Chapter 5

Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of the icy glance was clean-shaved at last, and the mother who bore him would not have known him as he looked in the glass when it was done. He chucked Poll a diamond worth about a million piastres, and, remarking that he would not trouble him for the change, he walked out. By this characteristic swagger, of course, he more than confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, the celebrated foreigner the Count of Monte Cristo; whose name and history even _you_ must be acquainted with, though you may not be what I have heard my friend Chevy Slime call himself, “the most literary man alive.” A desperate follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a martyr to the cause in the Château d’If, Monte Cristo has not deserted it now that he has come into his own—or anybody else’s.

Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down Kingsgate Street and took a four-wheeler that was loitering at the corner. I followed on foot, escaping the notice of the police from the fact, made only too natural by Fortune’s cursed spite, that under the toga-like simplicity of Montague Tigg’s costume these minions merely guessed at a cab-tout.

Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the four-wheeler (it was dark now) at the Travellers’, throwing the cabman a purse—of sequins, no doubt. At the door of the Travellers’ he entered a brougham; and, driving to the French Embassy in Albert Gate, he alighted, _in different togs_, quite the swell, and _let himself in with his own latch-key_.

In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers’ shops, this prisoner of the Château d’If, this climber of Corsican eyries, is to-day the French Minister accredited to the Court of St. James’s!

And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land lies, the Promised Land, the land where there is corn and milk and honey-dew. I hold those eminent and highly romantic parties in the hollow of my hand. A letter from me to M. Lecoq, of the Rue Jerusalem, and their little game is up, their eagle moults, the history of Europe is altered. But what good would all that do Montague Tigg? Will it so much as put that delightful coin, a golden sovereign, in the pocket of his nether garments? No, Tigg is no informer; a man who has charged at the head of his regiment on the coast of Africa is no vulgar spy. There is more to be got by making the Count pay through the nose, as we say; _chanter_, as the French say; “sing a song of sixpence”—to a golden tune.

But, as Fortune now uses me, I cannot personally approach his Excellency. Powdered menials would urge me from his portals. An advance, a small advance—say 30_l._—is needed for preliminary expenses: for the charges of the clothier, the bootmaker, the hosier, the barber. Give me 30_l._ for the restoration of Tigg to the semblance of the Montagues, and with that sum I conquer millions. The diamonds of Monte Cristo, the ingots, the rubies, the golden crowns with the image and superscription of Pope Alexander VI.—all are mine: I mean are ours.

More, David; more, my premium tulip: we shall make the Count a richer man than ever he has been. We shall promote new companies, we shall put him on the board of directors. I see the prospectuses from afar.

UNIVERSAL INTERNATIONAL TREASURE RECOVERY COMPANY.

_Chairman_.

His Excellency the COMTE DE MONTE CRISTO. K.G., K.C.B., Knight of the Black Eagle.

_Directors_.

CHEVY SLIME, Esq., Berkeley Square.

MONTAGUE TIGG, Esq., Park Lane.

M. VAUTRIN (Les Bagnes près de Toulon).

M. JEAN VALJEAN.

The CHEVALIER STRONG. (Would he come in?)

_Hon. Secretary_.—DAVID CRIMP, Esq.

Archæological Adviser.—Dr. SPIEGELMANN, Berlin.

Then the prospectus! Treasure-hunting too long left to individual and uneducated enterprise. Need of organised and instructed effort. Examples of treasure easily to be had. Grave of Alaric. Golden chain of Cuzco. Galleons of Vigo Bay. Loot of Delphi. Straits of Salamis. Advice of most distinguished foreign experts already secured. Paid-up capital, a 6 and as many 0’s as the resources of the printing establishment can command. The public will rush in by the myriad. And I am also sketching a

‘Disinterested Association for Securing the Rights of Foundlings,’ again with Monte Cristo in the chair. David, you have saved a few pounds; in the confidence of unofficial moments you have confessed as much (though not exactly _how_ much) to me. Will you neglect one of those opportunities which only genius can discover, but which the humble capitalist can help to fructify? With thirty, nay, with twenty pounds, I can master this millionaire and tame this Earthly Providence. Behind us lies penury and squalor, before us glitters jewelled opulence. You will be at 1542 Park Lane to-morrow _with the dibs_?—Yours expectantly,

MONTAGUE TIGG.

