Sometimes the work lies in +the woods, where you are most at home; sometimes +through a swamp where you sink in up to your knees. +Then at noon you fish out of your pocket a bit of bread +and cheese and have your lunch there on the ground. +Or you happen to have a meal at your employer’s table +with the farm-hands. If your employer is a fool, there is +nothing for it but to hold your tongue and enjoy his +<span class="pagenum" id="page_260">260</span>vulgarity on a bit of bread for your dessert. If he is a +really decent farmer, as some of them about here are +after all, it is a pleasure to share his simple meal after +these hours in the open. In the evening you are certainly +tired, after having tramped about all day with +your mind fixed on your work; you are much more tired +than if you had come back from a long walk. But there +is another self within you who is grateful for your rested +nerves and head and who suddenly appears, after the +day is over, refreshed and keen, ready to catch any sound +and gather in any shade of beauty that is entirely free +from toil and wages. No, no, you haven’t the slightest +idea how light the surveyor’s chain is or how pleasant +to carry through the woods or over the wet fields, +compared with all those chains that I see you dragging +about after you, my friends, condemned as you are to +the “liberal professions”.... You don’t know how +valuable it is for a writer to survey other people’s lands +in this fashion; you don’t know how much else a man +measures as he goes about, without the aid of the compass +and the staff.</p> + +<p>In the mid-winter of 1852–3, Henry had even given +himself a stronger dose of surveying than he could have +wished. In his finances the debits and credits were +usually in a sound equilibrium, but at this time he found +himself confronted with a large debt. He had to settle +with the publisher for his book.</p> + +<p>The matter was quite simple. They had printed a +thousand copies and in three years had sold some two +hundred. Since the cost of publishing had not been +covered, the author remained in debt for the balance, +according to the contract. It was all as smooth as silk. +The method of publishing “at the author’s risk” is +just as simple a bit of machinery as the “royalty” +method: the only difference is that instead of receiving +<span class="pagenum" id="page_261">261</span>money you spend it. You see? There’s nothing complicated +about that. Two hundred-odd copies sold of a +work of which at least three reviews (in the <i>Athenæum</i>, +the <i>Tribune</i> and the <i>Massachusetts Quarterly</i>, all well-established +publications) on all the press copies that had +been sent out had served to launch it, was a very impressive +result for an author who was making his debut +before the public. But the summer before, after various +disappointments in regard to articles on which he had +built some reasonable hopes, the happy author, in +order to meet a note that was falling due, had been +obliged to borrow eighty dollars from his friend Horace +Greeley—merely a small advance which he had expected +to be able to repay shortly. A responsible magazine +had just accepted his <i>Yankee in Canada</i>. And then, lo +and behold, after printing the first part of it, without his +name (houses like this are so discreet, you know), and +adorned with fearful misprints, the magazine proposed, +for the remainder, to exercise its right to make cuts—owing +to certain bold statements that were too shocking +for a respectable review. The author would not hear of +this and simply demanded that his article should be +returned to him, neither more nor less: in this way the +sensibilities of the readers of <i>Putnam’s Magazine</i> would +not suffer and Henry would keep his manuscript intact +for better days. As you please, dear editors. Literature +was decidedly a paying business. Henry was sailing +before the wind. Just one more little effort and he +would get there.</p> + +<p>But what was the use of cultivating sarcasm? The +thing to do was to pay his debts. He didn’t owe Horace +the whole State of California, but just the same the sum +was large enough for a man who as a rule owned nothing +in the world but his own joy in living, a stout pair of +corduroy trousers and a boat. When you have hands +<span class="pagenum" id="page_262">262</span>you use them to pay your debts, instead of attempting, +like a mere government, to make a new loan in order to +pay off the first one. A man has more decency than a +government. Manual labour is quite willing to pay for +the loving labour of the soul.</p> + +<p>With a will he set to work surveying in mid-winter +for sixty, eighty days without intermission, at a dollar a +day. To pay for that <i>Week on the Concord</i> he spent fortnights +tramping over the snow-covered ground, measuring +and calculating, forgetting all about his reading, his +Journal, everything. It was all in the day’s work. +Penal servitude, if you like. But you take it in good +part if you are a man. Deprivations like this toughen +your hide. They are like a long journey into the land of +trivialities—from which you never return empty-handed +if you have the eye of a good huntsman; on your return, +you have a better perception of some things, including +your own naked self. Besides, if literature fed its servitors +too well, wouldn’t it be setting a premium on +obesity, on growing fat and flabby? That thought soon +lightens the snow-clogged steps of a man who, while he +spends a winter day surveying, is thinking all the time of +the evening when he will relight his little stove in the +attic and find himself alone once more with his abandoned +meditations.... For the rest, these months of +intensive geometry were only a stage along the road he +would have to survey to be quits with the publisher. +Two years before, to pay off a former instalment, he +had had to set to work with all his might making pencils, +grosses and grosses of them, which were worth hundreds +of dollars. And then, unable to dispose of all this +merchandise quickly enough, he found himself reduced +to carting it to New York and selling the lot for a hundred +dollars. A bad stroke of business, but what are +you to do when you have to get hold of money at any +<span class="pagenum" id="page_263">263</span>price?... At the time he had even considered speculating +on his friends the cranberries in order to meet that +confounded debt. A vile thought, as vain as it was +impious, for after looking up the market price in both +Boston and New York he had quickly perceived that it +was the same with cranberries as it was with pencils: +those mean souls would only take them at the meanest +price. And now, after these bouts of surveying, he +had still to make up the full sum that was due to Munroe. +It was costing him $290, that precious book.</p> + +<p>But after all these troubles he had a substantial +reward. For more than a year Munroe had been asking +him what he should do with the unsold copies that were +encumbering his basement. Space comes high in Boston, +as you know. And Henry, who had nothing but his +attic, had at last taken pity on his poor over-burdened +publisher and told him to send all the unsold copies to +Concord. So one fine day the express-wagon unloaded +all this merchandise on the Thoreaus’ doorstep, like +riches fallen from the skies. They kept pouring out of +the wagon as if there were enough of these poor <i>Weeks</i> +to fill a century. Take them all, Henry; they are your +property. They are like the waste lands; no one will +dispute them with you. In the end the work returns +to the worker. Isn’t that fair? Don’t despise your +work. It is a weighty book. You will have the best +proof of this presently when you lug these bundles up +to the third floor. See, there’s the receipt—seven hundred +and six copies—most of them in sheets. This +Munroe is certainly an honest man.</p> + +<p>And how imposing these piles are in your attic! +Towering there, they humiliate your few beloved old +odd volumes. The latter are quite taken aback at finding +themselves all of a sudden the property of a rich man. +An army of comrades, free and equal companions, has +<span class="pagenum" id="page_264">264</span>joined forces with them, and over them all you will +henceforth reign, a sceptical and tolerant sovereign. +They bear on their brows the stamp of fidelity, these +newcomers. You can safely wager that they will be +your companions for life. See how firmly their feet +rest on the floor. Of course if some of them now and +then are seized with a desire to travel you are not the +man to hold them back; they are free. For now to his +former trades Henry has added that of a bookseller. +He will sell his book directly to admirers who send a +small sum of money with their order. All he has to do +is to tie up the package. There is no commission to be +paid to any agent. This simplifies things so much. +And the work acquires all the more value, coming +straight from the writer without an intermediary. It is +wrapped up and addressed by the author of the book in +person, and thus you have an autograph in addition for +the price of the volume. Purchasers, book-lovers with +a real flair, what more do you want? You should order +<i>Weeks</i> by the dozen, ten, twenty copies at a time.... +Stupid bibliophiles.</p> + +<p>Two years went by before another surprise comparable +to this befell the master of the library in the attic. +It was another enormous bundle of books, but this time +it came from across the sea. It smelt not of Munroe’s +basement but of the hold of a transatlantic liner. A +surprise from that English friend, the tall, fair-haired +fellow with the silky beard who had boarded with the +Thoreaus the year before and accompanied Henry on +his walks. And what books! “Cholmley,” knowing +Henry’s taste for the beautiful things of Asia, had sent +him all the most famous Oriental books that he had been +able to find. Good heavens, what an Arabian Nights’ +dream!... The great sacred books of India, translated +into English, French, Latin and Greek, and even +<span class="pagenum" id="page_265">265</span>some in Sanscrit.... This procession entered the house +like the three Magi with their retinue, bearers of gifts +for heaven knew what new-born being ... forty-four +rare volumes, most of them not to be found on a continent +that was prodigal in corn and wheat but not in +fruits of this kind ... things of which you had dreamed +and that appealed to you so powerfully, and now here +they were, right under your hand, day and night.... +The Hindu side by side with the Indian, your nearest +kindred touching one another! Precious stones flashing +their fire about your den, lighting up the pale +arrow-heads. I can laugh at you now, pretentious +libraries!</p> + +<p>At first Henry was simply astounded by this patrician +generosity, which had gathered together all these treasures +for him; astounded by all these illustrious personages +who surrounded him, who had come from the other +end of the world as friends, come with their veiled faces, +great black eyes, wide with dreams, their dark skins, +strange faces, slow gestures, to offer the son of a pencilmaker +the flower of their wisdom so that he might place +it among the flowers of his own country. But the sages +of the Orient smiled at the seven hundred <i>Weeks</i> and +did not seem to be in the least offended by the pile of +nuts in the corner of the little room. Henry soon felt +quite at home beside them, and all these presences, the +new and the old, mingled in one friendship in the warmth +of the old stove.</p> + +<p>But when you have distinguished visitors who have +made a long voyage in the belly of an ocean liner, you +must offer them lodgings that are worthy of them. +Henry had some well-seasoned wood, gathered along +the river, and he had tools. For these beautiful books +he was going to make a new bookcase, a bookcase of +honour that would be a sort of Asiatic province royally +<span class="pagenum" id="page_266">266</span>accommodated on the third floor of the house on Main +Street.</p> + +<p>There could never be any question of repaying the +magnificent Thomas such a debt of gratitude as this. +Whole seasons of surveying would not be enough. But +he did send him a few American books, among them a +novelty—not a rarity, for nobody bought it—that +scandalized its few readers, a bewildering book, powerful +as a buffalo, multitudinous as a seaport, torrential, +insolent, shameless. Henry regarded it as a work of the +grandest kind. Emerson also. Thomas would see. A +purely American product and, what was astonishing, +something that made you think of the Orient. It was +written in Biblical verse, like the Song of Songs or the +Rig-Veda, and it had the strange title, <i>Leaves of Grass</i>. +The book was not signed. A very slender present, you +see, friend “Cholmley.” You must tell me what you +think of my buffalo.</p> + +<p>In a den where stones, birds’ eggs and plants had long +swamped the books there was now almost an affluence +of tops and backs. Among the newcomers there was +one which had arrived all alone, quite modestly, the +year between the two surprises. It had not come as a +surprise, however; it was an expected visitor. It entered +there familiarly, as if it had come back from a journey +and knew the ways of the house and the fellow who +lived there. Its name was Walden. But it was not a +pond. It was Henry’s latest born. A responsible publisher +had taken charge of it; and this time there was no +need to run into debt or do surveying for the sake of a +book which the author was the only one to love. The +name of Ticknor covered it like a flag.</p> + +<p>To be sure, there was no wild scramble to buy it. +But it sold a little. And responses came to the unknown +author; new friends rose out of the ground along his +<span class="pagenum" id="page_267">267</span>path. You write a book for your own pleasure, without +thought of any good or harm it may do, and lo and +behold, it sets out alone, in its own right, and makes +conquests for you all over the world. Is it possible that +you wrote a book in order to discover your friends? +It is as if the book were grateful to you for having +brought it to light and courteously wished to show its +gratitude.</p> + +<p>It bears under its title a picture of the cabin (the poor +cabin that will never again be able to gossip with the +pines—it is doing penance now in the bean-field). It is +a book that carries a cabin across the world and invites +you to enter and inspect it and inhale the resinous fragrance. +It will not carry you off to dance for a week on +the water in a nut-shell. It requests your company on a +ramble around a transparent pond where you can contemplate +your own image in water that is clearer than +your mirror. It is not Narcissus that you will see there, +returning your own smile to you, but the face of a man +who is studying the curious effect of his big nose in the +water.</p> + +<p>Between Henry’s two offspring there have been more +than five years of growth. Although they have both +been nourished on the same sap that has been accumulating +for fifteen years in the Journal, <i>Walden</i> is the book +of a writer who has reached his full stride—a little too +full, if you like—with the same unpardonable waywardness +in his composition. You will never turn a pate like +that into the saw-mill of a <i lang="fr">littérateur</i>. Well then, call +him a liberator instead. That is the way Henry himself +expresses it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>To return, then, towards the end of October, 1856, the +surveyor set out with all his paraphernalia for Perth +Amboy, New Jersey. He didn’t want to pass through +<span class="pagenum" id="page_268">268</span>New York without seeing that good Greeley, but not +finding him at his newspaper office he walked up Broadway, +meeting a friend, and then went and settled himself +in the Astor Library. You can’t study these great +brawling cities as you can study a book in a sanctuary +of silence; coming from Concord, you are deafened by +the ’busses and the trampling crowds. Whither are all +those feet rushing? Who is waiting for them at their +appointed meeting-places? That is, unless these people +are not all simply out of their heads. Here is a blissful +refuge! Let’s go and sit down for a while and read.</p> + +<p>Perth Amboy, on Raritan Bay, faces the island, +shaped like a bunch of grapes, that recalls to Henry the +rather melancholy days when he was a tutor. A mile +and a quarter from the town a friend of Margaret +Fuller’s, Marcus Spring, whom he had seen on his journey +to find the poor woman’s remains, owned some +property: the estate was situated on the edge of the bay +and was called Eagleswood. They had tried to start a +phalanstery there, and now the eagles had gathered to +establish a “colony.”</p> + +<p>The question was one of drawing up plans for the +future village, a very proper task for a surveyor who had +come expressly from Concord. When you happen to +know a good surveyor, nothing can be more natural +than to have recourse to his compass. Henry’s friends +had not forgotten him—for instance, there was Marston +Watson, who had asked him two years before to come +and survey his park on the hillside above Plymouth (no +need of a helper that time, for Alcott himself, with his +tall frame, platonically carried the chain, assisted by the +owner in person). Henry assuredly had very noble +friends who not only appreciated his talents but loaded +him down with little gifts: in the space of a few days had +he not received from Marston, who had presented him +<span class="pagenum" id="page_269">269</span>with those magnificent big glow-worms the previous +summer, some pear-trees the very name of which was +like a juicy fruit that melted in your mouth, and a hummingbird’s +nest from Blake, and a box of mayflowers +from somebody else? Quite apart from the Christmas +season, the express-company evidently had permanent +agencies in fairyland.</p> + +<p>The surveyor set to work, plunged into the woods and +salt marshes, regardless of rips and tears; before each +meal it took him fifteen minutes to pick off the burs that +clung to him. These are the little pleasures of the trade. +While it awaits the promised village, Eagleswood contains +an old farmhouse and a big stone building, together +with Marcus Spring’s private residence, and it glories in +some shops and offices and a school where the teaching +is done by various dignified greybeards. Rather too +many people and rather too much dignity to suit the +taste of Henry, who prefers the informality of the burs; +and creditable as the work may be, he longs to have done +with it and get home again. There is an accursed wood-pigeon +that begins to coo every night at the slightest +sound from the house. Perhaps it is the former janitor +of the phalanstery.</p> + +<p>Yes, the work begins to drag, and he cannot drop it +because it has been entrusted to him. Nor does the +society of these worthy greybeards, the atmosphere +of the “colony,” offer any great attraction. The big +city, where Alcott has stayed behind, is close at hand, +and Henry feels like a molecule subject to the law of +gravitation. He longs to make a trip to New York and +go and see his friend and have a little vacation from these +old fossils. Just for one little week-end. On Friday, +November 7th, he enters Alcott’s room and finds a +guest there, to whom he is introduced, John Swinton. +This young man, a delightful fellow, full of fire and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_270">270</span>revolutionary instinct, is a good friend of the author of +<i>Leaves of Grass</i>. Do tell us something about your +friend. Alcott has already seen this Walt Whitman +who sounds his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the +world. Henry is most anxious to meet him.</p> + +<p>To-day he is invited to go with Alcott to a certain +lady’s house, but he means to let his friend go alone: a +drawing-room and a lady in New York must be very +much like a lady and a drawing-room anywhere else. +He knows all about such things even at Concord, in a +small way, and he has very little desire to see them in a +large.</p> + +<p>The next day they meet Horace Greeley at the station +and go and spend the day at his farm at Chappaqua. +For every Saturday the editor-in-chief of the <i>Tribune</i> +shakes the dust of the city and his editorial office off his +feet and hurries out to look after his little farm, of which +he is very proud (his turnips have taken the prize at +the County Fair). A friend, the poetess Alice Cary, is +also one of the party. For some ten years Horace has +more than once shown his friendship for Henry; he +would have liked very much to keep him in his family as +a tutor for his children. (Horace is a great man who has +already had a big book written about him in his own +lifetime, and Henry is fond of him and grateful for all +the attention he shows a little village scribbler, but ... +but to give up once more that precious independence, +to leave Concord where there are so many friends, from +Easterbrook to Nine Acre Corner, who have only himself +to count upon ... no, never, Horace must excuse +him....) At Chappaqua the guests admire the crops +and the farm-buildings, but when he sees how much +trouble and expense it has cost the owner to transform +swamp-land into fertile ground, Henry remarks to himself +how much more attractive a beautiful swamp is than +<span class="pagenum" id="page_271">271</span>a model farm. And they come back to town for the +night.</p> + +<p>It is Sunday, and they cannot begin the Lord’s Day +better than by going to hear an astonishing man who is +preaching at Plymouth Church in Brooklyn. There are +crowds to listen to him, crowds that have come there to +be thrilled by this magician who makes them turn pale, +laugh, weep or exult as he wills, as if he were developing +and unfolding before them the most moving drama. But +it is not the art of an actor, even the greatest actor, that +makes such an impression here; it is an elemental force. +It is such a beautiful spectacle in that pulpit that you +forget you are in the presence of a churchman. He is +something better than that—a man, Henry Ward +Beecher, the brother of Harriet, author of <i>Uncle Tom’s +Cabin</i>. Henry thinks this other Henry deserves to be +called a pagan; the whole ghastly race of preachers is +forgotten, the setting of the church disappears, a great +wind has passed over these people to purify and uplift +them, like a rush of autumn leaves. Henry is thoroughly +delighted.</p> + +<p>Such a capital Sunday must have a worthy finish. +Suppose they go and see Walt Whitman, since he lives +in Brooklyn? So, after lunching with a lady who knows +Alcott, the two companions set out for his house. +Here’s Portland Avenue, where the buffalo lives, and +here is his number. Disillusionment; he has gone out. +The mother, with her kind face, tells them this and asks +them to come in. Henry has a mother too over yonder, +a lively mother who would be only too happy to talk +to two visitors who had come to see her son; and she +too would be unlikely to say anything unkind to them +about her boy. He thinks of her as he listens to this +smiling woman of sixty, as simply dressed as a farmer’s +wife, uttering a maternal eulogy on her son Walter. