a perfectly detestable fountain-pen) on an uninhabited and (so far as
I am aware) unknown island, somewhere off the eastern coast of South
America, on (as near as I can guess) the twelfth of December, 1908. For
two years have I dwelt in wretchedness in this place, a most unwilling
(and unsuccessful) follower of Robinson Crusoe. I know that it is
customary in such appeals as this, which I am about (in the words of
the burial service) to commit to the deep, to give, approximately at
least, the latitude and longitude of my desert isle, in order that
searching parties (which I earnestly pray may be sent for me) shall
know where to look.
Alas! all my studies have been devoted to literature and the fine arts,
and although I have certain instruments which poor Captain Bucko used
to ascertain the ship's position, I am as helpless with them as an
infant. True, I have endeavored to look at the sun with them--and the
moon, too, but I could not observe that those bodies had any than their
usual aspect when thus viewed. As for the signs which are engraved on
the surface of these instruments, I could copy them down here in hope
that they might give a clue to those expert in navigation; but as they
are, so far as I can see, exactly the same as those which were on the
instruments when we left New York, I fear it would be of no avail.
The only hint, then, of the geographical position of this island must
come from my narrative. I beseech whatever person finds it to send news
of me without delay to the president and faculty of Upidee University,
where, alas, I suppose my chair (the James A. Rewbarb professorship of
German Literature) is already filled.
It is unnecessary for me to speak much of my career. In the obituary
notices that doubtless appeared when the ship "Hardtack" failed to
arrive at Valparaiso, I suppose it was stated that I was the only
passenger on that unfortunate vessel. I am, I believe, the only
survivor of her wreck. Worn out with revising proof of the second
edition of my doctor's thesis ("That the umlaut should be placed
one-fourth of a millimetre higher than is now the custom") I had, at
the advice of my physician, embarked on the "Hardtack," sailing from
New York for Valparaiso, Sept. 9, 1906.
The voyage was uneventful for about four weeks, and life on the ship
(which I think, by the way, was called by the captain a "brig") was not
distasteful to me. One morning, however, I heard a commotion overhead,
and going upstairs found Captain Bucko in a state of great excitement.
I asked him the cause, and he replied that the mate had put the brig in
irons.
I had often read of this custom in times of mutiny, so I remarked: "I
suppose it was by your orders, Captain?"
He did not reply, and I presently learned the cause of his anxiety.
They did not seem to be able to make the ship go ahead in a straight
line, and, to make matters worse, a rocky island on which the waves
were breaking violently, had been discovered on the right hand side of
the vessel.
I ought to explain that I am not perfectly familiar with all the
technicalities of ship-navigation, and I retain only a confused idea of
what followed.
I know that I was ordered to get into a small rowboat which was jumping
about in a most alarming fashion at one side of the ship, and that when
I refused to take such a ridiculous step, I was seized by two sailors
and thrown into the boat. I must have struck my head on something, for
I knew nothing else until I found myself lying on a beach, pounded and
bruised by the waves. I got up, and staggered to a place where the sand
was dry, and there I fell again exhausted.
Of the captain and the crew of the "Hardtack" I have never seen a
trace, except a coat belonging to the mate, which was washed on shore
a few days later. Their small boat was probably tipped over by the
waves, and they were all drowned. It is strange that I, the only one of
them unfamiliar with the ocean, should have been spared. The "Hardtack"
itself evidently became hitched on a rock some little distance from
the shore, for there it stayed for part of that day, with great waves
beating upon it. At last the masts fell down, and in a few days the
ship was broken in pieces, till nothing remained. Many of these
fragments floated to the shore, with various articles from the cargo.
For the first three days I was excessively miserable. I was forced to
sleep out of doors on the first night, and when I felt hungry the next
morning, there was nothing to eat. My tastes are simple, but my habits
are regular, and in my rooms at Upidee, as well as in the "Hardtack," I
was accustomed to have a cup of coffee at half-past seven each morning.
Now I searched the shore for some hours, but could find nothing except
some mussels or clams and a few starfish. The starfish were very tough,
and not at all agreeable in taste, and though a Little Neck clam,
properly iced and served with lemon and other condiments, is not an ill
beginning to a dinner, I cannot pretend that I found these shellfish,
eaten raw on a windy beach, other than nauseous.
