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 VIDEOAULA GRÁTIS
sobre O nariz com Raquel
Toledo, mestre em
Literatura e Cultura Russa
pela USP. Escaneie o QR
Code acima para acessar.
Editorial . . . . . . . . . . . ROBERTO JANNARELLI

.................. VICTORIA REBELLO

Comunicação . . . . . . . . . . . . MAYRA MEDEIROS

.................. PEDRO FRACCHETTA

Preparação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ELOAH PINA
..
Revisão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CÁSSIO YAMAMURA

.................. ROGÉRIO AMORIM

.................. LETÍCIA CÔRTES
Diagramação . . . . . . . . . . . . . . INÊS COIMBRA

Projeto gráfico e capa . . . . GIOVANNA CIANELLI

Textos de

TAMY GHANNAM
RAQUEL TOLEDO
INTI ANNY QUEIROZ
Procura-se o nariz de:

DANIEL LAMEIRA
LUCIANA FRACCHETTA
RAFAEL DRUMMOND
&
SERGIO DRUMMOND
 SUMÁRIO
Folha de rosto
Sumário

Apresentação
I
II
III
Referências

Página de direitos autorais

 Apresentação
por Tamy Ghannam

Ao se deparar com o título do livro em suas mãos, você pode se

perguntar o que há de tão interessante em um nariz que o faça
protagonista de uma obra literária. Essa é, sem dúvidas, uma
pergunta válida. A resposta, por sua vez, não é difícil de encontrar
— basta imaginar qualquer um de nós sem essa peça tão
fundamental de nossa identidade facial e chegaremos a uma
imagem curiosa o suficiente para inspirar qualquer ficção.
Pois essa imagem é a base da novela de Gógol. Num dia como
outro qualquer, o barbeiro (e beberrão, é importante dizer) Ivan
Iákolevitch, por uma brincadeira da natureza, encontra um nariz.
Mas, veja bem, não se trata de um órgão olfativo qualquer, e sim de
um nariz acompanhado de artigo definido, um nariz com expressão
e liberdade, tão carregado de personalidade que se transforma em
personagem-tipo, digno de assumir o cargo de conselheiro de
Estado, de frequentar solenemente a Igreja e de caminhar bem
vestido pelas ruas de São Petersburgo. Um nariz, enfim, distinto.
Como de costume na literatura de Gógol, há uma crítica ácida ao
funcionalismo russo, aqui moldada como sátira, um tanto grotesca e
bastante divertida, sobre as estruturas sociais do país. Para além
disso, o autor se dirige diretamente a nós em diversos momentos da
curta narrativa, esperta e suavemente nos direcionando às brumas
que cobrem várias cenas do conto — e deixando nossa imaginação
trabalhar quando repete que sobre o que aconteceu a seguir, não se
sabe rigorosamente nada. Pois é, parece absurdo. O próprio autor
concorda conosco e também acha estranho alguém conceber um
enredo assim, tão repleto de disparates quanto vazio de explicações.
No entanto, esse tipo de coisa poderia acontecer a qualquer um de
nós. Afinal de contas, a vida não é justamente esse constante acaso
em que tudo, por mais inacreditável que seja, pode acontecer?
Antes que você se aventure pelo livro, permita-me oferecer dois
breves conselhos despertados pela minha experiência de leitura. O
primeiro, admito, às vezes é difícil de seguir: é impossível saber a
quais lugares uma narina pode nos levar, portanto, mesmo que a
curiosidade seja grande, não meta o nariz onde não for chamado. O
segundo, um pouco mais fácil: se no mundo tudo é possível e não
há o que dure muito, desfrute da alegria breve de ler o texto de
Gógol sem buscar justificativas, acolhendo sua dose de fantástico
com atenção ao que se passa debaixo de seu nariz — ao menos
enquanto ainda o tem em seu devido lugar.
Agora, sim, boa leitura!