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_272">272</span>These gentlemen have come to see him because he is the +author of a book; and she, who is the author of the +author of the book, can only tell them how proud she is +of this son, and how much he means to his brothers and +sisters, and what a blessing his presence is to them all at +home. “If you can come back to-morrow morning, +not too late, you will be sure to find him, for he will be +very sorry to have missed you to-day.” All right, +Mother Whitman, we shall be back to-morrow, and +thank you for your welcome. We have not seen your +Walter, but in the little wrinkles about your eyes and +lips there is something that seems to foretell what he is +like.</p> + +<p>On Monday morning there are three of them to take +the ferry and make their way to Portland Avenue, +through streets that sound like a country town after the +jam they have left; a lady from Philadelphia has asked +to go with them. They knock at the door and are invited +to come in just as they were the day before. +Walter is at home, expecting them. Presently the three +visitors are sitting face to face with a great hairy, ruddy +animal, who has nothing sinister about him at all. +Strange, this fellow is simplicity itself and everything in +the room is quite ordinary, but from the very first instant, +seeing him planted there, you think of a great +sailing ship at sea or of a beautiful tall tree in summer. +You would think you were out of doors. Henry feels +quite at home in a house where you drink in the fresh +air as freely as you do the friendly glass on the table.</p> + +<p>It is a house like many other houses that has gathered +under its roof to-day Walt and Henry, the Manhattanese +and the Concordian.... But the walls of the house +still stand, they bear up bravely under the shock. It is +roomy, the Whitmans’ house, and built by the hand of a +clever workman, as strong as if the father, who died +<span class="pagenum" id="page_273">273</span>last year, had set up the frame himself. But that muffled +sound which echoes and rolls away, very far away, is +the detonation of these mingling spirits, though no one +hears anything in the house or the neighbourhood but +the sounds of a quiet street.</p> + +<p>Four persons are talking together as friends in the +innocence of Monday morning, three of them observing +and the other, without the least embarrassment, allowing +himself to be observed. The appointments of the +room, the old, worn furniture which has known so +many dwellings are swallowed up in this masculine +figure, which is enigmatic because of its very nonchalance +and abundant ease. There are so many questions +one might address to the high vault of that pronounced +eyebrow, the right one. The visitors ask him +this and that, seeking to penetrate beneath the brick-coloured +skin of the enigma, tanned by all the suns of +Long Island; all constraint has vanished, so complete +is the absence of ceremony in the man they have come +to see, so strong his expression of virile goodness. In a +rich, musical voice, in direct, everyday words, he speaks +of what he loves—the ever-changing crowds of his city, +the ebb and flow at the foot of those cliffs with their +myriad windows, the human flood rolling through the +ferry-boats, the stages, the popular theatres, the squares. +The enigma does not give up its secret, but it becomes +more and more attractive. Henry also has loves that he +might confess, but he only asks the lover of the poetry +of the streets if he has read the great Oriental poems. +“No, tell me about them....” It is an encounter in +which each puts out these verbal feelers. Their words +are less clear perhaps than their attitudes and the expressions +of their faces. But the visitors do not dream of +going away.</p> + +<p>How had Henry pictured to himself the Manhattanese, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_274">274</span>“eating, drinking and breeding,” of the <i>Leaves</i>—“one +of the roughs”? Perhaps he had not pictured him at all. +Perhaps he had thought that this rude sketch was only +the fantasy of a poet who was enamoured of bright +colours and had no prototype in reality. However this +may have been, there was the “rough” before him. And +he was beautiful, a little coarse, but beautiful. With +that whole person, in its radiance of life and vigour, Walt +signed his book, signed it with a far more striking truthfulness +than the portrait he had used as a frontispiece. +Here was the flesh and the blood and the colour. Henry +looked and looked again, seeking to fathom the nature +of the radiance that passed over him in the presence of +the phenomenon. He did not challenge this thing that +bathed him and seemed to make him float; he noted his +reactions, that was all. This fellow had too much +blood in him, perhaps. Perched on a stage beside the +driver, amid the hubbub of Broadway, did he not shout +out verses as if he were alone on some beach! A wild +man indeed!—but with a wildness that did not intimidate +Henry’s, like that sullen summit of Ktaadn, but +stirred his curiosity, provoked him. That strong aroma +of masculine health, which he smelled, did not tell him +very much. But how did it happen that with this +luxuriance of the flesh, which was brutal enough to be +offensive, there mingled an exquisite perfume that +utterly defied your power to define it? With a disconcerting +naturalness this big fellow spoke or listened +(he was a most astonishing listener) as this invitation +emanated from his ruddy body to the three others—the +tall fellow, the little fellow and the lady sitting opposite: +“Do take as much of my health as you like. You can +see I shall always have enough. Call this irritating, if +you like, but it’s quite real; and mine is a presence that +does not wait for your consent to warm you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_275">275</span></p> + +<p>Henry, with his habit of absorbing phenomena, sits +there, all eyes—with those eyes that know how to +look—seeking to understand, to pierce to the bottom. +Henry, the dry little animal, all nerves and tendons, +with his drooping shoulders and his narrow chest (look +at that great thorax over there, ready for any fist to +strike it, where the weariest head might lie without +covering it ...); Henry, with his receding chin, lost +in the little apish beard which he is allowing to grow +just now, his pursed lips, his big, contemptuous nose, +his absorbed, reflective, alert air, his whole life gazing +with implacable seriousness out of the blue-grey windows +of those eyes that are so round, sagacious, keen, +vigilant, shining with perpetual use like a spade; Henry +whose lean body refuses to speak for his soul, with his +frail health and his tempered will, crouching behind his +own glance like a hunter on his knees in some thicket, +face to face with this demi-god beaming with nonchalance +and carnal opulence; Henry, saturated with the +woodland life of his village, beside this other whose +soul is peopled with his own Broadway.... And each +is trying to catch the scent of the other.</p> + +<p>With his rather sluggish glance, the big animal absorbs +the little as he absorbs everything—tranquilly. He +accepts without any mental reservations these friendly +people who have come to see him—the tall man, the +short man and the lady; there is room for them too in +his universe. The Leaves exclude no one from their +shadow; they spread out as far as Concord and Philadelphia. +He is happy to welcome them, though he sees +nothing in them that particularly surprises him. He +lets them talk, as his way is, draws his own profit from +what the speakers say and replies without opening himself +particularly or abandoning his reserve. These two +birds have come from the land of phantoms. They are +<span class="pagenum" id="page_276">276</span>intellectuals, bred in the colleges. Not much of a recommendation +in his eyes. It would never occur to you to +say to this lanky New Englander: “Henry, let’s go and +have a drink.” He’s not cut out for a comrade. Just the +same, these fellows are friends of the man to whom he +owes enough to call him “master” and who has written, +thanking him for his book, that unforgettable letter +which he always carries there in his pocket, like a patent +of nobility. They are two Yankees, one of whom has +begun to sing for himself, who have come on a pilgrimage +to greet the boys of Manhattan.</p> + +<p>The great animal is not insensible to such an homage +and he accepts it cordially, in the name of his own +people, as a wholesome response. But Walt’s interest +is not aroused. Henry, on his part, would have dearly +liked to be alone with this extraordinary fellow so that +the two of them might start one of those talks like his old +talks in the cabin, when some full-minded friend came +to see him and not a syllable that was not sonorous +echoed between the plank walls. But there are four of +them and the conversation begins to wander. They +don’t get hold of one another, and what a pity it is! +For surely they have things to say to one another that +are worth saying, points of contact they might establish +together. Henry’s big grey-blue eyes express this wish +and this regret. For isn’t it vexatious to be face to face +with such a huge puzzle and not be able to grasp it and +turn it round so as to discover in the end, as likely as not, +that the same flame burns in that big chest and under +that narrow, grouse-like throat? Isn’t it? <em>Isn’t</em> it?</p> + +<p>(Ah, my two friends, the future opens out, furrowed +with very different paths from this hour that brings you +together here.... You have decades to live still, +Walt.... You are to pass through the horrors of the +great war; you are to see it lying on beds of torture and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_277">277</span>to be tortured yourself. Will you then be the man who +stood for a fight to the finish? In your great ripe heart, +a comradeship as ardent as love will have seized upon +you, so painful that you will flee from the world, you +will take flight with your sorrow by paths untrodden +to the shores of pond waters, to gather the fragrant +calamus root—(it grows also on the shores of Walden +Pond)—and partake of it mystically with your known +and unknown friends.... And then, when you are past +the age for stormy passions, you will find one day the +Passage to India: that little chap found it long ago, you +big simpleton.... And many other discoveries are +reserved for the consolation of your mellow age: after +so many other things have lost their lustre, the trees, the +seasons and the skies will offer you their balm and you +will voluptuously anoint yourself with it, bathing in the +mud of Timber Creek to ease your aching body. Then +you will take more pleasure in a squirrel’s play than in +the shuffling feet of crowds. And how well you will +understand the thought of that old chap who said that +he was seldom less alone than when alone! Yes, and +then, as you approach your sixtieth year, you will seek +by a little pond what men refuse you, and you will find +it, and you will be stirred through and through with +gratitude, my friend.... And the day will come when, +as an old gaffer leaning on a stick, you will visit Concord +and receive a whole-hearted welcome in the land of +phantoms at a time when the land of the living rejects +you, and you will step down from your friend’s carriage +and add your stone to the cairn that marks the spot of +Henry’s cabin.... You will have your florid complexion +still, set off by the bushy, snow-white beard +that adorns it.... And you will still be the same Walt, +enjoying this miraculous life and rejecting nothing. You +will simply have come to understand certain things....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_278">278</span></p> + +<p>The future opens out, and in the distant perspective +paths take shape where your feet, my friends, have left +their prints.... Is it possible that lovers like you should +never, never meet there? Listen.... How strange it is!... +You might think you were listening to words that +cross one another.... Does it not sound like an intermittent +dialogue in which two voices reply back and +forth over some field that catches their harmony?</p> + +<blockquote class="italic"> +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—He would be a poet who ... nailed words +to their primitive senses, as farmers drive +down stakes in the spring, which the frost has +heaved ... whose words were so true and +fresh and natural that they would appear to +expand like the buds at the approach of spring, +though they lay half-smothered between two +musty leaves in a library,—ay, to bloom and +bear fruit there, after their kind, for the faithful +reader ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—Roots and leaves themselves alone are these.... +Frost-mellow’d berries and Third-month twigs +offer’d fresh to young persons wandering +out in the fields when the winter breaks up,</p> + +<p>Love-buds put before you and within you whoever +you are,</p> + +<p>Buds to be unfolded on the old terms.</p> + +<p>If you bring the warmth of the sun to them they +will open and bring form, colour, perfume, to +you,</p> + +<p>If you become the aliment and the wet they will +become flowers, fruits, tall branches and trees.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—True verses come toward us indistinctly, as the +very breath of all friendliness, and envelop us in +their spirit and fragrance.... There are two +classes of men called poets. The one cultivates +<span class="pagenum" id="page_279">279</span>life, the other art—one seeks food for nutriment, +the other for flavour.... The true poem +is not that which the public reads. There is +always a poem not printed on paper ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon +you, that you be my poem ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—It is no small recommendation when a book +will stand the test of mere unobstructed sunshine +and daylight.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—Read these leaves to myself in the open air, +tried them by trees, stars, rivers ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—I would have my thoughts, like wild apples, to +be food for walkers, and will not warrant them +to be palatable if tasted in the house.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—I swear I will never again mention love or +death inside a house ...</p> + +<p>If you would understand me go to the heights or +watershore ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—When I stand in a library ... Alas! that so +soon the work of a true poet should be swept into +such a dust-hole!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:— ... in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or +unborn, or dead ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—The very names of the commodities ... +poetic, and as suggestive as if they had been +inserted in a pleasing poem—Lumber, Cotton, +Sugar, Hides, Guano, Logwood.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—Land of coal and iron! land of gold! land of +cotton, sugar, rice!</p> + +<p>Land of wheat, beef, pork! land of wool and +hemp!...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—I trust that we shall be more imaginative, that +our thoughts will be clearer, fresher, and more +ethereal, as our sky—our understanding more +comprehensive and broader, like our plains—our +<span class="pagenum" id="page_280">280</span>intellect generally on a grander scale, +like ... our rivers and mountains and forests—and +our hearts shall even correspond in +breadth and depth and grandeur to our inland +seas.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:— ... a bard is to be commensurate with a +people ... he incarnates its geography and +natural life and rivers and lakes. Mississippi +with annual freshets and changing chutes, +Missouri and Columbia and Ohio and St. +Lawrence with the Falls and beautiful masculine +Hudson, do not embouchure where they +spend themselves more than they embouchure +into him ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—There are poets of all kinds and degrees, little +known to each other.... I meet these gods of +the river and woods with sparkling faces (like +Apollo’s), late from the House of Correction, +it may be.... What care I to see galleries full +of representations of heathen gods, when I can +see actual living ones by an infinitely superior +artist?</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—Accepting the rough deific sketches ...</p> + +<p>Discovering as much or more in a framer framing +a house,</p> + +<p>Putting higher claims for him there with +his roll’d-up sleeves driving the mallet and +chisel ...</p> + +<p>Lads ... no less to me than the gods of the +antique wars ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—There is this moment proposed to me every kind +of life that men lead anywhere.... By another +spring I may be a mail-carrier in Peru, or a +South African planter, or a Siberian exile, or +a Greenland whaler, or a settler on the Columbia +<span class="pagenum" id="page_281">281</span>River, or a Canton merchant, or a soldier +in Florida, or a mackerel fisher off Cape +Sable, or a Robinson Crusoe in the Pacific, +or a silent navigator of any sea.... +These are but few of my chances, and how many +more things may I do with which there are none +to be compared!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—I am a real Parisian ...</p> + +<p>I am a habitan of Vienna ...</p> + +<p>I am of Adelaide ...</p> + +<p>I am of London ...</p> + +<p>I am of Madrid ...</p> + +<p>I belong in Moscow ... or in some street in +Iceland ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—Whatever is, and is not ashamed to be, is good.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—I am enamour’d of growing outdoors ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—When I look at the stars, nothing which the +astronomers have said attaches to them, they +are so simple and remote.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—When I heard the learn’d astronomer ...</p> + +<p>How soon unaccountable I became tired and +sick,</p> + +<p>Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by +myself ...</p> + +<p>Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—A name pronounced is the recognition of the +individual to whom it belongs. He who can +pronounce my name aright, he can call me, and +is entitled to my love and service.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—What am I after all but a child, pleas’d with the +sound of my own name? repeating it over +and over ...</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henry</span>:—You may have the extraordinary for your +province, if you will; let me have the ordinary.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Walt</span>:—The Commonplace I sing ...</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_282">282</span></p> + +<p>And the rest of the dialogue is lost in the distance +like the path on which the two drinkers of space +have walked a little of the way together, before taking +their separate roads, one in this direction, the other +in that.</p> + +<p>Yes, there are these lost paths that both have trodden, +paths where they have only never met because one has +followed them a few hours, a few seasons before the +other. It is a thousand pities, my friends. If you had +encountered each other once, not under the roof of a +house in Brooklyn, during a call, but in the fields, while +you, Henry, were surveying, or on a beach after the two +of you had been bathing in the sea, how much the sand +and the tufts of grass would have helped you to the +beautiful understanding that is impossible for you now, +Henry, withdrawn as you are in your shell, and for you, +Walt, great unconscious animal that you are.</p> + +<p>But after all, these dreams do not cover an atom of the +reality that is in you. How much better it is that the +future should close again, that you, Walt, should be +there in the house on Portland Avenue with your mother +and your family (cherish them, they are so dear to you), +ruddy and strong, and that the roar of Broadway should +murmur in your ears! How much better it is that you +should be there, good soul that you are, the youngest of +the three, with your thirty-seven years and your perfect +health, your intransigence, your youthful, inordinate +faith, and that this little creature should not interest +you too much. These are not imaginary beings here but +four very ordinary persons of solid flesh and blood, and +how much better it is that they are!)</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the course of the conversation, Walt, speaking of +his friends, the young fellows of the capital, to whom +he owes even more than he owes to Emerson, and of the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_283">283</span>place they hold in his poems, expresses his conviction +that they are America, Democracy, the key of the politics +of the New World. At this the tight-lipped Henry discharges +a cutting remark. They are the mob, and the +mob is like peat. It may give out any amount of heat, +but it smokes, it reeks, it goes to your head. A fellow +who can make a fire of stumps in a clearing doesn’t care +to warm himself at any such blaze as that. The mob, +universal suffrage, the rabble marching in procession +over the pavements of a big city or wallowing like pigs +to keep warm in the litter of a stable.... Can you see +that clamorous rout of human insects crowding into the +porch of those great W’s that rise at the threshold of +your name, Walt Whitman? Don’t you want to close +the portal?</p> + +<p>And the son of Manhattan says to himself: “That +fellow certainly comes from the land of mummies. +Those New England people have plenty of brains—if +only the gods had given them a little more guts. That +clever little devil will never be bowled over by the music +of the bugles that grips your very vitals, or the pride of +belonging to such a brawny country. He’s too skinny, +the poor little chap.”</p> + +<p>Walt, though he conceals it, has been wounded to the +quick in his affections. The America of his poems is not +looking for the homage of apostles like this: it is a lively, +warm-blooded America that responds to the passion of +males. Walt calmly faces the cold disdain expressed by +this little shrimp for a Person whom he loves with a +terrible love, not separating the good from the evil. +“You don’t understand me,” he says simply. From that +moment he is enlightened. They can go on talking +amicably enough. Henry can say anything he likes, +black or white; Walt has taken his measure. The “no” +has worked. A thunderbolt has suddenly dissipated +<span class="pagenum" id="page_284">284</span>the fog that veiled a gulf between them immensely +wider than the East River which the visitors have +crossed.