* * * * *

_From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg_, _Esq._

The Golden Balls, May 28.

DEAR MR. TIGG,—You always _were_ full of your chaff, but you must have been drinking when you wrote all that cock-and-a-bull gammon. Thirty pounds! No; nor fifteen; nor as many pence. I never heard of the party you mention by the name of the Count of Monte Cristo; and as for the Prince, he’s as likely to be setting out for Boulogne with an eagle as you are to start a monkey and a barrel-organ in Jericho; or may be _that’s_ the likeliest of the two. So stow your gammon, and spare your stamps, is my last word.—Yours respectfully to command,

D. CRIMP.

XIII.

_From Christian to Piscator_.

Walton and Bunyan were men who should have known each other. It is a pleasant fancy, to me, that they may have met on the banks of Ouse, while John was meditating a sermon, and Izaak was “attentive of his trembling quill.”

SIR,—Being now come into the Land of Beulah; here, whence I cannot so much as see Doubting Castle; here, where I am solaced with the sound of voices from the City,—my mind, that is now more at peace about mine own salvation, misgives me sore about thine. Thou wilt remember me, perchance, for him that met thee by a stream of the Delectable Mountains, and took thee to be a man fleeing from the City of Destruction. For, beholding thee from afar, methought that thou didst carry a burden on thy back, even as myself before my deliverance did bear the burden of my sins and fears. Yet when I drew near I perceived that it was but a fisherman’s basket on thy back, and that thou didst rather seek to add to the weight of thy burden than to lighten it or fling it away. But, when we fell into discourse, I marvelled much how thou camest so far upon the way, even among the sheep and the shepherds of that country. For I found that thou hadst little experience in conflict with Apollyon, and that thou hadst never passed through the Slough of Despond nor wandered in the Valley of the Shadow. Nay, thou hadst never so much as been distressed in thy mind with great fear, nor hadst thou fled from thy wife and children, to save, if it might be, thy soul for thyself, as I have done. Nay, rather thou didst parley with the shepherds as one that loved their life; and I remember, even now, that sweet carnal song

The Shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.

These are not the songs that fit the Delectable Country; nay, rather they are the mirth of wantons. Yet didst thou take pleasure in them; and therefore I make bold to ask how didst thou flee at all from the City of Destruction, and come so far upon thy way? Beware lest, when thou winnest to that brook wherein no man casts angle, even to that flood where there is no bridge to go over and the River is very deep—beware, I say, of one Vain Hope, the Ferryman! For I would not have thee lost, because thou art a kindly man and a simple. Yet for Ignorance there is an ill way, even from the very gates of the City.—Thy fellow-traveller,

CHRISTIAN.

* * * * *

_From Piscator to Christian_.

SIR,—I do indeed remember thee; and I trust thou art amended of these gripings which caused thee to groan and moan, even by the pleasant streams from the hills of the Delectable Mountains. And as for my “burden” ’twas pleasant to me to bear it; for, like not the least of the Apostles, I am a fisher, and I carried trout. But I take no shame in that I am an angler; for angling is somewhat like poetry; men are to be born so, and I would not be otherwise than my Maker designed to have me. Of the antiquity of angling I could say much; but I misdoubt me that thou dost not heed the learning of ancient times, but art a contemner of good learning and virtuous recreations. Yet it may a little move thee that in the Book of Job mention is made of fish-hooks, and without reproof; for let me tell you that in the Scriptures angling is always taken in the best sense.

Touching my flight from the City of Destruction, I love that place no more than thou dost; yet I fear not its evil communications, nor would I so hastily desert it as to leave my wife and children behind therein. Nor have I any experience of conflict with the Evil One; wherefore I thank Him that hath set me in pleasant fields, by clear waters, where come no wicked whispers (be they from Apollyon or from our own hearts); but there is calmness of spirit, and a world of blessings attending upon it. And hence can no man see the towers of Doubting Castle, for the green trees and the hedges white with May. This life is not wholly vile, as some of thy friends declare (Thou, who makest thy pilgrims dance to the lute, knowest better); and, for myself, I own that I love such mirth as does not make men ashamed to look upon each other next morning. Let him that bears a heavy heart for his ill-deeds turn him to better, but not mourn as though the sun were taken out of the sky. What says the song?—nay, ’tis as good balm for the soul as many a hymn:

A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad one tires in a mile-a!