TAMY GHANNAM é formada em Letras pela USP-FFLCH e pesquisadora de narrativas

brasileiras contemporâneas. Desde 2015 é responsável pelo LiteraTamy, plataforma
multimídia de conteúdo literário independente. É curadora e mediadora do Clube de
Literatura Brasileira Contemporânea.
 I
No dia 25 de março, ocorreu, em São Petersburgo, um
acontecimento incomum e estranho. O barbeiro Ivan Iákovlevitch,
que vivia na avenida Voznessiénski (seu sobrenome perdeu-se,1 e
até na fachada — em que está retratado um senhor com a bochecha
ensaboada e a inscrição “também sangra-se” — não se lê nada
mais); o barbeiro Ivan Iákovlevitch acordou bem cedo e sentiu
cheiro de pão quente. Soerguendo-se um pouco na cama, ele viu
que sua esposa, senhora bastante respeitável, que gostava muito de
tomar café, tirava do forno uns pães que acabavam de ser assados.
 — Hoje não tomarei café, Praskóvia Óssipovna — disse Ivan
Iákovlevitch —, mas, em vez disso, quero comer pãozinho quente
com cebola. (Ou seja, Ivan Iákovlevitch gostaria tanto de um quanto
do outro, mas sabia que era totalmente impossível exigir as duas
coisas de uma vez, pois Praskóvia Óssipovna não gostava nada de
tais caprichos.) “Que o tolo coma o pão, melhor para mim”, pensou
consigo a esposa: “sobra um pouco mais de café”. E jogou um pão
sobre a mesa.
 Ivan Iákovlevitch, por decência, vestiu uma casaca por cima da
camisa e, sentando-se diante da mesa, espalhou o sal, preparou
duas cabeças de cebola, tomou nas mãos a faca e, fazendo uma
expressão de importância, pôs-se a cortar o pão. Depois de parti-lo
em duas metades, olhou para o miolo e, para sua surpresa, viu algo
esbranquiçado. Ivan Iákovlevitch cavoucou cuidadosamente com a
faca e apalpou-o com o dedo: “É sólido?”, disse consigo mesmo.
“Mas o que seria isso?”

Enfiou os dedos e tirou dali… um nariz! Ivan Iákovlevitch até

soltou os braços; começou a esfregar os olhos e a apalpar: um nariz,
era mesmo um nariz! E ainda parecia ser de alguém conhecido. O
horror transpareceu no rosto de Ivan Iákovlevitch. Mas aquele horror
não era nada se comparado à indignação que tomou conta de sua
esposa.
 — Onde é que você foi decepar um nariz, seu animal? — pôs-se
ela a gritar, em fúria. — Seu vigarista! Seu bêbado! Eu mesma vou
denunciá-lo à polícia. Mas que bandido! Pois eu já tinha ouvido de
três pessoas que você, na hora de barbear, repuxa tanto os narizes,
que eles mal se seguram no lugar.
 Mas Ivan Iákovlevitch estava mais morto que vivo. Ele percebera
que aquele nariz era de ninguém menos que do assessor colegial
Kovaliov, que ele barbeava todas as quartas-feiras e domingos.
— Espere, Praskóvia Óssipovna! Vou colocá-lo num cantinho,
enrolado num trapo: que fique lá um pouquinho; depois eu o levo
para fora.
— Nem quero ouvir! Eu vou lá permitir que um nariz decepado
fique aqui na minha sala?… Seu turrão mirrado! A única coisa que
sabe fazer é afiar a navalha, e logo não terá condição nenhuma de
cumprir o seu dever, seu vagabundo, miserável! Eu lá vou responder
à polícia por você?… Ah, seu porcalhão, seu bronco estúpido! Fora
com ele daqui! Fora! Leve aonde quiser! Não quero sentir nem o
cheiro dele!
 Ivan Iákovlevitch estava totalmente mortificado. Ele pensava,
pensava — e não sabia o que pensar. “Sabe lá o diabo como isso foi
acontecer”, disse ele, afinal, coçando atrás da orelha com a mão. “Se
ontem eu voltei bêbado ou não, não consigo dizer ao certo. Mas, a
julgar pelos indícios, deve ser um acidente impensável: pois o pão é
uma coisa que se assa, e o nariz não é de jeito nenhum. Não
entendo nada!…” Ivan Iákovlevitch calou-se. A ideia de que os
policiais pudessem descobrir um nariz em sua casa e acusá-lo
deixou-o completamente fora de si. Ele já conseguia enxergar aquela
gola escarlate, com belos bordados prateados, a espada… e seu
corpo inteiro estremeceu. Finalmente, ele alcançou suas vestes de
baixo e suas botas, enfiou-se naquelas porcarias e, acompanhado
pelas nada leves reprimendas de Praskóvia Óssipovna, embrulhou o
nariz num trapo e saiu para a rua.