</p> + +<p>Would you imagine that such a chasm could yawn +between two beings who are talking quietly there in a +house on Portland Avenue—an apparently impassable +chasm, in spite of all the foot-bridges that reach from +one to the other?... Between two poets who are +united in a sovereign contempt for the literature of the +literati—two plebeians, each in his own way—two +children who go forth every day, one of whom could +no more do without his daily walk on the populous +pavements where, from their glances, he gathers in the +affection of men and women, than the other could do +without his ramble among the people of the trees, the +plants and the waters of Concord, with the track of the +railroad for his Broadway between trains—two loafers +who have remained free and unmarried for “reasons”—both +of them drawing as it were from a spring of elemental +joy—both passionate idealists who, with equal cheerfulness, +might so easily “go and live with animals”—both +mystics, with a great appetite for the concrete—both +affirming to the point of arrogance their quality as +individuals—both equally secretive and reticent—both +great friends of the Indian—both poor in money and +refusing to earn the bread of galley-slaves—both having +to record the practical failure of their first books, printed +at their own expense (lucky Henry has disposed of more +than two hundred copies of his, while as for that big +fellow, his sales can be counted on his ten fingers ...)? +Yet there they are, looking at each other, from opposite +banks, while the tumultuous tide rushes down between +them, scouting the frail bridges they have attempted to +fling across its violence. And what an uproar fills the +Narrows, as if to affirm that for all time the continent +<span class="pagenum" id="page_285">285</span>and the island shall remain as they are, two separate +worlds!</p> + +<p>On the continent there are men with whom you feast +on friendship, crowds of comrades, day and night, never +too numerous for a hearty fellow who is hungry for the +presence of other hearty fellows like yourself. There +are those who call you by your first name as you pass +or with whom you walk with your arm about their +shoulders; they are as thick as the trees along the rivers +and the Great Lakes. They are the mass to which you +give of yourself with immense confidence, well knowing +what will be the return from this investment. Here +reigns the “beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing +flesh” that absorbs the radiance of your own strong, +sensual, loving masculinity and sends it back to you in +the flash of the eyes that turn towards you. Where can +one find such delights, richer food for the soul? What +should I do in your blessed retreat, where the golden +days pass with one companion? I should be devoured +by homesickness in a moment—for the streets and faces +of Manhattan, their sounds and their vibrating movement.</p> + +<p>Frown as much as you like at these delights, little +man on your island who hold men and women at a +distance as if you were afraid of touching pitch. You, +brother of the live-oak that joyously spreads its branches, +alone in the fields, with no companion near it. You to +whom the company of your own dear thoughts suffices. +You who crouch in the midst of your own distrust, with +your fists clenched, bitter, satisfied, sarcastic, devoid of +magnetism, without any indulgence for your neighbour. +You whom no one would ever think of calling by a nickname. +You who have no more friendship for your own +body than for those of others. You for whom no +woman waits.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_286">286</span></p> + +<p>Make your wry face, Henry, but throw out your +narrow chest, just the same! For you have no particular +reason to feel humiliated. The contrast with that great +animal may overwhelm your puny frame. Your head +barely reaches to his shoulder, but in that head, little +Henry, burns the flame of a spirit that assures you at +least this superiority: you have felt his grandeur, while +he has not been able to see anything in you. He is not +very discerning, the great animal. Go back to Concord +with your head high.</p> + +<p>They parted indeed after two hours of conversation, +with a promise to see each other again the next morning. +Matters could not rest there. Walt was going to return +the visit of the two Yankees at their hotel. But at the +appointed hour, the loafer, the dawdler, had either forgotten +the meeting or thought it best to be somewhere +else: there was no big ruddy fellow to be seen. They +could not resume the conversation.</p> + +<p>And on November 24th, Amos and Henry returned to +the fold, the one to Concord, the other to northern +Connecticut where he was living at the moment, full of +memories of their call in Brooklyn—still under the charm +of a presence that was vastly more impressive even than +the voice of Beecher at Plymouth Church.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Friendship! This had been the torment of Henry’s +life also, a torment revealed to one confidant alone, the +Journal, as the great lover confided it to his Leaves to be +spread abroad.... Always with this vast difference +between their two aches: Walt was tormented because +he could never be sufficiently intoxicated with it, while +Henry suffered from a virtual powerlessness to express +it at all.</p> + +<p>A sad, sad story and so secret. To whom could this +shy soul confide what was concealed behind the mask of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_287">287</span>his fierce reserve? The trees could not understand it, +and they were his closest friends. So there remained +only a white page that would receive the confession +without blanching.</p> + +<p>That the mean interests and commonplace cares of +ordinary people should disgust and bore him was natural +enough. Should he fall on his knees, beat his breast and +bewail the demands of a stomach that cannot endure +smugness and vulgarity? He is a mighty walker, he can +roll off an infinite number of miles, splash about in a +swamp or shovel snow for hours, weed in the blazing +sun for a whole morning, split stumps as hard as iron: +but your accursed society is utterly beyond him. Protest +as you like. He is a lucky chap when he can afford +to digest anything or anybody.</p> + +<p>But with the few who are dear to him why is there so +little real intimacy? As a rule, he finds nothing but +disappointment in their company. He does not get into +touch with them. He feels this too keenly not to suffer +from it. Complete friendship, the only sort worthy of +the name, is not the commonplace gossip of good neighbours; +it asks to be able to go freely at all hours into your +friend’s house, without even the need of knocking. Give +me the freedom of your friendship if you do not wish to +make me unhappy.</p> + +<p>With those whom, in spite of all, he calls his friends, +Henry always has this feeling of painful dissatisfaction. +His constraint paralyses him. He leaves their company +still hungry for what he came to seek; so great is his discomfiture +that he carries home with their strings untied +the packages he had meant to open before them. They +were things before which it would have been such a +pleasure to marvel together. Is there any disenchantment +equal to this? Instead of communing together and +admiring one another, it is as if they had put each other +<span class="pagenum" id="page_288">288</span>out or wounded each other. It is a collision where it +ought to have been a jubilee.</p> + +<p>So he cares more for his friends at a distance where +their image recovers its shape and petty things are forgotten. +He is an over-exacting man: he refuses to have +the most beautiful thing in the world profaned by being +decked out in false ornaments. He insists that it must +be absolutely naked, and thus he has only fleeting +glimpses of it.</p> + +<p>Why is this? Why this lack of sympathetic understanding +between true friends? Is it their fault? Do +they lack naturalness or sincerity? Do they encumber +friendship with compliments, manners or shallow +words? Or is it his fault, this fault he imputes to others? +Would his friends, by any chance, like him to be a little +different?</p> + +<p>They have often complained that he is stiff, abrupt, +that he remains silent when they expect him to say something. +They are not over-fond of his rather crabbed +way of speaking the truth and demanding it in return. +Perhaps they are not entirely in the wrong. But does +all the trouble, all his pain, come from these differences? +They have known him for a long time, they know what +a firm friend he is, and they are as willing to pardon his +singularities as he is to forgive their habit of excessive +sociability. Is he asking too much of them—a nobility +that is impossible to human clay? Possibly; but even +so there must be something else that he has forgotten in +scrutinizing his conscience.</p> + +<p>Come, my friend, what is it you complain of to your +confidant in the evening? That your friends are this or +that instead of being their own natural selves, that they +answer so incompletely to what you expect of them? +You are wounded, you are hurt because they seem to +turn up their noses at the good things you were bringing +<span class="pagenum" id="page_289">289</span>them, and it is not a wound to your pride, it is not just +a question of wretched vanity. It is much more serious +than that—you are wounded in your affections, poor +Henry....</p> + +<p>Well, but how about yourself? Are you so sure that +you respond to their expectations? Suppose, instead of +withdrawing into your shell, at the least discord, you +were simply to accept what they have to offer you? +Suppose you were to show them a little indulgence? +Instead, you roughly pull away. Must it always necessarily +be they who take the first step? You insist that +they should come and seek you out in the depths of +your den, after opening as many locks as if it were an +enchanted palace. And suppose they haven’t the key, +suppose they don’t know the open sesame? You expect +your friends to be magicians, seers who can divine the +warmth hidden far down beneath that icy exterior. All +very well, no doubt; but tell us, you who left the door of +your cabin at Walden open to all comers, why you lock +yourself up in this fashion. What robbers do you fear? +You can see for yourself that this is no philistine who +stands before you, that his face is the face of a friend. +You can be frank, you can speak out that desire you +have in you—which is going to cause you pain later +just because you have obliged it to remain silent and it +has its own way of protesting. To no indifferent +person, rest assured, will you be showing your gifts.</p> + +<p>There you are, so unhappy, with your affectionate +impulses shattered, leaving your friend with the feeling +that you have been simply an intruder. Are you so sure +he would have disappointed you so if you had taken out +your specimens, mystery-maker—if you had merely offered +him what you brought, offered it simply, directly? +You refuse to explain yourself because it is humiliating. +Friends don’t explain, they understand. No doubt; but +<span class="pagenum" id="page_290">290</span>suppose your attitude took the place of an explanation, +made it unnecessary, dissipated the cloud? Instead of +looking for reasons and fining them down like a casuist, +suppose you tried to give a little of yourself? Just a +little, why not?</p> + +<p>You stand there, frozen, waiting—waiting for what?—with +that bashfulness, that infernal bashfulness that +makes you shrink back from your chin to your fingers +instead of making the gesture the other may be waiting +for—whatever it may be, a touch on the shoulder, a +glance from those eyes that you keep lowered as if you +were planning some dreadful deed, a handclasp long +enough to establish the contact, long enough for the +current to begin to flow.... Don’t you realize, subtle +as you are, fool that you have suddenly become, the +importance of a little familiar gesture that will set you +both free? Come, you who are so brave, so resolute in +attack, you who profess to be liberating men who are +prisoners of their own sordid existence, confess that you +lack the courage....</p> + +<p>You should live your friendship a little, you should +put into practice the principles of that exalted affection +which you say cannot be satisfied among men, live it +instead of singing its praises, you infernal New England +prude! Your hands are skilful enough for anything, +except when it comes to friendship—hands that are so +delicate when they pick a frail little flower and so clumsy +when they lift this plant that thrusts its pale roots into +you. You can’t stick this in the lining of your hat where +you carry your most fragile discoveries....</p> + +<p>Yes, they may have their faults, your friends. They +may be too intelligent to understand. They have a gift +for whetting your spirit of contradiction, which is so +destructive of friendship. But don’t you see that you, +with your antagonism, are most to blame? You who +<span class="pagenum" id="page_291">291</span>do not lay aside at the outset, like an objectless accessory +in a friendly house, the mask of that provoking, that insupportable +chilliness? If you are not “incapable of +expansion and generosity,” why do you keep all these +treasures hidden for your own morose delectation, why +are you so absurdly timorous, so savagely bashful? +When you have given your hand, why do you withdraw +it so quickly, as if your precious ego were in danger of +dissolving in the warmth of another palm? Suspicious! +Distrustful! Infernal idiot! Barbarian, barbarian, barbarian, +who suffer and triumph in being what you +are!... Don’t accuse others till you have accused +yourself.</p> + +<p>Whether the fault is his or theirs, it is very sad in any +case. At times this man who is so rich feels very poor +indeed, and all the joy of the river, all the friendship of +the woods does not suffice to fill the void in this imploring +heart.</p> + +<p>What a tragedy, for instance, in his relations with his +oldest, his greatest friend, lies behind the appearance of +the most harmonious understanding.... The one man +in all the world to whom he is bound by the brightest +hours of his life ... the light of his youth ... not to +be able to love him as he would like to love him, completely, +because ... because.... Waldo and Henry +cannot quite mingle, as the names of Eden and Waldo +mingle in Walden.</p> + +<p>Because Waldo—the flower of a long line of ministers, +so rich a flower in the garland which the established +order wears on its brow—is offended by inelegances that +clash with his philosophical decorum, a decorum full +of grace and suave respect for the venerable conventions. +Because a dry, unalterable “no,” rebellion carried even +into the smallest details, the frank assumption of the +character of a bad citizen, revolutionary language ruffle +<span class="pagenum" id="page_292">292</span>his serenity. And because Henry, on his side, is irritated, +cannot approve of that timidity, that spirit of compromise, +and will never believe that instead of showing +your disgust for what is disgusting you should cover it +up with cream sauce and ask people to taste it.</p> + +<p>Because, as an illustrious Sage, the elder, with his +delightful smile, slightly—oh! so slightly—patronizes +his junior, this dear, crabbed, odd, aggressive Henry, +this cool iconoclast in whom he recognizes a force +superior to his own that he would like to mollify, bring +into line, civilize. This dear Henry who does not want +to have the smile that would comfort his friend Waldo +and, like the latter’s, electrify an audience instead of +petrifying it. This dear Henry who is galled by any +touch of protectiveness, faint as it may be, and conceives +of friendship as the region of equals. This dear +Henry who had not waited till a great Sage came to +illuminate Concord in order to exist himself, who is not +the sort to allow himself to be worked up like all those +visionaries whom the dazzling star attracts. Make no +mistake, dear Waldo. Yet there is nothing to prevent +us from being very fond of each other, even if we do +wound each other.</p> + +<p>Because almost insensibly Henry feels each day a +little further from Waldo, further from his tastes, his +habits and the people who surround him, the more pronounced +his own personality becomes, the more it +reacts and frees itself from the influences of his twentieth +year ... till he refuses to write an article on his great +friend which Greeley has been asking him to write for +years and has accepted in advance ... till he at last +realizes the uselessness of those conversations from +which each comes away disappointed with the other +... till there are longer and longer intervals between +those visits to the little white house that merely waste +<span class="pagenum" id="page_293">293</span>his time and cause him pain ... till the day comes +when the distance is so great that Henry confesses it is +dead, the beautiful friendship, that it lies there, motionless +as a corpse, on a bed of twenty years....</p> + +<p>For years he had seen this moment coming, but when +it was there, in all the harshness of the confession, what +a rent it made! The face of the dead on that couch +spoke of happy hours passed by the fireside, of those +trees and that garden he had cared for ... spoke of +those walks together, that confidence, that life side by +side. Henry felt an intense pain in his head, in his chest, +which prevented him from working and grew worse +towards evening. In the confusion, the infinite desolation +of that black hour, all the friendship of all men +seemed to crumble. And yet at the very moment when +this affection was vanishing and he was bidding it farewell, +why did he feel so strangely <em>near</em> the dead friend, +yes, in spite of everything, so near, with that pain in his +chest, that it was as if the friendship contained a touch +of the love that eludes death?</p> + +<p>But all should not be lost for a man disappointed in +relations that intellectual tastes shared in common cannot +save from ruin. There remain his friends the simple +folk, whom he relishes with a natural sympathy, without +any philosophical seasoning. With them, at least, +Henry feels at ease. No more than himself do they enjoy +the consideration of the world. They are untainted +by manners. With them he can visit freely back and +forth. Here he can go straight ahead. And look at +him.... He watches them, in silent satisfaction—from +a distance. What a good sort that fellow is, how close +akin to him you feel.... At a distance Henry admires +them, they go straight to his heart; but does he take a +step towards them? Never. And why? What is it that +restrains him from following his inclination and seeing +<span class="pagenum" id="page_294">294</span>whither it leads? Among these people are familiar and +friendly faces to whom he has never addressed a word +in his whole life, whose very names are unknown to him. +The rover who respects neither wall nor hedge but +walks directly to his goal remains obstinately on the +borders of a land—beautiful, as it seems to him—where +he does not dare to venture.</p> + +<p>Strange reserve! Why deprive yourself of the offered +feast, epicure of huckleberries, epicure of a humanity +that you are content to eat with your eyes? One might +think you were afraid of all contact, afraid that everything +would be spoiled if you rubbed shoulders with +anyone else. Where are those senses of yours that are +so fine, so alert, so eager to possess things? Do they +hold prisoner among them the sense of attachment? +Well, there are so many beautiful things that your intellect +grasps but that you do not know how to untie, +strange man who watch men and women whom you +would like go by, and remain apart, with your tenderness +under lock and key.</p> + +<p>Strange or not, it is so, and when you are a Stoic, you +stifle your secret and your grief and go on your way as +if everything in the world were just right. If there are +no friends to visit, give them up. You can visit them in +thought, and they will come in the same way and join +you in your walks: only so can you feel really close to +them. If they do not understand that for some people +friendship is as serious a passion as love, if they find you +cold, nature at least will welcome you without vain +words. With her you do not feel an intruder; you and +she do not irritate each other; she never disappoints +you or provokes a “no”; she never sends you away +with your enthusiasms crushed. And so you exaggerate +your stiffness, you swagger, you carry your head high, +even when you are alone with yourself. You are a +<span class="pagenum" id="page_295">295</span>happy mortal who has rid yourself of men; you feast on +solitude; it has a taste of nuts and sour apples; you laud +it to the skies. It is a heroic remedy. You may not +always succeed in deceiving yourself. You are not +always the dupe of these pathetic boasts. But this makes +no difference. You are a savage who leaves these idiots +of civilized people to eat the dust of the highway. It is +beautiful, this wild life, and you are proud of it, even if +it sometimes makes a shy, silent fellow suffer. You are +that happy man, made in the image of Walden Pond, +self-sufficient, having no communication with the impure +waters about it, smooth and serene—yet dreaming +perhaps, now and again in the evening, dreaming in its +depths of the running, singing waters with which it +would be so good to run and sing, thinking how sad it +is to be unable to mingle its life with that of the neighbouring +ponds, its brothers. You are as rigid and as pure +as the ice that encloses it in winter.</p> + +<p>And so, because of that impotence from which you +suffer, you are regarded as a misanthrope—just as a deaf +man is thought to be unsociable. Hear that without +laughing, enemy of the human race, you who can laugh, +at your own times, so heartily.</p> + +<p>To carry every day, over all the paths of the waste +lands, like a burden you could not do without, your +anxious care for men. To return from your ramble, +with the thought sticking to you like a bur. To cherish +Nature in your heart and consecrate to her your best +hours because there is no friend in the world who, like this +companion, gives you the savour of your own humanity, +yours and that of all your kind. Not to despair of +others or of this world, even in the moments when you +are bitterest in your scorn—though it would be so easy +to send it to the devil and go your way whistling, with +your hands in your pockets. To feel yourself strong +<span class="pagenum" id="page_296">296</span>enough to build a tower on a little fragment of love, +ever so precarious and disillusioned but so hardy. To +carry with you that longing for a land where these +people who irritate you would have become a society +after your own heart. (Does not a mere bonfire of dead +leaves in the country bring you the news from that +land?) To try your very best to find new words to +make your neighbour understand that he should open his +window and let in a breath of the out-of-doors while he +is working. To have planned for the title-page of your +book a cock waking up the neighbours before dawn and +dragging them out of the slumber they call their existence. +Yes, and then to find yourself described as a cynical +egoist, to figure among your kind as the perfect skulker.... Henry, the echo of your laugh sounds at last on the +shore of the encircled pond—sounds and salutes this +disguise in which you see yourself decked!