He that made the world made man to take delight in it; even as thou saw’st me joyful with the shepherds—ay, with godly Mr. Richard Hooker, “he being then tending his small allotment of sheep in a common field,” as I recount in a brief life of a good man. As to what awaits me on the other side of that River, I do expect it with a peaceful heart, and in humble hope that a man may reach the City with a cheerful countenance, no less than through groans and sighs and fears. For we have not a tyrant over us, but a Father, that loveth a cheerful liver no less than a cheerful giver. Nevertheless, I thank thee for thy kind thought of one that is not of thy company, nor no Nonconformist, but a peaceful Protestant. And, lest thou be troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil spirits, read that comfortable sermon of Mr. Hooker’s to weak believers, on the _Certainty of Adherence_, though they want the inward testimony of it.

But now falls there a sweet shower, “a singing shower” saith old George Chapman, and methinks I shall have sport; for I do note that the mayfly is up; and, seeing all these beautiful creatures playing in the air and water, I feel my own heart play within me; and I must out and dape under yonder sycamore tree. Wherefore, prithee, pardon me a longer discourse as at this time.—Thy friend,

PISCATOR.

XIV.

_From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte_.

WILLIAM NYE’S EXPERIMENT.

Angel’s.

DEAR BRET HARTE, I’m in tears, And the camp’s in the dust, For with anguish it hears As poor William may bust, And the last of the Nyes is in danger of sleeping the sleep of the just.

No revolver it was Interfered with his health, The convivial glass Did not harm him by stealth; It was nary! He fell by a scheme which he thought would accumulate wealth!

For a Moqui came round To the camp—Injun Joe; And the dollars was found In his pockets to flow; For he played off some tricks with live snakes, as was reckoned a competent show.

They was rattlers; a pair In his teeth he would hold, And another he’d wear Like a scarf to enfold His neck, with them dangerous critters as safe as the saint was of old.

Sez William, “That same Is as easy as wink. I am fly to his game; For them rattlers, I think, Has had all their incisors extracted. They’re harmless as suthin’ to drink.”

So he betted his pile He could handle them snakes; And he tried, with a smile, And a rattler he takes, Feeling safe as they’d somehow been doctored; but bless you, that sarpent awakes!

Waken snakes! and they _did_ And they rattled like mad; For it was not a “kid,” But some medicine he had, Injun Joe, for persuadin’ the critters but William’s bit powerful bad.

So they’ve put him outside Of a bottle of Rye, And they’ve set him to ride A mustang as kin shy, To keep up his poor circulation; and that’s the last chance for Bill Nye.

But a near thing it is, And the camp’s in the dust. He’s a pard as we’d miss If poor Bill was to bust— If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin the peaceable sleep of the just.

XV.

_From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr. Casaubon_.

The delicacy of the domestic matters with which the following correspondence deals cannot be exaggerated. It seems that Belinda (whose Memoirs we owe to Miss Rhoda Broughton) was at Oxford while Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon were also resident near that pleasant city, so famed for its Bodleian Library. Professor Forth and Mr. Casaubon were friends, as may be guessed; their congenial characters, their kindred studies, Etruscology and Mythology, combined to ally them. Their wives were not wholly absorbed in their learned pursuits, and if Mr. Ladislaw was dangling after Mrs. Casaubon, we know that Mr. Rivers used to haunt with Mrs. Forth the walks of Magdalen. The regret and disapproval which Mrs. Casaubon expresses, and her desire to do good to Mrs. Forth, are, it is believed, not alien to her devoted and exemplary character.

Bradmore-road, Oxford, May 29.