Queria enfiá-lo em qualquer lugar: ou num frade de pedra

debaixo de um portão, ou deixá-lo cair de algum jeito, sem querer, e
então dobrar numa travessa. Mas, para o azar dele, surgia um
conhecido, que começava imediatamente interpelando: “aonde está
indo?”, ou “quem é que pretende barbear tão cedo?”, de maneira
que Ivan Iákovlevitch não conseguia de modo algum encontrar o
momento certo. Numa outra vez, ele já o deixara cair, afinal, mas o
guarda-cancela, lá de longe, apontou-lhe com a alabarda, enquanto
proferia: “Pegue! você derrubou alguma coisa ali!”. E Ivan
Iákovlevitch teve que apanhar o nariz e guardá-lo no bolso. O
desespero tomou conta dele, ainda mais porque o povo multiplicava-
se incessantemente na rua, conforme as lojas e as vendinhas
começavam a abrir.
 Ele decidiu ir até a ponte Issaákievski: será que conseguiria de
algum jeito jogá-lo no rio Nevá?…
Mas eu me sinto um pouco culpado por até agora não ter dito
nada a respeito de Ivan Iákovlevitch, homem respeitável em muitos
aspectos.
Ivan Iákovlevitch, como qualquer artesão russo digno, era um
bêbado terrível. E, embora barbeasse todos os dias o queixo alheio,
o dele mesmo estava eternamente por fazer. A casaca de Ivan
Iákovlevitch (Ivan Iákovlevitch nunca usava sobrecasaca) era
malhada, ou seja, ela era preta, mas cheia de pintas de um amarelo
acastanhado ou cinzento; a gola era lustrosa; e, em vez de três
botões, pendiam apenas uns fiozinhos. Ivan Iákovlevitch era um
grande cínico, e, quando o assessor colegial Kovaliov, como de
costume, dizia-lhe, durante o barbear: “as suas mãos sempre fedem,
Ivan Iákovlevitch”, então Ivan Iákovlevitch respondia com a
pergunta: “e por que será que elas fedem?”. “Não sei, meu
irmãozinho, mas fedem”, respondia o assessor colegial, e Ivan
Iákovlevitch, depois de cheirar um pouco de rapé, ensaboava-o, por
causa disso, tanto a bochecha, como debaixo do nariz, e atrás da
orelha, e debaixo da barba, resumindo, onde quer que lhe desse
vontade.
 Aquele respeitável cidadão encontrava-se já na ponte
Issaákievski. Antes de mais nada, ele olhou ao redor; depois,
debruçou-se no parapeito, como se buscasse ver se debaixo da
ponte havia muitos peixes passando, e atirou às escondidas o trapo
com o nariz. Ele sentiu como se dez pudes2 tivessem sido tirados de
cima dele, de uma só vez: Ivan Iákovlevitch até deu um sorriso. Em
vez de ir barbear os queixos dos funcionários públicos, dirigiu-se a
um estabelecimento com a inscrição “Refeições e chá”, para pedir
um copo de ponche, quando, de repente, percebeu, no fim da
ponte, o inspetor do quarteirão, de nobre aparência, com amplas
suíças, um chapéu tricorne, de espada. Ele ficou petrificado; e,
enquanto isso, o inspetor do quarteirão apontou-lhe o dedo e disse:
— Mas venha cá, meu caro!
Ivan Iákovlevitch, conhecendo o uniforme, tirou já de longe o
quepe, aproximou-se lepidamente e disse:
— Desejo saúde a vossa honra!
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Still, even so and when you come right down to it, was there
anything so terrible about her writing a celebrity like that and asking
for his picture, if that was all she had done. But was it? Those long-
enveloped gray letters he had found in the fireplace that morning,
after that day in which he had seen her in the car (or thought he had)
—or at least traces of them. And the queer way she had looked at
him when he brought them up in connection with that closed car in
Bergley Place. She had squinted her eyes as if to think, and had
then laughed rather shakily when he charged her with receiving
letters from Raskoffsky, and with his having come here to see her.
His finding them had been entirely by accident. He always got up
early to “start things,” for Beryl was a sleepyhead, and he would start
the fire in the grate and put on the water to boil in the kitchen. And
this morning as he was bending over the grate to push away some
scraps of burnt wood so as to start a new fire, he came across five or
six letters, or the ashes of them, all close together as though they
might have been tied with a ribbon or something. What was left of
them looked as though they had been written on heavy stationery
such as a man of means might use, the envelopes long and thick.
The top one still showed the address—“Mrs. Beryl Stoddard, Care of
——” He was bending over to see the rest when a piece of wood
toppled over and destroyed it. He rescued one little scrap, the half-
charred corner of one page, and the writing on this seemed to be like
that on Raskoffsky’s picture, or so he thought, and he read: “to see
you.” Just that and nothing more, part of a sentence that ended the
page and went to the next. And that page was gone, of course!
But it was funny wasn’t it, that at sight of them the thought of
Raskoffsky should have come to him? And that ride in the park.
Come to think of it, the man in the car had looked a little like
Raskoffsky’s picture. And for all he knew, Raskoffsky might have
then been in town—returned for this especial purpose,—and she
might have been meeting him on the sly. Of course. At the Deming.
That was it. He had never been quite able to believe her. All the
circumstances at the time pointed to something of the kind, even if