</p> + +<p>And this is your portrait. What can you expect? So +it is, so you have willed it. It is a beautiful portrait. +The only objection is that it is so unlike you. Perhaps +they are going to use it as the frontispiece of your book. +You are the enemy of men when you have much to give +and do not know how to give it—when you seek your +brothers and do not find them, or find them so rarely, +on such false terms. The enemy of men, with these +yearnings repressed (oh, so stoically repressed!), this +secret hunger which you would not confess for the whole +empire of the Indies—with that need of love crowded +into your meagre chest, and finding vent at times in spite +of you.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_297">297</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII"> + VIII + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>A special session at the Boston Court-house, where +the Supreme Court is sitting under the protection of the +militia. Free men are judging a man-tool, the property +of another man. Perhaps, under his black skin and his +woolly hair, the tool has a kind of soul—you never can +tell: but since he has run away, the tribunal ordains, +in its sovereign independence, that he shall be returned +to the hands of his master. If, weary of digging up your +ground, a hoe for which you have paid with your good +money should take it into its head one fine evening to +scamper off, what would you say? The article that has +vanished should be restored to its rightful owner. The +law is sacred and the judges are there to apply it without +flinching. There is no joking with these respectable +judges of the Boston Court-house. They have very +grave faces with white skins and not the least suggestion +of wool on their skulls. They represent His Majesty the +Right and His Holiness the Moral.</p> + +<p>Are you surprised? Then where do you come from? +Don’t you know how little it matters before the law +whether you are innocent or guilty? The important +thing is not you but respect for the law. The judge is +there to grind out his judgments, the notes are printed +in the record, and at the end of the month the fees fall +with all the precision of music. And you fail to take +this way of administering justice seriously? You feel +no respect for this machine?</p> + +<p>Henry’s chief feeling was one of humiliation. He had +never cherished any great illusions about judges and +justice, and in a similar case three years before he had +<span class="pagenum" id="page_298">298</span>received a painful shock. But this judgment was beyond +anything. <i>Walden</i> was appearing at this moment, and +the book was utterly forgotten in the thought of this +negro whom they were cold-bloodedly sending back to +his master, like a package. The solemnity of the judgment +added to this redelivery of the stolen article a sort +of diabolical pomp. In any case, another theft had been +committed, for Henry perceived that they had taken +from him an essential part of himself. In vain had he +tried to find among the friendly fields forgetfulness of +these unclean human beings; they had lost their charm +for him, for the baseness of men had blighted them. The +“enemy of the human race” came back from his walks +utterly unable to regain his serenity. He was haunted +by the thought of those men who were in prison for +having tried to mob the court and snatch the “package” +out of its hands. He almost envied those fellows. An +honest man belonged in prison in these times of ignominy: +at large, he felt almost an accomplice in the legal +crime. As he thought of it, Henry’s hand went through +the motions of touching off a bomb that would send the +machine and the machinists to the devil.</p> + +<p>You strange fellow, what concern is it of yours—one +negro more or less from the plantations of the South? +Are you mad? He is just as much merchandise as a +barrel of molasses; he can be sold and used up, but he +has got to stay in the shop of the man who has paid his +good money for him. Besides, all this business is going +on a long way from your village: leave Boston and that +good Virginia to their own affairs. Can’t you see that, +after a passing flutter, the people around you go on with +their own little concerns? There is nothing so momentous +in this affair to interfere with the thoughts of a +solitary walker.</p> + +<p>To write a few pages in his Journal, in the privacy of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_299">299</span>his own soul, is no relief. Faces, not white pages, are +what he needs to have before him in order to express his +emotion. On the Fourth of July Henry goes to Framingham, +where the friends of the cause are holding a +meeting, and delivers there the most vigorous speech he +has ever written (he never speaks <i>ex tempore</i>), the richest +in blood and fire. The Chief Justice and the Governor +of the State take part in the ceremony: the orator has +not failed to bring these puppets along in his bag to +produce them in his Punch and Judy show. The honourable +Governor is playing dummy. Bang! A good +rousing whack on his ear. That will teach him what it +means to let the August Work of Justice follow its course. +The honourable Governor refuses to hand in his resignation. +A good smack in the face will root him out of his +chair. The puppet catches it for being Governor; there +is very little of him left. He gets all the raps on the nose +that are intended for the slave-masters whose interests +His Nothingness serves. And to crown the festival, they +publicly burn the Constitution of the United States. +The organizer of the meeting is William Lloyd Garrison, +the veteran abolitionist, whom once the mob dragged +through the streets of Boston at the end of a rope. This +brave man, who is ready for anything, asks Henry for +the text of the famous discourse so that he can publish it +in his magazine, the <i>Liberator</i>.</p> + +<p>Always that fierceness in resistance. Friends who +entirely approve of Henry’s purposes regard this violence, +this extremism, as very unfortunate. Destroy, if you +think it good to do so, but don’t bring into it that savage +conviction, as if you wanted to uproot the old tree of the +earth. Keep at least a touch of scepticism. You make +no effort to settle things by arrangement. Always this +unsmiling gracelessness. See what an accommodating +smile your old friend Waldo keeps.... It’s just like the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_300">300</span>time when you refused to pay your poll-tax and let them +put you in jail, and your friends said it was “mean and +in bad taste.” Is not tolerance the proper thing in a +philosopher? He should accept frauds, great and small, +magnanimously, as one tolerates the faults of old friends. +One shouldn’t be so anti-Philistine as to scout all the +respectabilities. One shouldn’t declare, in this virulent +way, one’s utter contempt for the Church and the State. +One shouldn’t go about insisting that the State is the +enemy of free, proud men and the natural protector of +the basest elements of a people: officials, capitalists, +flunkies, policemen, speculators, shopkeepers, moneymakers, +gospel-mongers. There are charming people in +all these groups who are offended by this wholesale +censure. And suppose you do consider this court-room—judges, +lawyers, public, jury and all—just as +criminal as the accused, is that any reason for calling +down thunder on its head?</p> + +<p>Do you never read the presidential messages in the +newspapers? Perhaps you despise the newspapers too? +Of course those who produce them are more interested +in cultivating their subscribers than the truth, but is that +any reason to lump them all together, the liberal ones +included, as the “filthy press?” From your point of +view, those sensational events which our friend the +saloon-keeper confounds under the one name of “politics” +are simply ridiculous beside a sunset watched +from Fairhaven Cliffs where you go to get your evening +paper and the latest news.</p> + +<p>Just look at this pitiful specimen of a citizen who has +nothing but a ridiculous “no” for his country in time of +war! A war that brings the conqueror all sorts of booty +is, he tells you bluntly, nothing but an expedition of +brigands, sufficiently well armed to impose their will. +A poor, silly isolated thief steals something and is put +<span class="pagenum" id="page_301">301</span>under lock and key, but if he swells to the proportions +of an army he comes back, with flags flying and a band +at the head of the procession, bombarded with flowers +and hurrahs by respectable men and women. An evil +deed, you see, becomes a great deed if it is conceived on +a large enough scale: the enthusiasm excited by a war is +the rapture of a childish people before this stupendous +metamorphosis.</p> + +<p>As for soldiers, Henry has no flowers for an idiot who, +whether he is victor or vanquished, has allowed himself +to be seduced by fine feathers and high pay. He has +nothing but a glance to give him, enough to divine, under +the automaton who fires to the right or left at command +and would shoot his brother just as readily, a vestige of +a man who is rather ashamed of the work he is made to +do and would be only too happy to desert if he dared. +The instruction which they give a soldier should logically +lead him to distinguish his natural enemy, the instructor. +But this professional brave man is a coward. For the +sake of dressing up in a fine uniform, he has allowed +himself to be stripped of his dignity as a man, just as +some young fellows throw their pride to the winds for a +foolish girl. Weak souls, unhappy souls. But in spite of +all this there is less contempt than pity in the look he +gives these fools, yes, even this masquerade of the militia +with their puppets’ gestures. Little as one may sympathise +with their stupidity, everything that debases +man is a menace that touches you in your own person.</p> + +<p>You see how far a village good-for-nothing can carry +his sarcasm—a lover of wild flowers and beautiful trees +and the unknown things that might be equally beautiful. +He is not responsible for his country, this “land of +liberty” which is subject to the omnipotences of money +and morality; he despises the majority and the ballot. +He is no pistareen-patriot. He ought to take a lesson +<span class="pagenum" id="page_302">302</span>from his friend Walt Whitman, whom he has seen +in Brooklyn and admires—Walt who stands whole-heartedly +for the flag and for war to a finish, brigand +war or holy war.... Henry has not read his articles in +that wretched Brooklyn sheet, for he never reads the +papers at all. It’s a great pity. Walt is not the man to +belittle the National Honour and cynically ask to see this +interesting creature of which they are talking in the +newspapers.</p> + +<p>Henry had never met this famous bird on his walks, +or that other chanticleer, National Sentiment. Among +his own people, among those whom he would like to +regard as his compatriots, even among those who are +nearest to him, he often feels as lost as among strangers. +The prejudices of colour and the flag do not correspond +with anything in his geography. Whether you are an +American or a South Sea Islander, whether you wear a +cap or a turban, whether your hair is in a queue or +parted on the side is all one to him. All he asks is, Are +you a man, and what can you do? Play me a little of +your music, and I shall know. A man, you understand; +that comes first, first. You can tell me later what +kind of dessert you like or what your nationality is, if +you have a moment to spare: those things are very interesting, +of course, but begin with essentials. Talk music.</p> + +<p>You see?... How can anybody hit it off with a +fellow who defends his ideas in this revolutionary way? +Henry has only one excuse. If there is in his sarcasms +something more than the pride of a solitary man and the +revolt of the individual, it is because he feels and speaks +as a man whose hands know certain things that philosophers +do not know. He has not allowed himself to be +caught up in the machinery of the workaday world, but +he has had to drudge just the same. He knows better +than by hearsay what it means to be exploited. Of all +<span class="pagenum" id="page_303">303</span>those lies that other people complacently accept, sweetening +them with the honey of a lofty philosophy, he has +felt the effects in his own person ever since he left college. +A man who works with his hands for wages has definite +and personal reasons for criticising these lies a little +more sharply than a humanist in his study or a journalist +at his editorial desk. The elements and materials he +has touched have given him a sensibility of a subtler +kind. “<i>The callous palms of the labourer are conversant +with finer tissues of self-respect and heroism, whose touch +thrills the heart, than the languid fingers of idleness.</i>” +This quality, whether he wills it or not, gives him the +more fraternal accent of the comrade of the poor. Is it +a mere philosopher who, as he follows the railroad that +skirts Walden, can ask, as he places his foot on a sleeper, +if it is not going to rise up, if every sleeper is not going to +take the form of one of those hard-working Irishmen +who have placed it there and over whom the train passes +at fixed hours, filled with people who roll comfortably +along while the others are rolled over?</p> + +<p>The older he grows the more sensitive Henry becomes +to the injuries which, with the precision of a rite, the +armed man inflicts upon the unarmed. The experience +of life avails nothing; instead of blunting, it sharpens his +susceptibility. That nameless one whom the Supreme +Court in Boston has just sent off like a package is an +intolerable humiliation—it is enough to blot out the +five continents. It is the State burying its fangs in the +flesh of a fugitive. The victim may not be a great +philosopher, but he has nerves—like the distinguished +Governor himself. His thick lips cannot afford to keep +smiling.</p> + +<p>In an age swollen with the sense of its own importance, +this negro slavery was the most brutal form of the +exploitation of man by man. Since Uncle Tom had +<span class="pagenum" id="page_304">304</span>brought all the lovers of sentimental scenes and tears-in-the-eyes +flocking about his Cabin, the abolitionist propaganda +had made headway. Henry had joined in it +from afar, in his own way. To further the desertion of +the blacks, it had developed a whole secret organization, +the Underground Railroad, with its system, its branches, +switches, waiting-rooms, regulating station. Henry had +his share in the administration. He was station-master +at one of those little halting-places in the country where +only a few trains stop from time to time but that are all +the safer in the transit of smuggled goods. Concord +was only a middling-sized village, but it was one that +counted in no small way in the scheme of anti-slavery +sympathies. At the very dawn of the movement, when +Henry was just preparing to enter college, a society of +women had been founded there for the abolition of +slavery, and several particular friends of the family were +members of it. Ten years later, Wendell Phillips came +there, three winters in succession, and aroused the most +violent excitement in the village frog-pond by denouncing +a Constitution that openly supported the ignominy. +If the old people were outraged and scandalised by this +audacity, the young were enraptured by it; Henry, at +that time secretary of the Lyceum, sent the <i>Liberator</i> +a paper on the first lecture. On August 1st, 1844, an +abolitionist meeting was held in the Court-house at +which Waldo had spoken. William Lloyd Garrison +was there, and Henry rang the bell to fling to the winds +the good news and the challenge.</p> + +<p>The friends of the cause did not forget Concord in +their rounds. One of them, whom a friend introduced +to him in March, 1857, made a profound impression on +Henry. A big fellow in his fifties, round-shouldered, +grizzled, rough-hewn, with the rugosity that went with +the frontier type; he came from Kansas, in fact, where +<span class="pagenum" id="page_305">305</span>with his sons he led, in those hazardous regions, the far +from rose-coloured existence of a defender of the cause. +And what a face he had.... That mouth like a sabre-cut, +the metal of those eyes, that stiff, projecting hair +planted thick on the low, determined brow, those perpendicular +wrinkles between the eyebrows, how much +they told.... You could imagine unforgettable figures +like this in old times on a rowers’ bench, chained by the +feet.... That astonishing face, hard as steel, stood out +so magnificently from the crowd of weak masks—the +face of a pirate, a condottiere or a martyr. Another +one who did not smile.</p> + +<p>Henry felt at once that he was in the presence of a +member of his own family. They talked. But he did +not need to be convinced by the arguments or the +stories of what was going on out there on the frontier. +This presence was enough for him: it carried conviction +with it. What did it matter if the man talked like an +illiterate, narrow-minded, old sanctimonious Puritan +pietist? Henry looked at that face, that naked grandeur, +that pure force of heroism and self-sacrifice. He drank +in the wind that had swept that brow from its childhood, +saw all that the horizon of the prairie had left in +that glance. It was arranged that the man should come +back to Concord and give a lecture. His name was +John Brown—in other words, he was as good as nameless. +You felt like saying simply the man, for short.</p> + +<p>The little station-master acquitted himself of his duties +with the decision and the punctuality which, as a ne’er-do-well, +he always put into his work. They signalled +to you that someone was on the way; you had to be +there to receive the “package,” before dawn or at nightfall, +put him up if necessary, and in great mystery (the +whole family was in the conspiracy and protected the +fugitive, but evil tongues and spies were not lacking at +<span class="pagenum" id="page_306">306</span>Concord any more than elsewhere), then quietly ship +him off again, to a safe place over the Canadian border. +Pass the ball. One more Southern planter would have +to make the best of his loss. Henry, a veteran with a +sure eye, had the qualities of a smuggler. You had +charge of a man with the police on his tracks, stimulated +by a “good reward,” and while you were on the way +to get a ticket for him at the station you would notice a +man with a gallows-face roaming about, looking very +much like a sleuth from Boston; so you would decide to +wait for the next train. The runaway could stay a little +longer at the house, where he was in good hands. While +he was living at Walden, Henry had put one of them up +in his cabin. There were certainly risks in this smuggling +business. But when did risks ever weaken the resolution +of an honest man? They strengthen it.</p> + +<p>For the rest, Henry was an abolitionist of an altogether +special kind, very far from orthodox. If the +exploitation of the negroes was the most patent form of +slavery, how many other slaves there were beyond the +horizon of the cotton-fields, everywhere, to infinity, +whom he would have liked to free.... The views of the +Boston friends were limited by the famous Cabin. They +didn’t see them increasing among the people of the +North, those white-skinned, thin-lipped, fair or chestnut-haired +slaves with heads anything but woolly! Henry +saw them all around him, innumerable and more brutalized +than he would have been able to say. He reckoned +fully a million of them in Massachusetts, without the +least suspicion of their state, poor souls—which was the +saddest part of the whole business.</p> + +<p>When are you going to start a campaign to enable all +these white negroes to escape, these slaves who are so +busy under the eye of their overseers growing the evil +cotton from which the web of our days is woven? To +<span class="pagenum" id="page_307">307</span>make them want to bid farewell for good and all to their +servile habits and gestures? If people would listen to +you, Henry, Canada would be so full that there would +be no place to house them.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>One morning such a big piece of news spread abroad +that a man who never read the newspapers could not +help glancing at it. It was the paper for October 18th, +1859. Henry read it. A handful of men, almost unarmed, +had seized the Federal Arsenal at Harper’s Ferry in +Virginia during the night and intrenched themselves +there, after making a prisoner of a colonel, the great-grand-nephew +of George Washington; they had held it +for twenty-four hours. A regular siege had been necessary +to get the better of the rebels, or rather the survivors, +for more than half of them had been killed. It +was his friend John Brown’s work.... That morning +and for days to come, Henry could devour more newspapers +than his good father had nibbled in a whole +lifetime.</p> + +<p>But if John Brown had struck, it was not solely to +enable his friend Thoreau to give at last the full measure +of his egoism. Old Brown had more substantial reasons +than that.</p> + +<p>Henry saw again the face of the old peasant or galley-slave, +the expression of the bluish eyes that brightened +up when the man spoke of the cause. It was not six +months since he had seen him the last time, and his +image was as fresh as yesterday. Old Brown was wearing +now a long white beard that gave him a patriarchal +look. They had dined together at Henry’s. Waldo had +come over and the three had found themselves there +together. In the evening Old Brown had spoken at the +Town Hall; and as he told them how his son had been +made prisoner by the Border Ruffians, he had even +<span class="pagenum" id="page_308">308</span>shown them the chain which the latter had made him +wear. The effect was a little crude, but this man so +excluded the idea of anything theatrical that you +couldn’t look at this gesture ironically. As for his plans, +Henry had no anxiety at the time; you could have entire +faith in such a figure as that.</p> + +<p>Old Brown’s plans.... That was what had been +suddenly revealed by the incident of the Arsenal, the +long, long story of which that low brow and those +inexorable eyes had spoken. Born in Connecticut, of +good English and Dutch stock, he had found himself, +a boy of five, cast in the middle of Ohio, whither his +father, a penniless tanner, had come from New England +to seek his fortune. A boy who grew up in buckskin +trousers, among the animals and the friendly Indians; +a sensitive boy who remained inconsolable after losing +the only marble he had ever possessed; a boy who, at +twelve, was already conducting cattle long distances +and had learned just enough to read and reckon a little.