DEAR MR. CASAUBON,—In the course of an investigation which my researches into the character of the Etruscan “Involuti” have necessitated, I frequently encounter the root _Kâd_, _k2âd_, or _Qâd_. Schnitzler’s recent and epoch-making discovery that _d_ in Etruscan = _b2_, has led me to consider it a plausible hypothesis that we may convert _Kâd_ or _Qâd_ into _Kab2_, in which case it is by no means beyond the range of a cautious conjecture that the Involuti are identical with the _Cab-iri_ (Cabiri). Though you will pardon me for confessing, what you already know, that I am not in all points an adherent to your ideas concerning a “Key to All Mythologies” (at least, as briefly set forth by you in Kuhn’s _Zeitung_), yet I am deeply impressed with this apparent opportunity of bridging the seemingly impassable gulf between Etrurian Religion and the comparatively clear and comprehensible systems of the Pelasgo-Phoenician peoples. That Kâd or Kâb can refer either (as in _Quatuor_) to a four-footed animal (quadruped, “quad”) or to a four-wheeled vehicle (_esseda_, Celtic _cab_) I cannot for a moment believe, though I understand that this theory has the support of Schrader, Penka, and Baunder. {125} Any information which your learning can procure, and your kind courtesy can supply, will be warmly welcomed and duly acknowledged.—Believe me, faithfully yours,

JAMES FORTH.

P.S.—I open this note, which was written from my dictation by my secretary, Mrs. Forth, to assure myself that her inexperience has been guilty of no error in matters of so much delicacy and importance. I have detected no mistake of moment, and begin to hope that the important step of matrimony to which I was guided by your example may not have been a rash experiment.

* * * * *

_From the Rev. Mr. Casaubon to James Forth_, _Esq._, _Professor of Etruscan_, _Oxford_.

DEAR MR. FORTH,—Your letter throws considerable light on a topic which has long engaged my earnest attention. To my thinking, the _Cab_ in _Cabiri_ = CAV, “hollow,” as in _cavus_, and refers to the Ark of Noah, which, of course, before the entrance of every living thing according to his kind, must have been the largest artificial hollow or empty space known to our Adamite ancestors. Thus the Cabiri would answer, naturally, to the Patæci, which, as Herodotus tells us, were usually figured on the prows of ships. The Cabiri or Patæci, as children of Noah and men of the “great vessel,” or Cave-men (a wonderful anticipation of modern science), would perpetuate the memory of Arkite circumstances, and would be selected, as the sacred tradition faded from men’s minds, as the guides of navigation. I am sorry to seem out of harmony with your ideas; but it is only a matter of seeming, for I have no doubt that the Etruscan Involuti are also Arkite, and that they do not, as Max Müller may be expected to intimate, represent the veiled or cloudy Dawns, but rather the Arkite Patriarchs. We thus, from different starting-places, arrive at the same goal, the Arkite solution of Bryant. I am aware that I am old-fashioned—like Eumæus, “I dwell here among the swine, and go not often to the city.” Your letters with little numerals (as _k_2) may represent the exactness of modern philology; but more closely remind me of the formulæ of algebra, a study in which I at no time excelled.

It is my purpose to visit Cambridge on June 3, to listen to a most valuable address by Professor Tösch, of Bonn, on Hittite and Aztec affinities. If you can meet me there and accept the hospitality of my college, the encounter may prove a turning point in Mythological and Philological Science.—Very faithfully yours,

J. CASAUBON.

P.S.—I open this note, written from my dictation by my wife, to enclose my congratulations on Mrs. Forth’s scholarly attainments.

* * * * *

_From Professor Forth to Rev. Mr. Casaubon_. (Telegram.)

Will be with you at Cambridge on the third.

* * * * *

_From Mrs. Forth_, _Bradmore-road_, _Oxford_, _to David Rivers_, _Esq._, _Milnthorpe_, _Yorkshire_.

He goes on Saturday to Cambridge to hear some one talk about the Hittites and the Asiatics. Did you not say there was a good Sunday train? They sing “O Rest in the Lord” at Magdalen. I often wonder that Addison’s Walk is so deserted on Sundays. He stays over Sunday at Cambridge. {129}

* * * * *

_From David Rivers_, _Esq._, _to Mrs. Forth_, _Oxford_.

DEAR MRS. FORTH,—Saturday is a half-holiday at the Works, and I propose to come up and see whether our boat cannot bump Balliol. How extraordinary it is that people should neglect, on Sundays, the favourite promenade of the Short-faced Humourist. I shall be there: the old place.—Believe me, yours ever,

D. RIVERS.

* * * * *

_From Mrs. Casaubon to William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _Stratford-on-Avon_.