But I hasten over these troubles and also over my discovery of a large
number of boxes of food which floated ashore, three days later, from
the wreck. Some of it was edible and it sufficed until I found other
means of sustenance on the island. Of my discovery of two deserted huts
(relics of former castaways, perhaps), of my domestication of several
wild goats, whom I learned (not without difficulty) to milk, and of my
capture of fish in the inlet--of all these things I need not write. My
troubles are not material, but intellectual. And they are so great that
I earnestly implore some one to come to my rescue.
To make my sufferings clear I must remind the reader that I am that
Horatio Fassett who won the $500 prize from "Somebody's Magazine" four
years ago for the best answer to the question: "If you were cast away
on a desert island what one hundred books would you prefer to have with
you?"
I worked hard to compile my list, and it was generally agreed to be
the most scholarly selection of one hundred titles ever made. The
publishers of "Somebody's Magazine" not only paid me the $500, but
presented me with a copy, well bound, of each of the books. These
(packed securely in a water-tight box, so constructed as to float)
accompanied me in the "Hardtack," and I need tell no scholar that
during my first days on this island, as I walked the beach and watched
the remnants of the vessel float ashore, it was not so much for cases
of concentrated soup nor tins of baked-beans that I yearned, as for my
box of the "One Hundred Best Books."
At last it came! That was a happy day--about a week after my arrival on
the island. I saw the box, tossed about in the surf, and I dashed in
and secured it. I was now living, with comparative comfort, in one of
the huts; and thither I carried the books. I was overjoyed. It was my
privilege to put my books to the test--something that had never been
accorded to the compilers of any of the similar lists which have been
made in such profusion. With trembling hands (and a screwdriver) I
opened the box and took out the books. They were in perfect order--the
waterproof box had been well made.
From this point, I copy the entries in my diary, and let them tell the
rest of my dismal story.
"Oct. 16. I arranged the books neatly, this afternoon, on top of some
empty biscuit boxes. They were all there: Tasso, Homer, Don Quixote,
The Divine Comedy, Browning, and the rest. They looked delightful, and
reminded me of my study at Upidee. I wonder if I shall ever see that
study again, and I wonder what will become of the second edition of my
thesis on the umlaut. It was to appear next April, and now who knows
whether I shall be there ready to reply to the attacks which I know it
will provoke?
"From this gloomy line of thought, I turned again to the Hundred Best
Books. Which should I begin to read? There were my beloved Goethe and
Schiller--should I start with them? I took a volume, and had opened it,
when it occurred to me that I had not yet gone that day to the high
rock where I looked for passing ships. I put Goethe back on the biscuit
box, and spent an anxious afternoon staring at the ocean. But I saw
nothing.
"The evening I spent in trying to arrange some fishing lines, as the
firelight--my only illumination--is not favorable for reading to one
afflicted with astigmatism. I miss the electric droplight that I used
at Upidee, or even the kerosene lamp in the cabin of the 'Hardtack.' I
must try to make some candles.
"Oct. 17. I passed the morning in trying to tame a wild goat--or
perhaps I had better say in trying to induce one to graze outside my
cabin, instead of investigating the interior. They are not at all
shy, but are inclined to be rather sociable. In the afternoon I took
Goethe with me to the high rock, where I sat with the volume on my
knee keeping a watch for vessels. I cannot say that I read much.
German literature makes me feel rather homesick, and I find brings me
recollections of the distressing recitations of last year's freshman
class.
"Oct. 18. When I went to the lookout to-day I took Browning with me.
Good heavens, I found I can no longer read Browning! This was an
astounding state of things, and I had to examine myself rather sharply.
I remembered that I had never for a moment been in doubt, when I made
up my list, of including Browning. I had read, twenty years ago, the
'Dramatic Lyrics,' with the greatest of pleasure, but the longer poems
had seemed to me rather dull, and indeed a large proportion of the
poet's work was intensely irritating to me on account of its needless
and exasperating obscurity. At the time I did not consider this a cause
for worry. Browning was a great poet--everyone said so; his treasures
did not lie on the surface--one must dive below in order to find the
rich pearls which lay concealed there. I remember using this metaphor
in a lecture that I delivered before the Woman's Club of Buffalo. I had
always intended to study the longer poems; but I had never done it. Now
they were unreadable to me. As for the 'Dramatic Lyrics,' they did not
charm me as formerly. I found myself longing for a volume of Wordsworth
or Tennyson. Neither was included in my Best Books, though I cannot see
now, for the life of me, why I didn't include Tennyson. Could it have
been because his poems are easy to understand and that I thought it
would seem more 'scholarly' to put in Browning?