</p> + +<p>As a big lad of twenty, strong and serious, working in +a tannery with his father, he appeared very shy and +rather haughty. The Bible and the Church absorbed +him, together with an anxious fear for the salvation of +his soul, even suggesting to him for a while the idea of +becoming a preacher. He married, moved his tannery +to Pennsylvania, where he had no very brilliant success, +ran into debt, remarried, returned to Ohio and set up in +business with a partner. Another failure. He threw +himself into land-speculation, went into bankruptcy, +then, a poor, uncertain soul, tried any and every means +of conjuring away his ill fortune. Long journeys took +him across country, buying and selling cattle and sheep. +In spite of everything, divine Providence did not assist +John the Shepherd and his thirteen children—whom, as +a brutally fierce believer, he ruled with a rod of iron: +<span class="pagenum" id="page_309">309</span>little matter whether they had any education or not as +long as they feared the Lord and his representative, +their father. The wholesale sheep-trade which he +followed for ten years with a partner still failed to bring +him prosperity, and at the end of their enterprise left him +the same poor John as before. In incessant litigation +with his creditors, always clumsy in business, he found +himself lost in a maze of speculations, plans, combines, +and was not entirely free from those barely honest little +trickeries to which the perfect devotee does not refuse +to stoop in order to save his worldly goods along with +his soul.</p> + +<p>It was in the midst of these vicissitudes, as he was +approaching his fortieth year, that an idea took possession +of him, an idea that he revealed to his family, one +evening, in the kitchen of the old farm in Ohio—to +“break the jaws of the wicked and pluck the spoil out +of his teeth.” What he meant in his pietistic jargon +was to free the blacks from slavery, and to free them +by violence. From that moment John the Shepherd +underwent a gradual transformation into Old Brown, +Partisan and Freebooter. In Springfield, Massachusetts, +he rented a little wooden house where he stored his wool; +his principal object in coming there was to place himself +in touch with the militants of Boston, whose debating +societies and philosophic views, for the rest, interested +him very little. Words, nothing but words. The sheep-raiser +explained his programme to them. Brother +Brown was going to strike with a vengeance, rise openly +against the authorities and crush those who resisted. +The direct route this time, no more Underground Railroads. +It was in the South, on its own ground, that the +slave-power must be attacked. Towards the time of his +first visit to Concord, Old Brown, without taking anybody +into his confidence, was already thinking, among +<span class="pagenum" id="page_310">310</span>the important points he had in view, of that Arsenal +which was so well situated at the intersection of the +three States of Maryland, Pennsylvania and Virginia. +After this, he pondered his plan, perfected it, minutely +prepared to carry it out. But in the meantime, as he had +to live, and the market-price of wool had fallen because +of the war, he embarked for Europe, where he hoped to +make an advantageous sale. London—Paris—Brussels—Hamburg: +it was a very fine journey for a +Westerner, but the traveller had carried his old bad luck +along with him in his bag; he was obliged to sell his +bales of wool at ridiculous prices. From Europe he +returned with a loss of $40,000 for his partner and himself +and the still more firmly fixed reputation of a man +who had no understanding of business.</p> + +<p>Then, one fine day, he bade farewell to trade and +went off and established his family in the midst of the +solitude of the Adirondacks, at North Elba. He would +go and see them up there when he had the time, for he +was almost always in Kansas, where three of his older +sons were settled and his mission claimed him. The +Border was his sphere; he was at the front there, in +contact with the enemy—the slaver. Business, litigation, +cattle, the price of wool, all these things counted for +nothing now in Old Brown’s mind: it was as if the +victim of eternal combines, the old veteran upon whom +earthly fortune had been unwilling to smile, was meditating +a last stroke of business, a supreme speculation, +in which he would risk everything, even his skin, without +regret, for the triumph of a great cause—would +sacrifice as a visionary the rest of his mortal life, the rest +of this rough, storm-tossed, agitated life, for a beautiful +share of eternity....</p> + +<p>Thanks to all this travelling about, managing men and +animals and hides and wool and pushing his famous +<span class="pagenum" id="page_311">311</span>plan, he was clothed with a kind of authority that impressed +people. He was going to find this useful enough +in holding his own with the Border Ruffians who +roamed about the country, well-armed, in their red or +blue flannel shirts, with a dagger boldly thrust through +their leather belts, with an unspeakably villainous air—cut-throats +in the pay of the planters, who were determined +to remain the masters in their own house and +protect the free disposal of their black work-hands. To +earn his living, he did surveying, a trade that permitted +him to study the ground in more ways than one. Between +whiles, there were surprises—hangings, lynchings, +tar-and-featherings, raids, cold-blooded butcheries +with the sabre—all work for a soldier.</p> + +<p>Old Brown was appropriately free from sentimentality. +For instance, to avenge the abominable sacking +of Lawrence, when the partisans of a Free Kansas had +allowed themselves to be trampled upon like cowards +by their enemies, he arranged a little party of his own. +With a sort of company of which he was captain and +cook, he intended to show these swine that they were +not always going to triumph with impunity and spread +among the band a wholesome terror. In the old man’s +camp, they sharpened the cutlasses on the grindstone and +got ready for business. A list had been drawn up of the +condemned persons who were to pay for all the rabble. +While he was getting ready, one of his companions who +was a little anxious came and recommended caution +to the chief. The latter replied: “Caution, caution, sir. +I am eternally tired of hearing that word caution. It is +nothing but the word of cowardice.” The chief was +greatly excited and ready for anything. Forward, +men; let the cowards stay behind.</p> + +<p>They were soon there; the little troop collected for a +moment not far from Pottawatomie, where the birds +<span class="pagenum" id="page_312">312</span>they were going to catch had their nest. There were +three brothers here, Germans by birth, known for their +pro-slavery sympathies—big brutes with whom he had +already had a bone to pick as a neighbour, together with +a family of poor devils from Tennessee, a father and his +two grown sons, who had followed the lead of the +Germans. There was also a member of that pseudo-Legislative +Assembly which claimed to rule the State in +the name of the slave-holders. At ten o’clock in the +evening the little troop got under way, taking all precautions. +They knocked at the door of the Tennesseeans, +made the father and his two sons come out, +conducted them two hundred yards from the house and +cold-bloodedly put them to the sword. A bullet in the +father to finish the business and make it surer. One of +the two brothers who had offered resistance had his +arms cut off, his body mangled, his skull torn open, a +hole in the jaw. All this made less noise than a musket +volley; it was a thorough job, swift and stimulating. +A little further away, at midnight, at the “Representative’s” +house, a similar scene. The wife was ill with +measles; the condemned man asked to be allowed to +stay with her till they found someone to look after her. +“It matters not,” said Old Brown; “you have neighbours.” +And he did not even allow the man to pull on +his boots. Off with him. Shortly afterwards the +“Representative” lay in a thicket, with his head and +side run through; they had sent him to represent his +friends the slave-holders in the Legislative Assembly on +high. There remained the three Germans, one of whom +turned out to be spending the night with neighbours. +The same ceremonial. The next day he was found in the +ravine, with his skull split in two places and half emptied, +a hole in his chest, his right hand cut off, hanging to the +wrist by a rag of skin. The work finished, they went off +<span class="pagenum" id="page_313">313</span>and washed their sabres in the river and the butchers +started for home, rather disgusted. They needed some +good hot coffee to settle their nerves. But it was all in +the day’s work and Old Brown regretted nothing.</p> + +<p>The hand of the Lord had smitten these infidels a +little roughly. These were the ways of the frontier, +where sober notions of good and evil were not in vogue. +But one of the sons of Old Brown who took part in +the expedition lacked the iron nerves of the old man, +although his Christian name was John also. The night +after the deed, returning half out of his wits to the +house of an uncle, he cried to his brother Owen, who had +joined him: “Out with you, you filthy murderer ...” +and then wandered off into the brush, his poor mind +gone.... With Jason, another of his brothers, the +demented man was soon captured by the Ruffians, who +had hurried out in search of them. Jason saw the rope +that was about to encircle his neck hanging from a tree +over his head. But for days and days, both of them, +chained together by their ankles, their hands tied like +convicts, were led about the roads, while John, who had +not recovered his right mind, imagined that he was the +officer in charge of the troop, shouted his commands and +told his keepers how they ought to kill his brother, the +stammerer. And the Ruffians of the guard bullied and +tortured their prisoners with all the more zest because +they thought the poor madman was pretending. During +all this time they were scouring the region to dislodge +Old Brown, who was actually not far away. He was +roaming about in the neighbourhood, waiting for an +opportunity to free his two boys. But it was impossible +to lay hands on him. With four of his other sons and a +few faithful followers, he had gained the brush. He had +also gained the reputation of a bird whose feathers it +was not good to stroke and who could not be safely +<span class="pagenum" id="page_314">314</span>approached without plenty of precautions. Be sufficiently +energetic and people will respect you. When +they shouted in the fields: “Look out! There’s Old +Brown!” well-armed people whom you would have +supposed were brave, if only because of their numbers, +ran as if the devil were coming out of the bushes. Old +Brown had become a bugbear. And years followed, +full of guerilla warfare, raids and forays, and through +them passed a man on horseback or marching along +with bent shoulders beside a wagon, who was now here, +now there, but never where you expected to catch him. +You could burn, destroy the village where he had his +headquarters, but to catch the Old Man was another +pair of breeches.</p> + +<p>A new stage in the march towards the goal which Old +Brown had fixed. He published a tract in which he urged +the army to disobey orders, “respectfully and amicably +offered to the Officers and Soldiers of the American +Army in Kansas.” He summed up his argument in these +words: “It is as much the duty of the common soldier +of the U. S. Army, according to his ability and opportunity, +to be informed upon all subjects in any way +affecting the political or general welfare of his country, +and to watch with jealous vigilance the course and +management of all public functionaries both civil and +military; and to govern his actions as a citizen soldier +accordingly: as though he were President of the United +States.” This appeal, signed “A Soldier,” did not win +the approval of the friends in Boston; but the Old Man +could get along without their approval. The Old Man +was collecting his wits for a still more serious action. +He set to work, quietly, to instruct a little troop of +voluntary followers. His war budget was not very +heavy, and often he had not enough to eat. Then, on +a brief raid in Missouri, he entered a planter’s house, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_315">315</span>revolver in hand, killed another man, freed the slaves, +ransacked the dwelling, took two prisoners. All this +just to keep his hand in. In mid-winter, with a single +companion, the Old Man travelled more than six hundred +miles escorting to Canada a wagon full of negro +women and children; his fingers and his ears were +frozen, but his skin was tough and he could stand it. +There was a constant reward of $3000 for anyone who +arrested him. It was worth the effort, but no one interfered +with him, even when on one occasion Old Brown +calmly entered a town, made a speech, and calmly went +off again, after a glance at the handbills in big letters +in which his admirers were invited to capture him. +Didn’t anyone want $3000?</p> + +<p>Much later, on the night of October 16th-17th, a +wagon descended the hill which, on the Maryland side, +leads to the peninsula where Harper’s Ferry rises, +formed by the confluence of the two rivers. The horse +stiffened its legs, for the wagon was full of pikes and +ammunition. A round-shouldered old man with a +white beard and eighteen other men accompanied the +convoy. The plan, matured through long years, was +being executed. It had definitely ceased to be a question +of Uncle Tom and his Cabin; it was a question now of +bayonets and bullets. Do you understand, Boston +friends?</p> + +<p>The plan was to surprise and carry the place, cost +what it might. And then, who could say?... Once +masters of this important point, they could fortify +themselves in the mountains, the blacks would rise, +they would run from all the cotton fields; they would +arm (they had pikes—a thousand of them, specially +made), and there would be a general conflagration, the +war carried into Africa. They would establish a provisional +government, of which the constitution was +<span class="pagenum" id="page_316">316</span>already drawn up on paper and the principal parts were +assigned. There was $600 in the treasury.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the little troop advanced, made a prisoner +of the watchman on the bridge, who thought it was a +joke, a few passers-by, and then the janitor of the +armory, which they entered with the game all in their +own hands. John Brown’s company were masters of +the Arsenal, in the dead of night. The hardest part was +over; from this point they could strike out. Five miles +off, on the heights of Bolivar, there lived a landed proprietor, +a slave-holder who was no other than Colonel +Lewis Washington, a descendant of the great man. He +had in his possession the pistol given by Lafayette and +the sword presented by Frederick the Great to the +Liberator. At midnight, by the flickering light of a +torch, the colonel saw, outlined against the door of +his bedroom, four armed men who informed him that +he was their prisoner and ordered him to hand to one +of them—a black—the sword of the Great Frederick. +Then they courteously conducted the colonel away in his +own carriage, made the slaves climb into a big wagon, +and the procession turned towards the Arsenal. They +stopped on the way at a neighbour’s, where the scene +was repeated. The latter was also treated to a ride, +with his six blacks. At the Arsenal Old Brown distributed +the pikes to the negroes, placed them in charge of +their former masters and thus addressed the colonel: +“I shall be very attentive to you, sir, for I may get the +worst of it in my first encounter, and if so, your life is +worth as much as mine.” Then the Old Man calmly +girded himself with the sword of Frederick the Great. +The trains were stopped on the bridge where he had +placed a guard. The alarm was given. The fire-bell +rang. The good citizens of the little town took down +their shot-guns, since the more formidable weapons +<span class="pagenum" id="page_317">317</span>were in the hands of the rebels. The Old Man, very +much master of himself, ordered breakfast for forty-five +persons at the hotel nearby. And the day rose on this +astonishing victory, as clean as the Liberator’s sword.</p> + +<p>Twenty-four hours later, in the engine-room, Old +Brown, his body torn with bayonet thrusts, his head +gashed, his hair matted and his face stained with blood, +was stretched out with his son Oliver, who had ceased to +beg them to kill him, motionless at his side, and his +other son Watson dying. Of the twenty-one men +involved in the raid only four remained who were alive. +Seven had escaped, including those who had remained +at the farm to guard the stock of arms and two of those +who had occupied the Arsenal, who had succeeded in +getting away during the night. And on a rock, in the +middle of the Potomac, was the huddled body of the +youngest of the company, a boy of eighteen who, while +he was attempting to escape by swimming, had been +overtaken and riddled with bullets. There his body was, +perched in mid-stream, a fine target for the troops that +had passed in the afternoon. It was altogether too +tempting for everybody not to take a shot at it before +dropping in for a drink at the hotel, which had made a +lot of money to-day. In the bed of the river lay another +corpse, and as it was not very deep in that spot they +could see it clearly, with its face drawn in death and +seeming to move with the water. Another fine target +for the clever sharpshooters: this man too was one of +the companions of the raid.</p> + +<p>In the Arsenal they were waiting for the Governor of +Virginia. Already officers, reporters, congressmen, curiosity-seekers +were filing past the Rebel, lying there on +his mattress. Old Brown did not look at all like a man +who had been beaten; he spoke calmly, weighing his +words, as if he were at home on his old farm. Meanwhile, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_318">318</span>the town began to be filled with shouts, brawls +and a general fanfaronade in preparation for the saturnalia +when the militia and the brave population would +be fraternizing in an orgy of victory.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Henry was agitated to the depths of his soul, depths +that one might have supposed were better sheltered +from squalls. Agitated at the thought of the gallows-rope +strangling the tough neck of his friend Old Brown. +Agitated by the cowardice of the worthy disciples with +all their good intentions who, since the raid, the crime +against the safety of the State, had run for cover, desperately +disavowing the rebel.... No, gentlemen, no, +gentlemen, we hadn’t the faintest suspicion of it; you +can see we are as white as snow.... It was a stampede +of runaways, a chorus of denials. Even the <i>Liberator</i> +treated the raid as an act of madness. Not one of these +people was capable of seeing how beautiful it was, just +because it was mad—with a madness that purged the +world of its reasonable reason! The Knight of the +Umbrella and the Bundle had always been for madnesses +like this against the niggardly prudence of the sham +humanitarians. That obstinate, that furious old lunatic, +with his hobby of carrying the war into Africa, had +actually carried it there. That old Trojan who continued +to believe, with a belief as tough as a stump, in +other realities than the price of wool, who was ready +to sacrifice himself for an idea.... He himself had +staked his fortune on a folly. John Brown, murderer or +madman, was a brother. And that brother was going +to be hanged.</p> + +<p>In Henry’s innermost sanctuary there was no security +left—the gods were tottering on their socles. It was no +longer possible to think of anything else, to resume the +thread of one’s dear old thoughts. Nothing but a few +<span class="pagenum" id="page_319">319</span>passages from the greatest poems corresponded with +the obsession of this hour and seemed to meet the circumstances. +When he went out his ramble was finished +before it had begun: what was waiting for him at the +end of his solitary walk rose up, from the moment he +set out, to demand its due. His eyes no longer saw +what they had seen; when he lifted his head, he saw +rising against the woods a face with a low brow and +bluish grey eyes, the hard face of the old cattle-driver, +the driver of a whole people towards the Promised +Land, the face of the martyr, imposing silence on all +nature. The sun set behind a gibbet. Wachusett, over +there, was like a judge delivering a sentence. The beauty +of the world could no longer vie with this beauty of +the man who was dying for a mad cause.</p> + +<p>Henry was unable to sleep. At night, he would +relight his candle, seize a scrap of paper within reach of +his hand and cover it with lines. No event, near or +far, had ever inflamed him to this degree. He was +another Henry, unknown to himself. Old Brown, +what have you done to a man who had such a beautiful +equanimity and such a disdain for the affairs of the +world? What power is this within you that can arouse +such a mad passion? You have thrown him into a +pitiable state. He is much less strong than another +fellow who lives in Brooklyn and whom your fate does +not prevent from eating and sleeping. For this latter +at least a man who is going to be hanged for his crime +does not blot out the universe; luckily for him, he +remains the master of his serenity. He is not like Henry, +astonished at the sight of all these villagers, these good +citizens who have the heart to go about their little +affairs, as if nothing were burning their vitals. For him +the whole life of the world seems to be in abeyance, as +on the eve of a cataclysm. Will it not rise in one mass +<span class="pagenum" id="page_320">320</span>to free this upright man and avenge his defeat? The +wildness in Henry’s soul is boiling up, boiling over with +rebellion; it runs to Harper’s Ferry and bars the exits of +the Arsenal.</p> + +<p>He must speak, and at once, dissociate himself from +these wavering souls, these cowards, utter all his admiration +for the criminal, while the latter is still alive. For +they have condemned him hastily, in all the heat of +public indignation, as an altogether special criminal. +They have actually had to carry him into court on a +stretcher because of his wounds, of which those in his +head have made him half deaf. And they are waiting, +from one day to another, to pronounce the sentence. +It is vain to tell Henry that he is mad, that he is almost +alone in his opinion, for a man who, alone, rushes to the +defence of a friend, marches surrounded by a whole +army. To counsels of caution he replies as Old Brown +replied at Pottawatomie. To hell with your caution, +you skulkers.</p> + +<p>Henry announced that he would speak the following +Sunday, October 30th, in the vestry of the parish church. +At the last moment, when some advisers still tried to +stop him, he replied roughly: “I did not send to you for +advice, but to announce that I am to speak.” And he +spoke. The defence had succeeded in causing a postponement +of the sentence, but there was no doubt what +it would be. Henry’s object, however, was not to save +Old Brown’s neck; it was merely to celebrate the beauty +of his character and his act. Henry Thoreau, fool of +nature and the beauty in man, as Hokusai in his Japan +was the fool of drawing, was ready to maintain against +the whole world that John Brown, his friend, convicted +of high treason, was right, and this to the very foot of +the gallows if they judged him worthy of being hanged +also. That is what beauty means, that is what friendship +<span class="pagenum" id="page_321">321</span>means. It does not consist in lending you half a +dollar in case of need or an umbrella if it happens to +rain. It consists in accepting blows of your own free +will and bearing witness at any risk. In not letting go +of your own kind if he has fallen into the hands of the +enemy. Henry spoke. His listeners were all ears. It +was no philosophical lecture this time. There may have +been a few stifled growls in certain corners of the hall. +But no one protested. It was as if his conviction had +stirred that soft dough. When it was over, the few +rabid people were no longer talking of the gallows +for John Brown: they held their peace. The general +impression was excellent. One good mark for +Concord.