DEAR FRIEND,—Your kind letter from Stratford is indeed interesting. Ah, when shall I have an opportunity of seeing these, and so many other interesting places! But in a world where duty is _so much_, and so _always_ with us, why should we regret the voids in our experience which, after all, life is filling in the experience of others? The work is advancing, and Mr. Casaubon hopes that the first chapter of the “Key to All Mythologies” will be fairly copied and completed by the end of autumn. Mr. Casaubon is going to Cambridge on Saturday to hear Professor Tösch lecture on the Pittites and some other party, I really forget which; {130} but it is not often that he takes so much interest in mere _modern_ history. How curious it sometimes is to think that the great spirit of humanity and of the world, as you say, keeps working its way—ah, to what wonderful goal—by means of these obscure difficult politics: almost unworthy instruments, one is tempted to think. That was a true line you quoted lately from the ‘Vita Nuova.’ We have no books of poetry here, except a Lithuanian translation of the Rig Veda. How delightful it must be to read Dante with a sympathetic fellow-student, one who has also loved—and _renounced_!—Yours very sincerely,

DOROTHEA CASAUBON.

P.S.—I do not expect Mr. Casaubon back from Cambridge before Monday afternoon.

* * * * *

_From William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _to the Hon. Secretary of the Literary and Philosophical Mechanics’ Institute_, _Middlemarch_.

MY DEAR SIR,—I find that I can be in your neighbourhood on Saturday, and will gladly accept your invitation to lecture at your Institute on the Immutability of Morals.—Faithfully yours,

W. LADISLAW.

* * * * *

_From William Ladislaw_, _Esq._, _to Mrs. Casaubon_.

DEAR MRS. CASAUBON,—Only a line to say that I am to lecture at the Mechanics’ Institute on Saturday. I can scarcely hope that, as Mr. Casaubon is away, you will be able to attend my poor performance, but on Sunday I may have, I hope, the pleasure of waiting on you in the afternoon?—Very sincerely yours,

W. LADISLAW.

P.S.—I shall bring the ‘Vita Nuova’—it is not so difficult as the ‘Paradiso’—and I shall be happy to help you with a few of the earlier sonnets.

* * * * *

_From Mrs. Casaubon to Mrs. Forth_.

June 5.

DEAR LADY,—You will be surprised at receiving a letter from a stranger! How shall I address you—how shall I say what I ought to say? Our husbands are not unknown to each other, I may almost call them friends, but we have met only once. You did not see me; but I was at Magdalen a few weeks ago, and I could not help asking who you were, so young, so beautiful; and when I saw you so lonely among all those learned men my heart went out to you, for I too know what the learned are, and how often, when we are young, we feel as if they were so cold, so remote. Ah, then there come _temptations_, but they must be conquered.—We are not born to live for ourselves only, we must learn to live for others—ah! not for _Another_!

Some one {133} we both know, a lady, has spoken to me of you lately. She too, though you did not know it, was in Magdalen Walk on Sunday evening when the bells were chiming and the birds singing. She saw you; you were not alone! Mr. Rivers (I am informed that is his name) was with you. Ah, stop and think, and hear me before it is too late. A word; I do not know—a word of mine may be listened to, though I have no right to speak. But something forces me to speak, and to implore you to remember that it is not for Pleasure we live, but for Duty. We must break the dearest ties if they do not bind us to the stake—the stake of all we owe to all! You will understand, you will forgive me, will you not? You will forgive another woman whom your beauty and sadness have won to admire and love you. You _will_ break these ties, will you not, and be free, for only in Renunciation is there freedom? He _must not_ come again, you will tell him that he must not.—Yours always,

DOROTHEA CASAUBON.

XVI.

_From Euphues to Sir Amyas Leigh_, _Kt._

This little controversy on the value of the herb tobacco passed between the renowned Euphues and that early but assiduous smoker, Sir Amyas Leigh, well known to readers of “Westward Ho.”

(He dissuadeth him from drinking the smoke of the Indian weed.)