he had never been able to tie them together and make her confess
to the truth of them.
 But how he had suffered after that because of that thought! Things
had seemed to go black before him. Beryl unfaithful? Beryl running
around with a man like that, even if he was a great violinist?
Everybody knew what kind of a man he was—all those men. The
papers were always saying how crazy women were over him, and
yet that he should come all the way to C—— to make trouble
between him and Beryl! (If only he could prove that!) But why should
she, with himself and Tickles to look after, and a life of her own which
was all right—why should she be wanting to run around with a man
like that, a man who would use her for a little while and then drop
her. And when she had a home of her own? And her baby? And her
mother and sister right here in C——? And him? And working as
hard as he was and trying to make things come out right for them?
That was the worst of it. That was the misery of it. And all for a little
notice from a man who was so far above her or thought he was,
anyhow, that he couldn’t care for her or any one long. The papers
had said so at the time. But that was the whole secret. She was so
crazy about people who did anything in music or painting or anything
like that, that she couldn’t reason right about them. And she might
have done a thing like that on that account. Personally he wouldn’t
give a snap of his finger for the whole outfit. They weren’t ordinary,
decent people anyhow. But making herself as common as that! And
right here in C——, too, where they were both known. Oh, if only he
had been able to prove that! If only he had been able to at that time!
When he had recovered himself a little that morning after he had
found the traces of the letters in the ashes he had wanted to go into
the bedroom where she was still asleep and drag her out by the hair
and beat her and make her confess to these things. Yes, he had.
There had been all but murder in his heart that morning. He would
show her. She couldn’t get away with any such raw stuff as that even
if she did have her mother and sister to help her. (That sly little Alice,
always putting her sister up to something and never liking him from
the first, anyhow.) But then the thought had come to him that after all
he might be wrong. Supposing the letters weren’t from Raskoffsky?
And supposing she had told the truth when she said she hadn’t been
in the car? He had nothing to go on except what he imagined, and
up to then everything had been as wonderful as could be between
them. Still....
Then another thought had come: if the letters weren’t from
Raskoffsky who were they from? He didn’t know of anybody who
would be writing her on any such paper as that. And if not
Raskoffsky whom did she know? And why should she throw them in
the fire, choosing a time when he wasn’t about? That was strange,
especially after the automobile incident of the day before. But when
he taxed her with this the night of the Bergley Place car incident—
she had denied everything and said they were from Claire Haggerty,
an old chum who had moved to New York just about the time they
were married and who had been writing her at her mother’s because
at that time he and she didn’t have a home of their own and that was
the only address she could give. She had been meaning to destroy
them but had been putting it off. But only the night before she had
come across them in a drawer and had tossed them in the fire, and
that was all there was to that.
But was that all there was to it?
For even as he had been standing there in front of the grate
wondering what to do the thought had come to him that he was not
going about this in the right way. He had had the thought that he
should hire a detective at once and have her shadowed and then if
she were doing anything, it might be possible to find it out. That
would have been better. That was really the way. Yet instead of
doing that he had gone on quarreling with her, had burst in on her
with everything that he suspected or saw, or thought he saw, and
that it was, if anything, that had given her warning each time and had
allowed her to get the upper hand of him, if she had got the upper
hand of him. That was it. Yet he had gone on and quarreled with her
that day just the same, only, after he had thought it all over, he had
decided to consult the Sol Cohn Detective Service and have her
watched. But that very night, coming back from the night conference
with Mr. Harris Cohn, which was the only time he could get to give it,
was the night he had seen the car in Bergley Place, and Beryl near
it.
 Bergley Place was a cross street two doors from where they lived
on Winton. And just around the corner in Bergley, was an old vacant
residence with a deal of shrubbery and four overarching trees in
front, which made it very dark there at night. That night as he was
coming home from Mr. Harris Cohn’s—(he had told Beryl that he was
going to the lodge, in order to throw her off and had come home
earlier in order to see what he might see) and just as he was
stepping off the Nutley Avenue car which turned into Marko Street,
about half a block above where they lived whom should he see—
But, no, let us put it this way. Just at that moment or a moment later