</p> + +<p>Henry was very anxious to repeat his “plea” at +Worcester, where his friend Blake lived. He would +have liked to repeat it without remuneration in every +county in New England. Meanwhile, he spoke in +Boston, two days after Concord. It was November +1st; the sentence had not yet been pronounced. Perhaps +it would be to-morrow. Half an hour before the moment +set for the lecture, the hall was full. For an hour and a +half the people listened religiously to this fervent little +man who, far from attempting to excuse the crime, +celebrated it. Henry had more expression and enthusiasm +than usual. He was no longer a man bored with +the necessity of uttering fine-spun sarcasms and over-concise +aphorisms before rows and rows of eyes that +could not make him out at all: he was an embattled +soul, stirred by friendship and emotion. There was +electricity in the air and in the applause. Even in his +casual remarks before and after the lecture it was as if he +had lost all his old savage shyness and discovered how +to communicate with men. Henry spoke fluently, in a +tone of exaltation, thundered against the Union, the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_322">322</span>President, the State. It was as if there were no more +barriers left.</p> + +<p>As for Old Brown, in his prison at Charlestown, +nothing remained for him, after the sittings of the court, +but to lend himself to the little ceremony that was being +arranged in his honour. He was preparing for it with no +ill grace; was it not the final touch of the great plan that +bore his signature? He had formally refused to countenance +any attempt of his followers to enable him to +escape. If they left the prison door wide open he would +not go out; he had made this statement to the warden, +who was a very kind man. John Brown was an obstinate +old soul. Even his wife, who had come down from +North Elba and was in the neighbourhood, was obliged, +the first time, to go away without seeing him, broken-hearted +but well aware that nothing could avail against +the will of the Old Man; this will might have weakened +at the farewell scene. He had only consented to see +her yesterday, at the last extremity. The warden had +invited them both to his own family table. When the +time came to part, after these too happy moments, the +Old Man would have liked to keep her longer. But they +had had to bid each other good-bye, agreeing to meet +again at Harper’s Ferry; she was going to wait there for +his body, which was to be turned over to her. The +condemned man had spent his time, since the sentence, +writing letters in his peasant hand to his friends. +“Yesterday Nov. 2nd I was sentenced to be hanged on +Dec. 2nd next. Do not grieve on my account. I am +still quite cheerful. God bless you all.” It was a whole +month now since he had been condemned to death; his +wounds were healed, and it would have been good not +to be lying idle in prison. A true old stager is bored by +this inactivity.</p> + +<p>On December 2nd, in the morning, he left his cell, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_323">323</span>surrounded by uniforms. It was a clear dawn and mild +enough for the season. As far as he could see, on all +sides, there were massed troops as if for the arrival of +some great personage. Old Brown was a little surprised; +he had had no idea he was so important. A +van was waiting for him. He was only fifty-nine years +old, but as he climbed into the wagon he had the air of +a very old man; his white beard, which he had clipped a +little for the raid, completed his patriarchal appearance. +That box there in the van was quite long enough to +serve as a bench for three persons, and he sat down +between his friend the warden and the sheriff on his +coffin.</p> + +<p>The man they had come for was as calm as a traveller +who had come out to see the country after having kept +in his room for six weeks. Perhaps he was thinking that +his last great combine was not ending so badly for him, +on the whole, since, at the cost of a few seconds of +fluttering at the end of a rope, he could see as far as the +eye could reach fields golden as glory. But nothing +actually lay before him save the winter landscape of the +valley. “What a beautiful country this is,” he said. +“I have never been down this way before.” The journey +was not long. They were there at last. Old Brown +climbed down, more briskly than he had climbed up, +and ascended the steps of the scaffold, from which he +descried the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a spectacle +to fill eyes that had taken in many horizons during their +lifetime. When he became once more aware of the +scaffold, he shook hands with the warden and the +sheriff. Then they pulled the cap over his head, tied his +arms behind his back and passed the noose around his +neck, taking care not to let it catch in his beard. In his +old trousers, in his old slippers, Old Brown stood upright +there, as if he were in command of the three parade +<span class="pagenum" id="page_324">324</span>companies who were taking ten minutes to find their +places. Perhaps he was counting these minutes, but +nothing appeared from under his cap. In a natural +voice, he merely said: “Be quick,” and stood there, +without a tremor, awaiting his reward. A signal, the +floor gaped, and at the end of the rope a great body +hung, oscillated a moment and was still.</p> + +<p>But Old Brown had come out of his prison that morning +with the prospect of a much longer journey than +those few hundred yards to the scaffold. His wife was +waiting for him at Harper’s Ferry. Fifteen men escorted +his remains, which were not unpunctual at the rendezvous. +And then the pine coffin set out, accompanied +by the widow and a few friends. In the towns where +the train stopped, the crowds surged about the station, +the bells rang, the reception committees stepped forward, +a guard of honour watched the corpse all night in +the court-house. The body of the condemned man +seemed to be armed with an even more formidable +strength than that of the Old Man when his head had +had a price on it out there in Kansas. At last there +remained only twenty-five miles to be covered, feet +foremost, by the Old Man who had so often travelled +them with his great peasant strides. And then he was +at home, after his five days’ pilgrimage, at the family +farm, under a great rock opposite White Face Mountain, +and very calm as the hymns that he had loved, sung +about the grave by the blacks of the neighbourhood, +faded away in the silence of the mountains.</p> + +<p>Since December 2nd, Henry had been haunted by the +feeling that his friend was the only living man in New +England. The others did not need to have a rope +passed round their necks in order to die; they did not +exist. In a number of towns, to celebrate this living +man, they fired a salute of a hundred shots at the hour +<span class="pagenum" id="page_325">325</span>when he at last received his full reward—towns where +enormous crowds gathered in the church to pray in +memory of him. Concord was a village, but Henry had +been chosen by a few people to request the Selectmen to +allow the parish bell to be rung at the hour of the execution. +Did not Concord owe this attention to John +Brown, who had twice been a visitor there? But the +authorities refused for fear of compromising themselves; +these people were among those million slaves who +carried Virginia into the very heart of Massachusetts. +So they met in the afternoon at the Town Hall, among +themselves, Waldo, Alcott, William, Sanborn and those +of the Concordians who were not dead, in solemn commemoration +of the condemned man who had already +judged his judges. Some words were spoken by Henry +and Waldo, and they all sang a funeral hymn. After the +ceremony, William and Henry vanished into the fields, +their minds full of a figure that would go so well in a +triptych, as Henry sometimes thought, between those +of ruddy Walt in Brooklyn and Joe the Indian.</p> + +<p>That same evening, on his return, Henry found his +good friend Sanborn waiting at the house with a word +for him: “To-morrow morning, Emerson’s covered +wagon and mare will be hitched up at sunrise. Will you +call for it, pick up a traveller at my door, take him to the +station at South Acton and put him on the first train for +Canada? He is a friend, but he’s a queer chap. Pay no +attention to what he says to you.” Henry did not +inquire further. It froze hard that night, but at the +hour mentioned he was at Sanborn’s with the rig, and +was soon on his way with the queer fellow, who was +quite a young lad. He had put him on the back seat of +the wagon as a precaution. Starting so early, the poor +fellow had not had time to brush his teeth, and this +made him feel ill. In short, this brother seemed to be +<span class="pagenum" id="page_326">326</span>a little cracked. He rambled on in a steady stream. He +absolutely insisted that his driver was Mr. Emerson; +and on the way he suddenly flung himself out of the +wagon insisting that he was going back to Concord. +Henry, who was bent upon carrying out his mission, +was obliged to place his hand on his shoulder and force +him, with the little arts one uses with a man who is not +in his right mind, to get back into the wagon. Hastening +the mare, they at last reached the station, which was +only three or four miles away. There was scarcely +anyone about, the train arrived and the traveller started +off. Then Henry returned the wagon and the mare to +the stable, and before going home for breakfast stopped +at his friend’s house to tell him that everything had gone +well. There was no need for either of them to know +more. If someone asked you to do a friendly service and +you were employed in the system of the Underground +Railroad, what difference did it make to you to know +whether you had taken to the station on a December +morning someone who had escaped in a raid with a +price on his head or a mere traveller who thought you +were Mr. Emerson? Henry said nothing whatever at +home about his early morning drive, and everything +passed quietly, as it should. There would be plenty of +time to tell about these things some day.</p> + +<p>Three months later, his friend Sanborn himself was +obliged to decamp to Canada. Summoned to appear +before the committee of the Senate charged with investigating +the great conspiracy, he had not presented +himself and was threatened with arrest as a defaulting +witness. As he refused to testify, there was nothing for +him to do but to disappear. After a short absence he +returned, and one fine day in April a police-sergeant +with five men came out from Boston to arrest him at his +house in Concord. The fire-alarm rang and the village +<span class="pagenum" id="page_327">327</span>was instantly up in arms; they were not going to allow +Sanborn to be kidnapped. The helpless sergeant and +his men were obliged to leave their prisoner in the +custody of a guard of citizens. Another good mark for +Concord.</p> + +<p>The following day, he appeared before the court in +Boston. The friends were there, ready for anything, to +save Frank Sanborn if the case went against him. And +look over there, by the door, at that big bearded fellow +with a greenish coat: what a florid complexion he has, +and how attentively he is following the discussion! In +the name of all the gods, it’s Walt! Happening to be in +Boston, to see through the press the third edition of his +<i>Leaves</i>, which Thayer and Eldridge are going to bring +out (these Boston guys are beginning to swallow the +satyr whole), he has turned up to give his comrades a +strong hand if there is any need for it. But there is no +occasion to intervene, for the court declares the arrest +of Sanborn illegal, and he returns home in triumph. It +was through his friend Sanborn, who had once been +introduced to Henry by Waldo and who kept a little +school in the village, as Henry himself had done at +twenty, that the latter had met Old Brown at the time +of his first visit to Concord. But all the “confederates” +in the plot, or those at least who were accused of having +aided it, were not of the same stripe as Sanborn. Seized +with panic, some of them had placed the frontier +between themselves and their responsibility, real or +supposed. There was even one of them, an old friend +of John Brown, whose constitution had been so little +able to endure the uproar of the raid and the fear of +being compromised that he had had to be shut up as a +lunatic.</p> + +<p>And a year and a half after the raid—scarcely ten +months after the commemoration of the Fourth of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_328">328</span>July at North Elba, before the rock under which the +tough carcass of the Old Man rested in the solitude of the +Adirondacks (Henry, who was invited, was unable to +go, but he had sent a few pages that were read)—the +same Governor of Virginia who had come to see the +traitor and conspirator lying, a prisoner, on his mattress +at the Arsenal seized the same Arsenal himself, and the +next day, April 10th, 1861, the decree of Secession was +voted. War was on. The troops of Massachusetts, +defiling through the streets of Boston, sang the song of +John Brown, the song of the soldiers. The dead of +Antietam were strewn over the earth on the outskirts +of the town which the Old Man had entered with his +eighteen companions, armed with pikes.</p> + +<p>It was war, and thousands of young fellows were +going to kill one another for ... for ... for.... +You, Walt, you know what it’s all about, don’t you?... +And you, Henry?... Mark you, this is no war +of conquest: it is civil war, holy war.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_329">329</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="IX"> + IX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Early in the month it was delightfully warm: one +saw the little yellow butterflies fluttering about, encouraged +by this smiling Indian Summer. And then it +turned cold after the middle of November; it was necessary +to pull up the last turnips in the garden to save them +from the frost. What joyous walks one had during the +days when the first crust of ice resisted the sun! But +it was December now. The winter was driving down +as brutally as a wedge. Over the fields the crows flocked +together in vast protesting flocks. A heavy snow covered +the countryside. It was a beautiful soft mantle that +you trampled down in silence, carrying the feathers on +your boots and leaving behind you a long chain of footprints.</p> + +<p>Just one year, day for day, after he had taken that +young lunatic to the station, Henry had gone out for his +walk and stopped for a long time before some old +stumps, to count the concentric rings that marked their +age. He liked to know how old his friends the trees +were, even when they were no more. Was it there he +caught his cold, in spite of his overcoat? No one will +ever know. That same day, as the day before had been +the anniversary of John Brown’s death, he was talking +about the old man with two fellows who maintained +that he had no right to risk his life. But how about +Jesus then? Would he have hesitated if he had foreseen +Calvary? That is what people always say when a man +has made such a simple sacrifice of his life.... But this +evil cough persisted. Henry had certainly made a +mistake in paying no attention to his bronchitis and +<span class="pagenum" id="page_330">330</span>going off to deliver a promised lecture in the neighbourhood. +He was taking some care of himself, but without +any great results. There was nothing to do but to let +the illness wear itself out. He had had bad times before +and pulled through.</p> + +<p>Henry had never been a colossus. In his youth he had +had to interrupt his studies at Harvard for a year because +of his health; since then it had been toughened by the +open air of his great farm but it had always been liable +to relapses. A serious attack of bronchitis had kept him +for weeks at home when he was twenty-four. Then, at +the time of the hermitage, he had received a kick from a +horse which stretched him on the earth, and he had felt +the effects of this in his chest for years. His frame had +held out well, however, and whenever he needed to be +repaired, well, the cabinet-maker had plenty of odds and +ends of wood in a corner of his workshop.</p> + +<p>Even as an invalid, kept in the house, he was able to +profit by his days and find a good flavour in life. But +now and then, especially at the hour when he ought to +be setting out for his walk, it was all he could do to +resist a flood of black thoughts as he dreamed of the +daily appointments he was missing again. At such +moments as these, sunk in a chair or flattening his nose +against the window, he was a very sad little soul whose +life had been turned into prose and who, in a fit of +depression, could easily understand how, in some circumstances, +Tom, Dick or Harry would commit suicide. +When that accursed frame won’t go any more, what are +we good for, great gods! He would have liked to pull +down the blinds so that the daylight could not offend +him any more with its sneering remarks and slumber +away the hours waiting for the end like a mortally +wounded animal that has resigned itself. But these +moments quickly passed, for if the daylight defied him, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_331">331</span>his guest, the imagination, marched in and defied the +daylight in turn; it had plenty of ways of making game +of that blockhead. And then he had sometimes undergone +those phases when, though he was not actually +ill and was even out for adventure, nothing spoke to +him in the spectacle that had always had such a powerful +attraction for his senses; the dulled body remained cold +and refused to touch the offered nourishment. Inspiration +deserted him, as if his friend found the lodging +decidedly too narrow, as if this frame were too puny for +him to hang his pictures there.</p> + +<p>As he approached his fortieth year this discord had +taken the proportions of a long-standing quarrel. Since +the spring of 1855, Henry had been feeling rather limp +without knowing exactly why. A great languor spread +through him, condemning him to inactivity as he awaited +the end of the crisis. Spoiled were the beautiful plans +he had cherished for this summer, a new trip to the +Maine woods. He was good for nothing but to drag +his reluctant carcass along under the elms of the village, +like an invalid. The excursion he had determined to +attempt, in July, to Cape Cod, had not remedied this +strange weakness to any great extent; he had his ups +and downs but always the same debility in the end. +Autumn wandered by. And then, towards the end of +the year, the strength came back to his legs and the +spirit returned to the soul of a powerless wretch; perhaps +the arrival of the magnificent Oriental books sent by his +friend “Cholmley” had something to do with it. So he +could go out this winter and not lose all his pleasure. +When the first fine days came, Henry could not pretend +that he was absolutely fit for a long excursion, but there +was no doubt that spring had come back to his limbs as +well as to the world, and he was seized with a sudden +hunger for the open, for work, for adventures, the more +<span class="pagenum" id="page_332">332</span>he felt his strength returning—excursions, visits, the +trip to New York, with those two hours spent in Brooklyn +face to face with that mass of ruddy health. And +this continued the following summer, when he went off +to revisit the beaches of the Cape and Upper Maine; +didn’t he have to give himself a thorough cleansing for +those seasons when he had been shut up? His fortieth +year had just struck. And this year can give a good +sound if the bell is not cracked. Yes, even if one’s +oldest friendship is broken, like a branch that has had to +bear too much snow.</p> + +<p>You too no doubt have gone off on these adventurous +excursions, when you were young, set out for discovery +and slept out of doors with one, two, three companions. +But the cooling of the years has relaxed your ardour, and +the comrades of yesterday are too busy to fritter away +their precious time; you only make journeys now by +your own fireside, or by train, very comfortably, and +you put up at the best hotel with your wife. You have +become sedate and sober, sparing of your legs and your +enthusiasm. Your beautiful youth has been left behind +you, loitering in some glade. But this fellow has too +generous a heart to leave such a charming companion +on the road; he still wants to go off on a jaunt with +him, even if he himself is past forty. This is just the age +when his presence is most dear. So he carries him off +for a fortnight, in July, 1858, to the White Mountains +in New Hampshire, which he has not seen since the +famous week when he went off boating with his brother.</p> + +<p>But to tell the truth, this was not at all the same +story. The suggestion of the journey came from Edward +Hoar, the companion of his last expedition to Maine; +and with his friend Edward he had to travel in a hired +wagon like a pasha, stop at inns where he was devoured +by flies and put up at tiresome hotels, crowded with +<span class="pagenum" id="page_333">333</span>people he would much rather not have seen. The real +moment came when, leaving the wagon behind, they +set out with their knapsacks on their backs to explore a +wild ravine on Mount Washington. But then, in leaping +over the rocks, Henry sprained his ankle and was +obliged to rest for several days under the tent in the +bottom of the ravine before he was able to take the trail +again. On returning from this expedition, the companions +who had joined them and who had worn their +good clothes looked as ragged as runaway thieves while +Henry, who had set out with old clothes suitable for +the road and the season, looked almost dressed up beside +them; and yet it was he, prudent soul, who provided the +needle and thread to repair their rips. He had more +liberty and pleasure on his excursion with William, the +following summer, to Monadnoc. Not that William +was always charmed with his old crony who upbraided +him when William, tired to death, felt his head buzzing +and wanted to stop. So much the worse for him: he +should have known what to expect when he started out +for discovery with the intrepid Henry. You don’t go +to Monadnoc to have the fidgets. But they had camped +five nights on the summit under a fragrant shelter of +spruce branches; Henry had brought his hatchet with +him. Then the whole world vanished out of their +minds, including the hotels with their orchestras and +dancing. They were alone with the mountain, which +did not offer the same welcome to strangers as to intimates. +William could growl as much as he pleased +because he did not have all his precious comforts, but +Henry was rich enough in enthusiasm to sow the whole +mountain-top with it.