"Oct. 20. I have not been to the high rock lately except for a brief
visit after breakfast. I have had a little rheumatism--not being
used to sleeping in draughty cabins. The goats have been a source of
entertainment to me, and I have caught some crabs, which I keep in a
little pool of salt water near the cabin. They are amusing to watch,
and toasted crab-meat is far from bad at supper time. I kill one with a
stick and then broil him on a hot stone.
"Yesterday I tried reading again, but I am bound to confess that there
was not much solace in it. The Odyssey I soon put down--too much
shipwreck and wandering in strange lands. There is no Penelope waiting
for me, even if I ever get home alive. And the thought of Ithaca
reminded me of Cornell and Professor von Füglemann, who is all ready
to tear my thesis on the umlaut to pieces. Shakspeare I picked up, but
the first play I opened to was 'The Tempest.' I closed Shakspeare and
put him back.
"Nov. 25. Nothing has happened worth recording for weeks. Once I saw
smoke, from a steamboat, I suppose, but smoke did not do me any good.
"There is something the matter with this list of Best Books. For one
thing, they are most of them so tragic. I would give anything for a
volume of Mr. Dooley. But that is not all. I have always realized that
the great literature of the world is very largely sombre, and I have
no more sympathy now than I ever had with the people who want to read
nothing but that which keeps them on a broad grin. Even in my dreary
situation I could read tragedy, but I have brought precious little
tragedy that I care for. No doubt most of my books are great monuments
of literature, but I am afraid I must have forgotten, when I wrote
my list, how few of these books I read now. I must have put them in
because they are praised by writers of text-books, and because it
seemed the proper thing to do.
"As I go over my reading for the past five years at Upidee, in what
do I find it to consist? First, the literature and text-books of my
profession. Second, current books--history, biography, art criticism,
and an infrequent novel or book of verse. There are not many living
novelists or poets that I care about. It makes me fairly rage when I
think that I hesitated between 'Pickwick' and 'Jerusalem Delivered'
when I made up my list, and finally decided in favor of the latter as
more weighty--which it certainly is.
"I used my copy to help sink a lobster trap the other day.
"Almost the only novel which I condescended to include in my list is
'Don Quixote,' and why did I do that? Because it has been praised for
three hundred years, I suppose, instead of for only forty or fifty. It
is about the only humorous work which I did include--and except for
places here and there it is a dreary waste.
"Aug. 10, 1907. It is now months since I have had the courage to face
this diary. I dreamed last night that I had wandered into a book shop.
There were rows of books, for any one of which I would have gladly
given my whole celebrated One Hundred. (At least, I would give what is
left of them. 'Don Quixote' has been used to paste over cracks in the
walls of my cabin. 'Orlando Furioso' served to boil some sea-gulls'
eggs one morning for breakfast, when I was short of firewood, and the
'Koran' fell into the fire one night when I hurled it at some animal--a
fox, I think, that came into the hut.) The sight of that bookshop
made me weep. I had seized a volume of Tennyson, Stevenson's Letters,
and 'Sherlock Holmes,' when the shopkeeper jumped over his counter at
me--and I woke, sobbing.
"Sept. 1, 1907. One of the goats ate the Æneid to-day.
"Sept. 2. The goat is ill, and I have had to give it one of my few
pepsin tablets."
This is the last entry from the diary that I need transcribe. Over a
year has elapsed since I wrote it; and my case is desperate. I will now
seal up this narrative in a bottle, and throw it into the sea. Come to
my rescue, or I fear I shall go mad!
THE CONVERSATION ROOM
THE CONVERSATION ROOM
To the Honorable, the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public
Library. Gentlemen: I am forced to lay my complaint before you, because
your librarian, Dr. W. M. Pierce, so I am told, has sailed for Europe
to attend a meeting of librarians in Brussels, whence he will not
return for six or seven weeks.
My name is doubtless familiar to you, but perhaps you are not aware
that I am engaged in an important piece of research in your library.
When I state that my work is an inquiry into the Indo-Iranian origins
of the noun 'Fuddy-dud' and its possible derivation from the Semitic,
you will understand that it requires the closest possible application
and an entire freedom from interruptions and distractions.