as he turned toward his home an automobile that had been going the
same way he was along Winton swung into Bergley Place and threw
its exceptionally brilliant lights on a big closed automobile that was
standing in front of the old house aforementioned. There were two
vacant corner lots opposite the old house at Bergley and Winton and
hence it was that he could see what was going on. Near the rear of
the automobile, just as though she had stepped out of it and was
about to leave, stood Beryl—or, he certainly thought it was Beryl,
talking to some one in the car, just as one would before parting and
returning into the house. She had on a hooded cape exactly like the
one she wore at times though not often. She did not like hooded
capes any more. They were out of style. Just the same so sure had
he been that it was Beryl and that at last he had trapped her that he
hurried on to the house or, rather, toward the car. But just as he
neared the corner the lights of the car that had been standing there
lightless flashed on for a second—then off and then sped away. Yet
even with them on there had not been enough light to see whether it
was Beryl, or who. Or what the number on the license plate was. It
was gone and with it Beryl, presumably up the alley way and into the
back door or so he had believed. So sure was he that she had gone
that way that he himself had gone that way. Yet when he reached the
rear door following her, as he chose to do, it was locked and the
kitchen was dark. And he had to rap and pound even before she
came to let him in. And when she did there she was looking as
though she had not been out at all, undressed, ready for bed and
wanting to know why he chose to come that way! And asking him not
to make so much noise for fear of waking Tickles...!
 Think of it. Not a trace of excitement. No cape with a hood on. The
light up in the dining-room and a book on the table as though she
might have been reading—one of those novels by that fellow
Barclay. And not a sign about anywhere that she might have been
out—that was the puzzling thing. And denying that she had been out
or that she had seen any car, or anything. Now what would you
make of that!
Then it was, though, that he had burst forth in a fury of suspicion
and anger and had dealt not only with this matter of the car in
Bergley Place but the one in Briscoe Park, the letters in the ashes
and the matter of Naigly seeing her come out of the Deming, to say
nothing of her writing to Raskoffsky for his picture. For it was
Raskoffsky, of course, if it was anybody. He was as positive as to
that as any one could be. Who else could it have been? He had not
even hesitated to insist that he knew who it was—Raskoffsky, of
course—and that he had seen him and had been able to recognize
him from his pictures. Yet she had denied that vehemently—even
laughingly—or that he had seen any one, or that there had been a
car there for her. And she did show him a clipping a week later which
said that Raskoffsky was in Italy.
But if it wasn’t Raskoffsky then who was it—if it was any one. “For
goodness’ sake, Gil,” was all she would say at that or any other time,
“I haven’t been out with Raskoffsky or any one and I don’t think you
ought to come in here and act as you do. It seems to me you must
be losing your mind. I haven’t seen or heard of any old car. Do you
think I could stand here and say that I hadn’t if I had? And I don’t like
the way you have of rushing in here of late every little while and
accusing me of something that I haven’t done. What grounds have
you for thinking that I have done anything wrong anyhow? That silly
picture of Raskoffsky that Alice sent for. And that you think you saw
me in an automobile. Not another thing. If you don’t stop now and let
me alone I will leave you I tell you and that is all there is to it. I won’t
be annoyed in this way and especially when you have nothing to go
on.” It was with that type of counter-argument that she had
confronted him.
 Besides, at that time—the night that he thought he saw her in
Bergley Place—and as if to emphasize what she was saying, Tickles
in the bedroom had waked up and begun to call “Mama, Mama.” And
she had gone in to him and brought him out even as she talked. And
she had seemed very serious and defiant, then—very much more
like her natural self and like a person who had been injured and was
at bay. So he had become downright doubtful, again, and had gone
back into the dining-room. And there was the light up and the book
that she had been reading. And in the closet as he had seen when
he had hung up his own coat was her hooded cape on the nail at the
back where it always hung.
And yet how could he have been mistaken as to all of those
things? Surely there must have been something to some of them. He
could never quite feel, even now, that there hadn’t been. Yet outside
of just that brief period in which all of these things had occurred there
had never been a thing that he could put his hands on, nothing that
he could say looked even suspicious before or since. And the
detective agency had not been able to find out anything about her
either—not a thing. That had been money wasted: one hundred
dollars. Now how was that?