</p> + +<p>Scarcely had the son regained his old strength when +another invalid took his place in a chair at home; it was +the father’s turn not to feel quite himself. Past seventy +<span class="pagenum" id="page_334">334</span>now, he had begun to cough, like his own father, and +he fell into a rapid decline, so rapid that since the middle +of the winter of 1859 there remained no great hope of +saving this good father Thoreau who, in spite of all, +after the bad luck that had pursued him at the outset, +had succeeded with his pencils in sketching for his +family a kind of existence that was not too unprosperous. +With this excellent father, who was so self-effacing +and who read his newspaper so devotedly and did not +contain an ounce of anything that remotely resembled +pride and revolt, his boy may never have had very much +in common so far as aspirations were concerned, but +he loved him dearly. And now, seeing him old and ill +and more silent than ever, less and less able to attend to +his business and his garden, he could not do enough for +him. His mother was touched by this; well as she knew +the fund of tenderness that was buried in the heart of her +son—deep enough down to be protected from the +frost—she was continually surprised to see him expressing +it to the old man with all the little shades she would +have thought peculiarly feminine. Then, at the beginning +of February, fully conscious, after saying good-bye +to his family (he had only been in bed for a week, and on +Sunday he had been up again for a little while), as +modestly as he had lived the little man quietly went +out—as a candle of good wax bids you farewell, after +shining for its hour, with no glitter that fatigues the +eyes, leaving behind it only a fragment of sunken wick. +So the circle in the little house, where once there had +been half a dozen, was now reduced to a mother of +seventy-two, who had also had her troubles, and her +son and daughter—for the aunts did not live under the +same roof.</p> + +<p>Since the last months of his father’s illness, the weight +of the business that kept the family alive had fallen on +<span class="pagenum" id="page_335">335</span>Henry. He assumed it without any discussion, since +from now on they had only one man in the family to +count upon. An annual income of $1200 to $1500 was +not to be found in a blackbird’s nest. Sophia, his sister, +took charge of the book-keeping and the correspondence, +but he had the work of overseeing the mill at Acton, +where Warren Miles did the grinding for the Thoreau +concern, together with the packing and boxing in the +workshop adjoining the house. The plumbago was +ground so fine at the mill that, in spite of every care, it +leaked from the workshop into the house, where they +breathed it in every room; you might not have noticed it +perhaps, but your lungs, like a miller’s, had to get used +to it and put up with it. Perhaps too the manual labour +amounted to less than it had been in the days of the +pencil-making, but Henry had to devote himself to the +routine of the business and be on hand. And so during +the whole year when his father died he was scarcely +able to go out; to steal a moment, to escape and go +huckleberrying was a rare victory. And this caused him +even more suffering than the plumbago caused his lungs. +With his always absorbing personal occupations, the +tasks in the workshop composed a very full existence. +Never had the days appeared so short, so precious. His +friends must not insist upon his writing to them often.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So Henry carried into the new year this infernal +cough that would not hear of the desires of a rambler +who wanted to breathe the fragrance of winter in his +own haunts, on the Cliffs skirting the meadows where +the flocks of crows were lighting. But why worry? +With the fine days all the good things would return. +His spirits remained, shut up as he was, his spirits and +his taste for a good, solid book that warmed his heart. +There was nothing to do, in his confinement, but to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_336">336</span>recall, by noting it in his Journal, with what skill, what +astounding celerity, the squirrel attacks a pine-cone, +crunching the seeds, holding it between his paws upside +down, turning it over like a top as he tears off the scales +where they are soft and nibbles at their base: the vivid +recollection was enough for one who kept coughing to +make him feel once more that he had the soul of a wood-sprite.</p> + +<p>The winter came quickly to a close. The prisoner +profited by every afternoon when the air was less harsh +to make an expedition to the post-office. Great was his +desire to go and tell his friends and acquaintances in the +swamps that a cheerful soul who was doing penance for +sins of which he was unaware had not forgotten them, +in spite of appearances, and was only waiting for the +sky to brighten to resume his walks. At the end of +February the bluebirds were already spreading the good +news along the roads. He had heard them, one fine day, +on his way to old Minot’s who was now quite alone +with his eighty years in the little house on the hillside, +for his old companion, his sister Mary, had just died of +pneumonia. But Henry could not walk far without +having to sit down on the first stump he came to. He +had difficulty now in keeping warm. At the end of +March the snow fell in such abundance that the trains +could not run any more; and it had driven so since +yesterday that this morning one side of the houses was +covered with a white mattress that choked the windows; +the people were almost prisoners behind their +own doors. Just the time, when he couldn’t think of +stepping outside, to finish that letter to Ricketson +he had begun: let his thought at least escape to New +Bedford and the fishing-boats, since it was utterly impossible +for him to put on his best pair of boots and go +and spend a Sunday with his friends. The other day, +<span class="pagenum" id="page_337">337</span>Blake, with a companion, arrived in Concord, where +they spent the night; they had walked from Worcester +and went back the same way, the lucky devils....</p> + +<p>William dropped in to see the prisoner and would have +liked so much to be able to pull him through this tight +place. Since his strength was not coming back, in spite +of all the little strolls they took together, stopping constantly +(it was no longer the intrepid Henry who dragged +William on), why not try a change of air, a long journey? +William had lived in the West and extolled its tonic +quality; this would be a thousand times better than the +climate of the West Indies which the doctor recommended. +They could set out together for two or three +months. You’ll see, Henry, what a gay blade you will +be when you come back.</p> + +<p>Henry agreed, not that he had any particular desire +for such a grand tour as that, but because he had a very +particular desire to be a man again, to lose that perpetual +cough, lose it far, far away, so that it would never find +its way back. Let’s go. Then, at the last moment—from +caprice or lack of money—William changed his +mind; and Henry, who now wanted to go, had to find +another travelling companion. A son of Horace Mann, +who was also called Horace Mann and had dedicated +himself to the natural sciences, offered to join him. He +was a very sober young fellow and not much of a talker; +he didn’t have a particle of that liveliness of William’s +which would have been such a great resource in stirring +up a tottering companion.</p> + +<p>The itinerary was drawn up and the date of departure +fixed for the middle of May. They were going to make +several stops <i lang="fr">en route</i>, for the veteran walker no longer +felt that he had the strength to accomplish in one stage +such a journey as this to Saint Paul in Minnesota, the +land of wheat. The two travellers set out, reached +<span class="pagenum" id="page_338">338</span>Niagara, the first stage, then Detroit, Chicago, and +finally East Dubuque on the Mississippi, which they +ascended by boat for two days between the high bluffs +of the river to Saint Paul, where they found one of the +Thatcher cousins from Bangor. This was the main +stopping-place. They stayed there three weeks, in the +course of which Henry went on an expedition with a +naturalist he had met; he made a new acquaintance, the +prairie squirrel, an odd little customer with his cope of +six light and dark stripes, feet like a marmot’s and an +air that was anything but shy, sitting bolt upright before +his burrow. Then they embarked on the Mississippi +as far as Redwood, where there was a Sioux Agency; +there were also said to be buffalo in these regions, but +they failed to catch a glimpse of one. It was the annual +pay-day, and the Indians had come in on their ponies; +they offered the travellers a performance of dancing and +music and feasted on an ox. Not bad; but all this was a +little stagey and not worth an hour of Joe Polis’s company. +On the return, a stop of a few days at Red Wing +on the Mississippi; Henry wrote “Concord” on the +envelopes instead of decorating his letter-paper with +these two dear syllables. The ray no longer shone from +the centre; no, the ray turned back towards the centre. +And then, by railroad or boat, Prairie du Chien, Milwaukee, +Mackinaw, with another stop. It was July, +but it was rather cold, and a man who had become shivery +appreciated the chimney-corner in the hotel. At +last Toronto, the long sail across blue Ontario, the +Thousand Islands, the Saint Lawrence and, stop of +stops, old Concord at the end of the long, long railroad. +Henry was tired.</p> + +<p>It was very fine, assuredly, the Mississippi, the prairie, +and all those images he had seen filing past. All the +same, he had taken few notes on the way, and they were +<span class="pagenum" id="page_339">339</span>dry and often very trivial; the points of interest were +dispersed over such a vast distance and unrolled so +quickly that he had hardly had the time to absorb them. +And then his senses no longer took hold of things. This +journey had nothing in common with the other beautiful +journeys, when he had carried his belongings in a handkerchief +tied by the four corners; there was the wearisomeness +of the hotels and the cars, not to speak of those +vile medicines the invalid had taken along in his bag. +Henry’s hope in this air-cure had not been great when he +started; and in fact, he would have covered his two +thousand miles and spent his hundred and fifty dollars +for nothing if he had not had the joy of seeing at last +with his own eyes the aboriginal crab-apple, that tree +which refuses to be grafted, with its terribly acid fruit, of +which he had often dreamed and which was no longer +a myth now that he had touched its branches with his +hands and brought back a flower in his herbarium.</p> + +<p>The sad thing was that he had also brought back his +cough and his weakness. The change of air, the movement, +the distraction had roused him a little, invigorated +him in appearance, but at bottom it was still the same +story: Helplessness and Co. He was thinner than ever, +he who had so little flesh to lose, and remained incapable +of resuming his occupations. For a long time he had not +been able to walk like a real walker, dig with any vigour +in his garden, manage a boat on the river or even write +to any effect, till health seemed to him a human attribute +that was visible only in dreams.</p> + +<p>But he still wanted to make the most of the summer +and go and see that good Ricketson. Five days stolen +from the wretchedness of his monotonous existence, +five good days of intimacy, sea air and relived memories +were a conquest for a weak man who scarcely had the +strength to go to the post-office any longer. His friend +<span class="pagenum" id="page_340">340</span>took him out driving and carried him to a photographer +in New Bedford, who turned his camera on a full-bearded +Henry, just back from Minnesota, with a rather +wandering eye. Then Ricketson returned his visit, +spent three days at Concord, where they even went +bathing together once in Walden, the water of which +ought to have paid off an old debt of gratitude and +friendship by delivering from his cough the unfortunate +fellow who had so often placed on its banks the figure +of a lean but infernally tough young man.</p> + +<p>At Minneapolis Henry had seen some volunteers +drilling and a detachment of others leaving for the front. +For war, the call to arms was rising all about the sick +man, who remained sufficiently himself, however, to +keep clear of the collective madness. Insults to the +national flag, the election of Old Abe to the presidency, +the whole jingo phraseology was for him nothing but +newspaper talk, and he would not have given two cents +for a hundred yards of it; he did not read the papers any +more willingly, in spite of the upheaval, and the <i>Tribune</i> +was much less timely in his eyes than a book he was +reading at the moment: <i>Six Years in the Desert of North +America</i>. During the two months of his journey, he had +hardly looked at one of those sheets the people were +devouring. Abolition, yes, that was his cause; but who +knew whether the other interests involved in this war +had not brought greater weight to bear upon it than the +question of the four million men to be liberated? You +admire the regiments that march across Manhattan in +their brand-new uniforms—but how about that old +ironsides in his seedy trousers and his old slippers whom +they strung up on a gibbet? He did not call the newspapers +and Old Abe and the uniforms to his aid; he +simply made a gift of his own life to the cause, and that +was all.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_341">341</span></p> + +<p>But this was war, nevertheless, that immense, stupid +horror from which you couldn’t withdraw your mind. +How could a sick man get better in this atmosphere of a +people who were entirely absorbed in the business of +killing one another?</p> + +<p>As the struggle grew graver and graver, as the piles of +victims rose, the reality of the war penetrated him more +and more; even in the village, even for one who despised +the newspapers and the bulletins, it floated into the +house, like the plumbago powder. After Bull Run and +the panic, confusion and stupor, Concord was plunged +in the blackest gloom. Henry, who had just come back +from Minnesota, seemed full of interest and even enthusiasm. +A good defeat, there would be nothing like +it for putting these people into their right minds again: +all these hare-brained souls who have been assuring you +with a smile that it would be over in the turn of a hand, +that they would soon see the famous warriors of the +North coming back again leading by the nose the little +swaggering Southerners.... How this good drubbing +would wake them up!</p> + +<p>Then autumn came and this beastly bronchitis had +not gone; it seemed to have settled down to live with +him and, finding the house to its liking, refused to leave. +Henry was unwilling to try the experiment of another +climate a second time. And he hadn’t the hundredth of +an ounce of confidence in medicine and doctors.</p> + +<p>The only remedy was to make the most of these last +beautiful days. His walks were at an end; every five +yards he had to stop. Mr. Hoar, who was away, had +placed his horse and carriage at the sick man’s disposal, +and he made use of them almost every day. September +and October were very pleasant, and Henry drove out +in the carriage like a man of substance, escorted by Mr. +Hoar’s dog preceding his friend the horse. These +<span class="pagenum" id="page_342">342</span>drives brought back his appetite and a semblance of +strength. He made a trip to the causeway, his old +boulevard; he noticed there the curious hatchings which +the storm of the preceding night had made by whipping +the sand of the road. Often Sophia accompanied him, +and for her he did the honours of some of his favourite +haunts. Together they went and spent an hour at +Walden one inviting September afternoon; while his +sister sat down to make a sketch, Henry very gently +picked some wild grapes that were growing on the edge +of the pond. These wild grapes that he picked and ate, +for the last time perhaps before the great winter buried +everything, were not as sour as one might have supposed. +And this little trip of the brother and sister to +Walden, in the ripeness of September, had itself the +taste of grapes.</p> + +<p>Soon the cold spread over the earth, and the dampness: +it was no longer possible for such a fragile body to +brave the open air. Henry accepted this humiliation +which his body inflicted on him. This body, of which he +had demanded so much, would have no more of it and +turned a deaf ear. It had reached its limit.</p> + +<p>Too long had the master expected it to be a thing of +steel and obedient to him, as a sharp plane eats its way +jerkily into a piece of tough wood. He had always +treated it without consideration as a bond-servant that +had to march at his beck and call and be silent. Nothing +was too hard for this unhappy retainer: dragging immense +logs out of the river, clambering up trees, remaining +for hours buried in the snow or in the mud of a +swamp, climbing the steepest mountain-sides without +resting, sleeping out of doors in the thinnest of clothes, +enduring hunger without relaxing its muscular effort, +leaving behind it all the walkers, climbers, skaters and +surveyors in Christendom. It even seemed as if the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_343">343</span>master were wreaking his spite on it a little, as if the +overseer took a perverse pleasure in overstraining the +strength of his negro, without tolerating the slightest +complaint from him. He had trained him to make up +for the massive strength that his narrow frame rendered +impossible by an incomparable dexterity, by the strength +beyond strength that says “I will” and does it. The +drudge had never demurred: at most, on two or three +occasions, it had stopped for breath in spite of all gee-ups +and blows of the whip, like a cart-horse that comes to a +halt, determined not to take another step. But then its +whim would pass and the animal would set off again, +resigned to its tasks like the submissive old servant that +it was. Sometimes, as you saw it working itself to +death, you were stirred to an immense feeling of pity for +its lot. But who could make a tyrant like that listen to +reason!</p> + +<p>Now at last the body no longer wearied with reproaches +the master who had persecuted it with his +demands. It was foundering, it was leaving him, without +a complaint, without any bitterness at having had +so few holidays. You must get yourself out of your fix +as best you can, master, and good luck to you. It was +going away very quietly, young in years but spent with +fatigue, to the bourne of workers that can work no +more. And as it went, with little breathless steps, it +was going to pay the toll-gatherer a debt of its master. +John and Helen had paid it very early, that sum owed +by the line of Thoreaus in America, though the father, +never very brilliant in his business, had not settled it +till seventy years had passed. Sometimes Henry had +felt so happy that he had wondered if some day the +debt would not have to be settled for good and all. +Well, pay it, my servant, since the debt is due, and make +an end of it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_344">344</span></p> + +<p>What is the use of complaining when an old servant +leaves you, even if you are unable to replace him? +Henry did not lament over his failing body. As he had +endured without frowning the sunlight that had roasted +his bare arms and the cold that had nibbled his fingers +and toes, why not endure this lethargy with the same +equanimity? You never heard him speak of what he +had parted from and left down there without news of +himself, his friends the trees, the ponds, the little coves +of the river, his boat. All these things lay as if in a +corner, wrapped up in the silk of a great reserve. The +invalid slept now on the ground floor, in the parlour +opening on Main Street; through the open door he +could see in a corner of the dining-room the garden of +green plants that Sophia lovingly cared for. His good +friends would drop in for a little chat and bring him the +scents of the out-of-doors. Sometimes they read a deep +sadness in his emaciated features, for a child-man who +had gone out every day could not help feeling a little +dismal to be lolling here in a chair while others were +taking part in the play. His shoulders drooped more +and more, as if they were melting, his lean body wasted +away, his bony nose shrank, there was a little vagueness +in the big eyes. But Sanborn dropped in, or William, +or Alcott, and they gossiped as gaily as in old times—better +than ever now that gossiping had become the sole +form of activity and companionship that was permitted +him. An invalid does not speak of his illness, since it is +understood. One doesn’t keep repeating what is plain +enough; when it rains all day, are you one of those +people who are perpetually saying that the weather is +beastly? Just once, standing by the window, he said to +William: “I cannot see on the outside at all. We +thought ourselves great philosophers in those wet days +when he used to go and sit down by the wall-sides.” +<span class="pagenum" id="page_345">345</span>And as William, who had lost his walking companion, +was down in the dumps, the prisoner continued: “It is +better some things should end.” One didn’t feel grief in +Henry’s company. One left him with the impression +that life goes on and that a man can easily attach an +exaggerated importance to his own disappearance.</p> + +<p>And isn’t existence still beautiful when you can read, +write, dream? Once Henry would have thought that if +he had been deprived of his life in the open it would +not have been life any longer. What a mistake! See +how well you can get along without your body. Another +discovery. Go and take your holiday, my body, +if you can’t hold out any longer; I shall go on my way +alone. The mind can get along perfectly well without +its servant.</p> + +<p>Henry made haste to place some of his papers in order +and put one or two of his projects on foot; he worked +on his manuscripts whenever his strength permitted him +to do so. This was the heart of his life now, since he +could no longer cling to branches to reach a mountain-top. +He had not learned to indulge himself; on the +contrary, he was harder than ever on himself and more +punctilious. You have to dust every corner with the +greatest care when you don’t know what great personage +you are going to receive. Three years before the +<i>Atlantic Monthly</i> had published one of his essays and +mutilated it, and the author had instantly demanded the +rest of his manuscript back again, for he was unwilling +to leave it in the hands of such vandals. Now the +review, under a new editor, asked him to contribute +again. He could give them such pieces as <i>Walking</i> and +<i>Wild Apples</i>, in which he had put as much of himself as +words were able to contain. It was on these especially +that he was working. He also wanted to complete his +pages on the Maine Woods, of which the two first parts +<span class="pagenum" id="page_346">346</span>had already been published, so that they might form a +whole. If he could only leave behind him something +besides fragments, apart from those two still-born +books.... These were great plans for a man whose +strength was ebbing, but the will to carry them out as +well as he could gave a singular value to the rather +insipid scrap of life that was melting in his mouth like a +gumdrop.