When I began my researches in your library, six days ago, I presented
letters to Dr. Pierce. He very kindly installed me in an alcove, where
he had placed a table and chairs, and where he allowed me to assemble
the books needed in my studies--some one hundred and thirty or forty
volumes. These, together with my papers and writing materials, are
permitted to remain on the table from one day to another, as obviously
it would be inconvenient for me to have to call for them each morning.
It is my custom to begin work at nine o'clock every day, and to
continue (save for an hour at noon) until 6 P.M. For a few days
all went very well, and I was making fair progress in my work. But
during the last two days, and particularly yesterday, I have been
subjected to such annoyances that all of my studies have been held at a
standstill.
The library, and particularly the remote part of it in which my alcove
is situated, has been little frequented during this hot weather.
Yesterday, however, an invasion began. The alcove next to mine was
visited by a succession of incongruous, inconsequent persons whose
conversation made it utterly impossible for me to work. A complaint to
Miss Mayhew, the assistant in charge of the library, elicited the fact
that conversation is allowed in this alcove.
It is out of the question for me to move my work, as an inspection of
the building has shown that there is no other spot where the light
suits my eyes.
Yesterday afternoon, totally unable to do any serious work, I took
down, in shorthand, the stream of driveling talk that occurred in that
alcove. I now transcribe it here, in order that your honorable board
may have an opportunity of judging the nature of the interruptions to
which I am subjected. After giving them due consideration I trust that
you will be able to take action in the matter. In the meanwhile my
philological researches are of necessity suspended.
I returned to my work, after luncheon, at two o'clock. The alcove next
mine was occupied by two persons--a young man and woman, both about
twenty years of age. Their talk reached me, and made it impossible for
me to follow any consecutive line of thought. At the time when I began
to take down their conversation, the young woman was saying:
"What's 'Gibbon'? People are always talking about reading Gibbon--and
then they look awfully wise. I've never dared to ask what they mean."
"Oh, it's Gibbon's history of Rome--the 'Fall of the Roman Empire,' or
something like that."
"Have you ever read it?"
"Great Scott, no! It's in about a dozen volumes--I don't know how many.
I've read some of it--they made us do it, freshman year."
"Is it awfully dry? Would I like it?"
"It's pretty fierce. Nothing to Grote, though--Grote's 'History of
Greece'--that's the limit!"
"Gibbon is a man then? I wasn't sure what he was."
"Yes; he's the author."
"Oh, why, I've seen him! How stupid of me! I saw him when I was
in Baltimore visiting the Ashfords. Why, he's just the _grandest_
thing you ever saw in your life. He came at the end of a great long
procession, with the dearest little choir-boys at the head, and he was
all in scarlet robes, and a great long train, with two more little boys
holding up his train, and he had the loveliest lace collar--I just went
crazy over him! And I saw him on the street afterwards, too, only he
didn't have on his scarlet robes then. He had on black clothes, and a
tall hat, and when he lifted his hat to someone he had on a little red
skull-cap underneath it. Oh, he's a perfect dear. I'd like to read his
book--I wonder if they've got it here?"
"No, no--that's not the man. This was an Englishman--his first name
was--I forget what it was. Anyhow he's been dead a long time. He was a
very fat man, and he proposed to Mme. de Staël, or George Sand, or one
of those women, and when he got down on his knees he was so fat that
he couldn't get up again, and had to ask her to help him up."
"How perfectly ridiculous! I hate fat men. I hope she didn't accept
him! Did she?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I don't want to read his book, anyhow. But I've simply got to
read something that sounds cultured and learned. Aunt Ella has been at
me again; she says this is a good time, during vacation. Fanny Brooks
has a great long list of the books she has read--I am so tired of
having Fanny Brooks thrown at me! She never reads anything interesting,
or does anything at all for pleasure. She ought to be a nun. Can't you
think of something that will impress Aunt Ella--something that sounds
awfully impressive and dry and cultured, but really is easy to read?"
"Well, let me see, how about Browning?"
"I've read him."
"Like him?"
"No."
"It seems to be a tough proposition. What does your Aunt Ella read? Why
don't you take some of her books?"
"Oh, I don't know. She reads 'Women of the Renaissance' and things
like that. I tried to read some of hers, and I told her I didn't like
them. She said I couldn't expect to, because I haven't any foundation.