II

The trouble with Gil was that he was so very suspicious by nature
and not very clever. He was really a clerk, with a clerk’s mind and a
clerk’s point of view. He would never rise to bigger things, because
he couldn’t, and yet she could not utterly dislike him either. He was
always so very much in love with her, so generous—to her, at least—
and he did the best he could to support her and Tickles which was
something, of course. A lot of the trouble was that he was too
affectionate and too clinging. He was always hanging around
whenever he was not working. And with never a thought of going any
place without her except to his lodge or on a business errand that he
couldn’t possibly escape. And if he did go he was always in such
haste to get back! Before she had ever thought of marrying him,
when he was shipping clerk at the Tri-State and she was Mr.
Baggott’s stenographer, she had seen that he was not very
remarkable as a man. He hadn’t the air or the force of Mr. Baggott,
for whom she worked then and whose assistant Gil later became.
Indeed, Mr. Baggott had once said: “Gilbert is all right, energetic and
faithful enough, but he lacks a large grasp of things.” And yet in spite
of all that she had married him.
Why?
Well, it was hard to say. He was not bad-looking, rather
handsome, in fact, and that had meant a lot to her then. He had fine,
large black eyes and a pale forehead and pink cheeks, and such
nice clean hands. And he always dressed so well for a young man in
his position. He was so faithful and yearning, a very dog at her heels.
But she shouldn’t have married him, just the same. It was all a
mistake. He was not the man for her. She knew that now. And, really,
she had known it then, only she had not allowed her common sense
to act. She was always too sentimental then—not practical enough
as she was now. It was only after she was married and surrounded
by the various problems that marriage includes that she had begun
to wake up. But then it was too late.
Yes, she had married, and by the end of the first year and a half,
during which the original glamour had had time to subside, she had
Tickles, or Gilbert, Jr., to look after. And with him had come a new
mood such as she had never dreamed of in connection with herself.
Just as her interest in Gil had begun to wane a little her interest in
Tickles had sprung into flame. And for all of three years now it had
grown stronger rather than weaker. She fairly adored her boy and
wouldn’t think of doing anything to harm him. And yet she grew so
weary at times of the humdrum life they were compelled to live. Gil
only made forty-five dollars a week, even now. And on that they had
to clothe and feed and house the three of them. It was no easy
matter. She would rather go out and work. But it was not so easy
with a three-year-old baby. And besides Gil would never hear of such
a thing. He was just one of those young husbands who thought the
wife’s place was in the home, even when he couldn’t provide a very
good home for her to live in.
 Still, during these last few years she had had a chance to read and
think, two things which up to that time she had never seemed to
have time for. Before that it had always been beaux and other girls.
But most of the girls were married now and so there was an end to
them. But reading and thinking had gradually taken up all of her
spare time, and that had brought about such a change in her. She
really wasn’t the same girl now that Gil had married at all. She was
wiser. And she knew so much more about life now than he did. And
she thought so much more, and so differently. He was still at about
the place mentally that he had been when she married him,
interested in making a better place for himself in the Tri-State office
and in playing golf or tennis out at the country club whenever he
could afford the time to go out there. And he expected her to curry
favor with Dr. and Mrs. Realk, and Mr. and Mrs. Stofft, because they
had a car and because Mr. Stofft and Gil liked to play cards together.
But beyond that he thought of nothing, not a thing.
But during all of this time she had more and more realized that Gil
would never make anything much of himself. Alice had cautioned her
against him before ever they had married. He was not a business
man in any true sense. He couldn’t think of a single thing at which he
could make any money except in the paper business, and that
required more capital than ever he would have. Everybody else they
knew was prospering. And perhaps it was that realization that had
thrown her back upon books and pictures and that sort of thing.
People who did things in those days were so much more interesting
than people who just made money, anyhow.
Yet she would never have entered upon that dangerous affair with
Mr. Barclay if it hadn’t been for the awful mental doldrums she found
herself in about the time Tickles was two years old and Gil was so
worried as to whether he would be able to keep his place at the Tri-
State any longer. He had put all the money they had been able to
save into that building and loan scheme, and when that had failed
they were certainly up against it for a time. There was just nothing to
do with, and there was no prospect of relief. To this day she had no
clothes to speak of. And there wasn’t much promise of getting them
now. And she wasn’t getting any younger. Still, there was Tickles,
and she was brushing up on her shorthand again. If the worst came
—
But she wouldn’t have entered upon that adventure that had come
so near to ending disastrously for herself and Tickles—for certainly if
Gil had ever found out he could have taken Tickles away from her—if
it hadn’t been for that book Heyday which Mr. Barclay wrote and
which she came across just when she was feeling so out of sorts
with life and Gil and everything. That had pictured her own life so
keenly and truly; indeed, it seemed to set her own life before her just
as it was and as though some one were telling her about herself. It
was the story of a girl somewhat like herself who had dreamed her
way through a rather pinched girlhood, having to work for a living
from the age of fourteen. And then just as she was able to make her
own way had made a foolish marriage with a man of no import in any
way—a clerk, just like Gil. And he had led her through more years of
meagre living, until at last, very tired of it all, she had been about to
yield herself to another man who didn’t care very much about her but
who had money and could do the things for her that her husband
couldn’t. Then of a sudden in this story her husband chose to
disappear and leave her to make her way as best she might. The
one difference between that story and her own life was that there
was no little Tickles to look after. And Gil would never disappear, of
course. But the heroine of the story had returned to her work without