</p> + +<p>In the warmth of the rooms, sitting in his rocking-chair, +the prisoner dreamed—for his mind in the breakdown +of his body remained quite clear—dreamed, as he +watched the cat playing or the plants in the dining-room +that accepted their imprisonment with all that +greenness. He dreamed of many things, things behind +and things before him. Regrets, old Henry, under that +calm surface? Why? When forty years of a full life +have left you with this pleasant taste.... What better +taste could life leave in the mouth of one who is about to +quit it? The taste of a shop, of cosmetics, of rare roast +beef, of incense, of loving lips, of rum, of medicine, of an +old book, of a mother’s tenderness? For him, as he +thought it over, it had the taste of huckleberries. Regrets +would have been inconsistent with this feeling that he +had spent his existence well. To have preserved the +brightness of that marvellous gift. Not to have allowed +it to tarnish. Not to have let it grow mouldy. Not to +have spoilt it. To have remained an artist who, behind +his varied occupations, behind his apparent idleness, +behind his very savagery, had firmly practised an art, +trained himself in it, perfected it unceasingly. Was not +that worth the sacrifice of some of the little things to +which men seem to cling so desperately? One cannot +have everything, and as he reckoned it all up he did not +repent his choice. He saw especially what advantages +he had had. Certainly they were very appreciable. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_347">347</span>For instance, in remaining a bachelor, had he not escaped +the drudgery that usually falls to newly-married couples +in the country? He had not been a hog-reeve, charged +by the town with running after wandering pigs that go +about grubbing in the fields of honest farmers. But +during this time he had been able to run after a good +many other animals....</p> + +<p>Henry weighs the results of an experiment that is +finished and finds them of sterling quality. See, you can +turn them over in your hand; there is nothing unsubstantial +about them. To have remained poor. To have +left to others who care for such things the burden of +possessions in order to savour the free pleasure of the +world. Never to have been tempted to sacrifice for a +little ease the most succulent part of life, like those who +reach their end without knowing that they have lived. +Yes, to have been this fool who is handling now the +returns of wisdom: how does the reckoning strike you? +And not to be any the prouder because of it. Not even +to offer yourself as an example for other people’s children. +To have succeeded in not being for a moment one +of the people who count. Not even a failure. Absolutely +nothing at all, at the age of forty-five. No more +a man of letters than a shopkeeper. Simply H. D. T. +A man whose sole desire has been to live, who has +looked forward to nothing but the satisfaction of being +alive. To have dared to live against the grain of one’s +whole merchant line and to find oneself at the end so +comfortable. In short, <em>to have succeeded in one’s business</em>, +and with such a tiny capital.... Isn’t that luck, isn’t +it almost fantastic? Is it not as if, from the paradise of +merchants above, the sailor of Saint-Helier who made +his money in a shop on Long Wharf were sending you +his grand-paternal congratulations? (We accept them, +grandfather, you who are recalled to the memory of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_348">348</span>your descendants in this germ you have left them with +your blood.) There are some people who have no right +to die, because they have never lived; but Henry fancies +that he deserves it, really deserves this reward and this +proof.</p> + +<p>In a box within reach of the hand of the dreamer, a +box that he had carpentered himself, the silent notebooks +confirm him. There they are, thirty or forty irrefutable +witnesses. Whoever wishes to question them will hear +convincing words.</p> + +<p>They contain the biography of a man. Through the +jungle of their thousands and thousands of pages, paths +wander in every direction leading towards other perspectives +than a pond where you look at yourself. They +enclose all the wildness of the brush, the swamps, +meadows, running waters that a Saunterer can trace +again and again without coming to the end of them—with +vistas over the sea and over the hills and beyond. +From the country of the Rising Sun to the country of +the Setting Sun the whole space is filled with surprises +that will invite him to pause. He will find there fruits +to refresh him on the way—inspirations at many a +turning of the path—guide-posts leading him to precious +discoveries—if only the discovery of himself. And as +he walks along he will stoop down from time to time +to pick up an arrow-head, dropped there as if on purpose; +he will soon have a whole pile of flint-flakes in a +corner of his attic. This jungle is a present which the +mysterious Henry in his turn wishes to make, a surprise +for his own kindred. Of all he has received he has kept +nothing back. It was given him in trust, it seems. +Henry has never believed in private property; if he has +seemed to be collecting and treasuring things during his +lifetime, it has always been with this legacy in view, +always to enrich the common good.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_349">349</span></p> + +<p>Especially he owes something to his own parish. To +this little town with its church-tower which has regarded +him as a ne’er-do-well he will show how generous he +can be. It is a beautiful thing, a church-tower, so +beautiful that it hides the universe from many of the +village folk who creep confusedly in its shadow. It +would never occur to them to use it as an antenna, set +up there to catch communications from the larger +world. A church-tower is a beautiful tower that does +not merely sound at church-time. The tower has a +soul that speaks in its own language to the souls of men +and sings because it is beautiful to be a tower stirred by +the messenger winds. When this Concord with its +woods and waters and dewy fields grouped about the +tower vibrates and dances with joy at the great news +come from below the horizon and falling from the +tower, the spirit of the tower becomes the master-spirit +of time and space. The bell sounds for the world; it has +a sound that is caught from afar. Yes, the bell of the +parish ought to be of a rare metal when, in these notebooks +here, its vibration extends to the remotest village +where men dream in the shadow of their own church-towers: +it is as if it were the voice of their own wonder, +their own revolt and their own love of life....</p> + +<p>The dreamer does not weigh very much as he sits +there in his rocking-chair. But all this is so evident, so +plain, so full of comfort that even if he is torn by this +cough he can rock very happily in his chair and regard +himself with a certain detachment in his decay as if he +were contemplating a tree that has been stripped of its +leaves or as if he were someone else than himself.</p> + +<p>So the winter flows by for a man whose voice is dying, +is nothing now but a murmur (those rolling r’s of old +are only a memory now). To finish the year he has had +pleurisy, and he has scarcely been out since November. +<span class="pagenum" id="page_350">350</span>Even the post-office has faded away in the withdrawal +of the old world. What remains of Henry is buried in +his manuscripts. The spirit is bent upon proving that, +without this miserable servant who has given it the slip, +it can carry on just the same, for a man who has been +dogged so long does not so easily give up his old delight +in contradiction. As for living at this slackened pace, it +is, truth to tell, hardly worth the trouble; his only regret +is for those two women, for whom his departure is +perhaps going to make things rather difficult. But aside +from this, it doesn’t mean the end of the world because +a fellow named Henry is going away. You might as +well tell us that the lilacs and the bluebirds are not +coming back with the spring. Rubbish!... See, there +it is already. That comrade is quite capable of getting +along without an invalid who once would have run to +meet it, hailing it joyously from afar even before he had +seen it. And then, for a man who is stealing away at +forty-five with his fortune made, what a good thing it +is to be thus escaping extreme old age, when you grow +fat if you don’t ridiculously shrivel. Say what you like, +Henry has surely been a lucky dog all along the line.</p> + +<p>From behind the parlour window that comprises his +universe, he sees the children passing on their way to +school. Many of them are comrades who have indefeasible +rights over the heart of their old friend. When +they do not come in to greet him as they pass, he complains +that they are not exercising these rights, a custom +that is so sweet to him. Since he cannot go huckleberrying +with them any more, they should come and +tell their old friend what they are thinking of him in the +outskirts of Concord, among the little people whose +habits the children know. It is well known, however, +that behind this window lies a prisoner whose soul is +hungry for this love that is silent because it prefers to +<span class="pagenum" id="page_351">351</span>remain anonymous. It is known, for people stop in to +see him whose charitable words, alas, are so far from +being as precious as the simple presence of three little +scraps just out of school. To-day it is the Rev. Mr. +Reynolds, a neighbour, who is astonished to find a sick +man working so assiduously. “You know,” Henry +explains, “it’s respectable to leave an estate to one’s +friends.” The following day it is that blockhead who +thinks it is his duty to say to you by way of consolation: +“Well, Mr. Thoreau, we must all go.” To him this +departing soul replies: “When I was a very little boy, +I learned that I must die.... So of course I am not +disappointed now. Death is as near to you as it is to +me.” Or it is Sam, the old innkeeper, still jailor and tax-collector, +and on his way to becoming one of the bigwigs +of Concord, who does not find him greatly changed +since the night when he had him as a boarder; he is as +cool as ever and almost contemptuous in his calm +strength. This time it is not the poll-tax the collector +has come for but the ground-tax, and to-day he will not +meet with a “no.” The tax-payer knows perfectly +well what he owes, he has made his provisions. He has +even jotted down on a paper the names of friends to +whom he wishes to have one of his books or some +knick-knack given in memory of their mad Henry. To +William, the Chronicles of Froissart, to Eddy, Waldo’s +son, his microscope, and the shells to his sister Edith. +Good Aunt Louisa will receive the sum of $50, which +will please her. There will still be enough for the other +gifts. It is as if the purse of a poor dying man had a +double bottom. In the street an organ begins to grind +out an old air that suddenly calls up the fragrance of his +childhood, like a bouquet that has been placed suddenly +under his nose. His illness has not obliterated Henry’s +sense of smell. What neither suffering nor a breach of +<span class="pagenum" id="page_352">352</span>faith nor a misunderstanding has ever been able to do +this hackneyed air ground out by a street-organ accomplishes +in an instant. He is torn asunder. All the old +repressed tenderness, compelled to remain rigid for so +long, makes wild leaps in his heart that has such a short +time to beat, throws itself against the bars of its cage, +tries to escape, poor thing, get out into the free air, +before it is extinguished. Tears bead these eyes that +have so rarely wept, save under the lash of the winter +wind. “Give him some money! Give him some +money!”</p> + +<p>In a room where once it would have seemed pure +madness to think of living permanently, a prisoner ends +by discovering between four walls interests enough to +create a very good imitation of existence. Insomnia is +a nuisance, but he prefers it to the drugs that would +have brought him sleep. When he slips off, his slumber +is engarlanded with fantastic dreams, as if the doors of +an unknown world were opening to enchant him, in +compensation for all he has had to leave. When he was +in good health, he had often enough had dreams at +night, very strange ones, but now they load him with +favours, lavish attentions upon him, as if they could not +devise enough ways of amusing a prisoner. Kindly +sleep hangs in curious festoons about the bed of a sick +man who has at last dozed off. Now it is in his lungs +that the railroad labourers are digging a trench, placing +the ties and the rails; the train is going to pass; look out, +you man down there, following the track on foot; +don’t be afraid to flatten yourself against the bank. It +is Henry’s lung; you can observe its curious little caverns +and, if you keep a Journal, note them down. The +prisoner tells his dreams to the people who come to see +him, and that is one pleasure more. They remind him +of a dream he used to have as a boy in which at one moment +<span class="pagenum" id="page_353">353</span>he was rebounding from a surface as hard as rock +which hurt him frightfully and at the next was lying +cosily in a feather bed.</p> + +<p>Good dreams, coming so graciously to visit a condemned +man, good dreams not coming with moral +counsels but simply in friendship, with beautiful images +for one who has dreamed so often wide-awake, coming +when he is there all alone with his courage and his +helplessness before the certain issue. To receive them +more handsomely in his prosaic room, he asks Sophia +to arrange the furniture in such a way that in the light +of the night-lamp the shadows seen from his bed will +create on the wall a kind of phantasmagoria. He +would like to conform to the laws of this strange world +which is so comforting to the sick; he wishes that his +bed were in the form of a shell at the bottom of which +he could roll himself up like a voluta, roll himself tighter, +much tighter than a tired spaniel who curls up before the +fire after a long winter’s day of hunting. How much +more pleasant to touch than the sheets would be a +sheath of mother-of-pearl!</p> + +<p>The daylight, far from interrupting the phantasmagoria, +merely transforms it. Spring has come back, and as +Henry can no longer go out for the first flowers their +fragrance comes to him. Just now some cultivated +flowers are addressing him in the name of the whole +floral circle. They are the offering of the gardens of +Concord to a gardener who cannot wield the spade. It +is not merely his intimate friends who stop in and bring +them; village people whom Henry does not know at all +send him bouquets, sweetmeats and even game, which +might tempt a man who hasn’t much of an appetite. +People whom, when he was well, he would have dumped +into the same sack and powdered with the salt of his +sarcasms return the sarcasms in advance changed into +<span class="pagenum" id="page_354">354</span>flowers and delicacies. Henry is stirred as he had been +by the organ-grinder’s tune. Isn’t this bunch of hyacinths +an almost terrible pleasure for a man who is so +soon to disappear and finds so many friends who cannot +be kind enough to him? One reason more for going; it +is a simple matter of decency. “I should be ashamed to +stay in this world after so much has been done to me ...” +is the simple utterance of a stricken heart which even +now would bolt all its locks if certain sacred words that +are forbidden were pronounced before it. And there are +all the things of which he knows nothing.... Can he +guess that in Michigan a workman who does not know +him at all except through his writings is making a beautiful +walking-stick for him out of a rare wood, with a +silver head and an inscription, and that another man in +Indiana.... But no, enough, enough; this would send +him under the earth at once. A wave of indulgence has +spread into the room with the spring and the flowers. +He must pardon a dear aunt who does not understand +the language of flowers when she asks him, with a very +confidential air that is full of responsibility, if he has +made his peace with God, and reply that this is impossible, +dear aunt, since he has never quarreled with that +illustrious personage of antiquity. He must pardon +even that pious soul who speaks to him of another +world as familiarly as if he had been there, replying +mildly: “My friend, one world at a time....” He +who is about to dive into the black pond thinks rather +of the loon that dived in Walden, and like the latter he +has a mind to fling a mighty laugh of defiance into the +face of this honest soul.</p> + +<p>From time to time Sophia writes a letter to his friends +at her brother’s dictation, and she reads to him the +letters that arrive—from unknown persons sometimes. +He must not leave unanswered the letter from that +<span class="pagenum" id="page_355">355</span>young man in Leedsville who has written such charming +things about the <i>Week on the Concord</i>. Just a word to +thank him and tell him that he is getting along well +enough, even if he has only a few months before him. +When he does not feel too feeble, Henry continues to +read, jots down a few notes, brushes up his manuscripts. +The illness that consumes him progresses steadily, +though he keeps his old calm. The explorer of Upper +Maine was never cooler on the rapids when he was +steering Joe’s canoe. The eye and the hand have not +abandoned the direction on the current that is bearing +him on at this moment; if he capsizes, it will be because +the river is obstructed by a whirlpool from one bank to +the other. Most of the time he is silent, like a good +pilot who does not wish to have his attention distracted. +But there is nothing morose in this silence; it is a sort of +self-communion, and so natural. His voice has become +so feeble, so feeble, that it cannot express very much. +And his mournful whisper might even becloud the end +of such a beautiful day.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Since seven o’clock in the morning, this Tuesday, the +sixth of May, 1862, a dying man has been turning and +turning, as if to free himself.... Tender hands have +had to lift him on his pillow.... One last time, just +after eight o’clock, an old mother, a sister, a good aunt, +gathered about the little cot, raise the narrow frame of a +man who makes a sign for them to lift him still higher, +upright, supporting with the pillows his last more and +more feeble breaths ... listening, as they bend over, to +the vague murmur of words in which pass “moose” ... +“Indian” ... and the Wanderer is at the end of his +journey. Or perhaps he has departed for some faraway +hunt in the footsteps of the Indian, in the Happy Hunting +Ground....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="page_356">356</span></p> + +<p>Three days later, a coffin passes, covered with wild +May flowers, on the way to the church. If it contained +Henry, it would almost have realized his wish to live in +one of those tool-chests of the Irishmen who worked on +the railroad. But it is so light that it can hardly contain +the body of a man—unless it is his chrysalis.... Perhaps +on this splendid May morning, another Henry has +emerged who has not needed to go out into the air, to +raise the lid of the coffin, because he has practised so +many of the tricks and fathomed the art of metamorphosis. +Another Henry than the one who is there, as +they say, under the flowers that his friends have brought—Henry +as he was ten years ago, but quite new, though +he wears his old corduroy trousers.</p> + +<p>For one chap who knows him better than all the +people in the procession has seen him, mingling with +those who are looking on, seen him chuckling because +they are carrying this body to the church. (Though, +after all, if it gives them pleasure ... it is all the same +thing to a chrysalis. Those who once had the best of +Henry by paying the tax for him can have the best of +him still. And besides, Waldo, who was a churchman, +thinks so much of these things....) But why the +devil didn’t they make the coffin of good, dry driftwood? +Isn’t a man worth as much as all the sacred +books of the East? Floating in a wooden shell, a vagabond +might have gone on voyaging so comfortably.... +The dull souls! Then the same fellow has seen him +resuming his grave air as he listens to the fine words +pronounced over the coffin and filtering through the +field flowers strewn over it. And when the coffin finally +comes out of the church, he has seen him resolutely +follow it, as if it were journeying towards a familiar +spot and one where he also wished to go.</p> + +<p>About the grave it is not the spring daylight nor the +<span class="pagenum" id="page_357">357</span>company nor the sad faces of these women that seem +to stir this other brand-new Henry. What attracts him is +this open earth, exposed by a fellow-digger. This +beautiful earth. This good earth. It beckons to him. +It surely has something to confide to him.</p> + +<p>He wants to lie down in the earth, deep in the earth, +so that it may clasp him and whisper in his ear its old +secret. This must be something astonishing.</p> + +<p>He is sure now that the earth alone can speak to him +the words he has been waiting for. The earth alone +can feel the fervour with which he thinks of the beautiful +life that might open like this gaping soil—of the great +rambles he would take, with a miraculous knapsack on +his back, drunk with adventure—of the page that he +would write on his return, a page too rich for any magazine +to publish it—of the friends from whom no misunderstanding +would ever, ever, separate him any more +(friendship, friendship, he would taste it now, for the +husk would be off at last!)—of the joy of unbosoming +himself fully—and of all the men whom he has loved +from afar without ever letting them know and who +would know at last, at last....</p> + +<p>How beautiful it would all be! So beautiful that no +notebook would ever be able to contain it, so beautiful +that he would have to fling himself into this trench and +carry it with him like a warm thought under the earth.</p> + +<div class="transnote"> +Transcriber’s note: this ebook’s cover image was made by the transcriber and is +placed in the public domain. +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78810 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78810-h/images/cover.jpg b/78810-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d92e3a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78810-h/images/cover.jpg |