How do you get a foundation--that's what I'd like to know! Aunt Ella
is perfectly dippy on Italian art. Gracious, is that clock right? It's
nearly three, and I haven't done any improving reading."
"Look here, it's a corking afternoon--you don't want to waste it in
this joint. Let's go down to the boathouse and get my canoe."
"I'd like to. But what will I say to Aunt Ella?"
"Oh, we'll take some book with us, and you can read while I paddle.
What's that one on that shelf?--it looks dry as the deuce. Here you
are, just the thing:--'Notes on the Architectural Antiquities of the
District of Gower in Glamorganshire'--that would make a hit with Aunt
Ella, all right!"
"It doesn't sound very interesting."
"You're right, there. Well, how will this one do? 'The Recently
Discovered Cromlech near Is-sur-Tille.'"
"What on earth is a cromlech?"
"You can search me."
"Let's take them both. I'll get them charged at the desk, and meet you
outside. I'll read you all about the cromlech--if there are any words
in the book I can pronounce."
With this they went out, and I endeavored to take up my work. Before I
could make the slightest progress, however, two more persons entered
the alcove. These, to judge from the conversation, were small boys. I
had to sit and listen to this chatter:
"What yer got?"
"'Tinkham Brothers' Tide-mill.' What you got?"
"One of Henty's."
"What one?"
"'The Cat of Boobasts.'"
"Aw, that ain't any good. Why didn't yer get 'By England's Aid'?"
"'T warn't in."
"Yes, 't is, too. Jimmy Goodrich just brought it back."
"Well, the teacher won't let yer have it the same day it come in. An'
she won't let me give back this one now."
"Aw, you're dead easy! Don't yer know how to work that?"
"No."
"Why, just go down there, an' when she ain't lookin' stick that one you
got behind some other books on the shelf. Then go round to that wheel
thing near her desk, 'By England's Aid' is on that, an' put it under
your arm when she ain't lookin' an' go out quick with it. Then you can
come round to-morrer, an' get the other one, an' give it back, an' get
your card, an' you can stick back 'By England's Aid' any time. Bring it
in under your coat, when you come with it."
"Gee, that's great! Have you ever tried it?"
"Have I? I've had six books at home to once, an' two more on my cards."
"How many cards you got?"
"Two. Ain't you?"
"No, I ain't got but one."
"Didn't they make you take a green card?"
"No; what good are they?"
"They ain't no good, but the teacher makes yer take one. You can get
story books on the white card, but the other is for non-fiction."
"What's that?"
"Oh, school books, an' a lot of rotten things like that."
"What do yer want them for?"
"You don't want 'em--excep' a few of 'em. 'The American Boy's Handy
Book' is one of 'em. That's all right. Most of 'em are bum. But if you
take 'em, it makes a hit with the teacher. They want yer to read 'em. I
got a prize last winter for readin' more'n any other feller that comes
to the liberry."
"Gee, you must have hated to read all them school books."
"Aw, I didn't read 'em, you mutt. I jus' took 'em home, an' brought 'em
back in a day or two. Say, have you ever read any of Alger's?"
"Yup--two of 'em. Eddie Meaghan let me take two of his. You can't get
'em here. I wish you could, though. They're great."
"I know. I tried to get 'em off the teacher down stairs. She said they
warn't nice. I says yes they are too, for my brother who's studyin' to
be a lawyer read 'em. She said she'd give me some book that was better,
an' she give me one called 'Brothers of the Air.'"
"Was it any good?"
"Rotten. But Danny Corrigan, the bootblack, told me about a place, a
liberry in back of Schmidt's cigar store where you can get Alger's an'
Old Sleuth, and Di'mond Dick, an' Bowery Billy. Gee, the teacher'd have
a fit if she sees them--she took one of Old Sleuth's away from Jimmy
Goodrich, an' burned it up, an' wrote to his mother about it."
"I'm goin' down to the children's room, now. Do you s'pose I can work
that gag now, an' get 'By England's Aid'?"
"Sure. I'll go down, too, an' show yer how."
* * * * *
Whereupon these two nuisances departed. Really it seems amazing that
children and frivolous persons should be allowed in libraries. As it
was four o'clock now, I did hope to be allowed to study in peace for
what remained of the afternoon. But the hope was vain, for inside of
five minutes two women came into that alcove, that Cave of the Winds,
as I may call it.