compromising herself. And in the course of time had met an architect
who had the good sense or the romance to fall in love with and
marry her. And so the story, which was so much like hers, except for
Tickles and the architect, had ended happily.
But hers—well—
But the chances she had taken at that time! The restless and yet
dreamy mood in which she had been and moved and which
eventually had prompted her to write Mr. Barclay, feeling very
doubtful as to whether he would be interested in her and yet drawn
to him because of the life he had pictured. Her thought had been that
if he could take enough interest in a girl like the one in the book to
describe her so truly he might be a little interested in her real life.
Only her thought at first had been not to entice him; she had not
believed that she could. Rather, it was more the feeling that if he
would he might be of some help to her, since he had written so
sympathetically of Lila, the heroine. She was faced by the problem of
what to do with her life, as Lila had been, but at that she hadn’t
expected him to solve it for her—merely to advise her.
But afterwards, when he had written to thank her, she feared that
she might not hear from him again and had thought of that picture of
herself, the one Dr. Realk had taken of her laughing so heartily, the
one that everybody liked so much. She had felt that that might entice
him to further correspondence with her, since his letters were so
different and interesting, and she had sent it and asked him if his
heroine looked anything like her, just as an excuse for sending it.
Then had come that kindly letter in which he had explained his point
of view and advised her, unless she were very unhappy, to do
nothing until she should be able to look after herself in the great
world. Life was an economic problem. As for himself, he was too
much the rover to be more than a passing word to any one. His work
came first. Apart from that, he said he drifted up and down the world
trying to make the best of a life that tended to bore him. However if
ever he came that way he would be glad to look her up and advise
her as best he might, but that she must not let him compromise her
in any way. It was not advisable in her very difficult position.
Even then she had not been able to give him up, so interested had
she been by all he had written. And besides, he had eventually come
to U—— only a hundred and fifty miles away, and had written from
there to know if he might come over to see her. She couldn’t do other
than invite him, although she had known at the time that it was a
dangerous thing to do. There was no solution, and it had only
caused trouble—and how much trouble! And yet in the face of her
mood then, anything had been welcome as a relief. She had been
feeling that unless something happened to break the monotony she
would do something desperate. And then something did happen. He
had come, and there was nothing but trouble, and very much trouble,
until he had gone again.
You would have thought there was some secret unseen force
attending her and Gil at that time and leading him to wherever she
was at just the time she didn’t want him to be there. Take for
example, that matter of Gil finding Mr. Barclay’s letters in the fire
after she had taken such care to throw them on the live coals behind
some burning wood. He had evidently been able to make out a part
of the address, anyhow, for he had said they were addressed to her
in care of somebody he couldn’t make out. And yet he was all wrong,
as to the writer, of course. He had the crazy notion, based on his
having found that picture of Raskoffsky inscribed to Alice, some
months before, that they must be from him, just because he thought
she had used Alice to write and ask Raskoffsky for his picture—
which she had. But that was before she had ever read any of Mr.
Barclay’s books. Yet if it hadn’t been for Gil’s crazy notion that it was
Raskoffsky she was interested in she wouldn’t have had the courage
to face it out the way she had, the danger of losing Tickles, which
had come to her the moment Gil had proved so suspicious and
watchful, frightening her so. Those three terrible days! And imagine
him finding those bits of letters in the ashes and making something
out of them! The uncanniness of it all.
And then that time he saw her speeding through the gate into
Briscoe Park. They couldn’t have been more than a second passing
there, anyhow, and yet he had been able to pick her out! Worse, Mr.
Barclay hadn’t even intended coming back that way; they had just
made the mistake of turning down Ridgely instead of Warren. Yet, of
course, Gil had to be there, of all places, when as a rule he was
never out of the office at any time. Fortunately for her she was on
her way home, so there was no chance of his getting there ahead of
her as, plainly, he planned afterwards. Still, if it hadn’t been for her
mother whom everybody believed, and who actually believed that
she and Alice had been to the concert, she would never have had
the courage to face him. She hadn’t expected him home in the first
place, but when he did come and she realized that unless she faced
him out then and there in front of her mother who believed in her,
that she as well as he would know, there was but one thing to do—
brave it. Fortunately her mother hadn’t seen her in that coat and hat
which Gil insisted that she had on. For before going she and Alice
had taken Tickles over to her mother’s and then she had returned
and changed her dress. And before Gil had arrived Alice had gone
on home and told her mother to bring over the baby, which was the
thing that had so confused Gil really. For he didn’t know about the
change and neither did her mother. And her mother did not believe
that there had been any, which made her think that Gil was a little
crazy, talking that way. And her mother didn’t know to this day—she
was so unsuspecting.
And then that terrible night on which he thought he had seen her in
Bergley Place and came in to catch her. Would she ever forget that?
Or that evening, two days before, when he had come home and said
that Naigly had seen her coming out of the Deming. She could tell by
his manner that time that he thought nothing of that then—he was so
used to her going downtown in the daytime anyhow. But that Naigly
should have seen her just then when of all times she would rather he
would not have!
To be sure it had been a risky thing—going there to meet Mr.
Barclay in that way, only from another point of view it had not
seemed so. Every one went through the Deming Arcade for one
reason or another and that made any one’s being seen there rather
meaningless. And in the great crowd that was always there it was
the commonest thing for any one to meet any one else and stop and
talk for a moment anyhow. That was all she was there for that day—
to see Mr. Barclay on his arrival and make an appointment for the
next day. She had done it because she knew she couldn’t stay long
and she knew Gil wouldn’t be out at that time and that if any one else
saw her she could say that it was almost any one they knew casually
between them. Gil was like that, rather easy at times. But to think
that Naigly should have been passing the Deming just as she was
coming out—alone, fortunately—and should have run and told Gil.
That was like him. It was pure malice. He had never liked her since
she had turned him down for Gil. And he would like to make trouble
for her if he could, that was all. That was the way people did who
were disappointed in love.
But the worst and the most curious thing of all was that last
evening in Bergley Place, the last time she ever saw Mr. Barclay
anywhere. That was odd. She had known by then, of course, that Gil
was suspicious and might be watching her and she hadn’t intended
to give him any further excuse for complaint. But that was his lodge
night and he had never missed a meeting since they had been
married—not one. Besides she had only intended to stay out about
an hour and always within range of the house so that if Gil got off the
car or any one else came she would know of it. She had not even
turned out the light in the dining-room, intending to say if Gil came
back unexpectedly or any one else called, that she had just run
around the corner in the next block to see Mrs. Stofft. And in order
that that statement might not be questioned, she had gone over
there for just a little while before Mr. Barclay was due to arrive with
his car. She had even asked Mr. Barclay to wait in the shadow of the
old Dalrymple house in Bergley Place, under the trees, in order that
the car might not be seen. So few people went up that street,
anyhow. And it was always so dark in there. Besides it was near to
raining which made it seem safer still. And yet he had seen her. And
just as she was about to leave. And when she had concluded that
everything had turned out so well.
But how could she have foreseen that a big car with such powerful
lights as that would have turned in there just then. Or that Gil would
step off the car and look up that way? Or that he would be coming
home an hour earlier when he never did—not from lodge meeting.
And besides she hadn’t intended to go out that evening at all until
Mr. Barclay called up and said he must leave the next day, for a few
days anyhow, and wanted to see her before he went. She had
thought that if they stayed somewhere in the neighborhood in a
closed car, as he suggested, it would be all right. But, no. That big
car had to turn in there just when it did, and Gil had to be getting off
the car and looking up Bergley Place just when it did, and she had to
be standing there saying good-bye, just as the lights flashed on that
spot. Some people might be lucky, but certainly she was not one of
them. The only thing that had saved her was the fact that she had
been able to get in the house ahead of Gil, hang up her cape and go
in to her room and undress and see if Tickles was still asleep. And
yet when he did burst in she had felt that she could not face him—he
was so desperate and angry. And yet, good luck, it had ended in his
doubting whether he had really seen her or not, though even to this
day he would never admit that he doubted.
 But the real reason why she hadn’t seen Mr. Barclay since (and
that in the face of the fact that he had been here in the city once
since, and that, as he wrote, he had taken such a fancy to her and
wanted to see her and help her in any way she chose), was not that
she was afraid of Gil or that she liked him more than she did Mr.
Barclay (they were too different in all their thoughts and ways for
that) or that she would have to give up her life here and do
something else, if Gil really should have found out (she wouldn’t
have minded that at all)—but because only the day before Mr.
Barclay’s last letter she had found out that under the law Gil would
have the power to take Tickles away from her and not let her see him
any more if he caught her in any wrongdoing. That was the thing that
had frightened her more than anything else could have and had
decided her, then and there, that whatever it was she was thinking
she might want to do, it could never repay her for the pain and agony
that the loss of Tickles would bring her. She had not really stopped to
think of that before. Besides on the night of that quarrel with Gil, that
night he thought he saw her in Bergley Place and he had sworn that
if ever he could prove anything he would take Tickles away from her,
or, that he would kill her and Tickles and himself and Raskoffsky
(Raskoffsky!), it was then really that she had realized that she
couldn’t do without Tickles—no, not for a time even. Her dream of a
happier life would be nothing without him—she knew that. And so it
was that she had fought there as she had to make Gil believe he
was mistaken, even in the face of the fact that he actually knew he
had seen her. It was the danger of the loss of Tickles that had given
her the courage and humor and calmness, the thought of what the
loss of him would mean, the feeling that life would be colorless and
blank unless she could take him with her wherever she went,
whenever that might be, if ever it was.
And so when Gil had burst in as he did she had taken up Tickles
and faced him, after Gil’s loud talk had waked him. And Tickles had
put his arms about her neck and called “Mama! Mama!” even while
she was wondering how she was ever to get out of that scrape. And
then because he had fallen asleep again, lying close to her neck,
even while Gil was quarreling, she had told herself then that if she
came through that quarrel safely she would never do anything more
to jeopardize her claim to Tickles, come what might. And with that
resolution she had been able to talk to Gil so convincingly and
defiantly that he had finally begun to doubt his own senses, as she
could see. And so it was that she had managed to face him out and
to win completely.
And then the very next day she had called up Mr. Barclay and told
him that she couldn’t go on with that affair, and why—that Tickles
meant too much to her, that she would have to wait and see how her
life would work out. And he had been so nice about it then and had
sympathized with her and had told her that, all things considered, he
believed she was acting wisely and for her own happiness. And so
she had been. Only since he had written her and she had had to say
no to him again. And now he had gone for good. And she admired
him so much. And she had never heard from him since, for she had
asked him not to write to her unless she first wrote to him.
But with how much regret she had done that! And how
commonplace and humdrum this world looked at times now, even
with the possession of Tickles. Those few wonderful days.... And that
dream that had mounted so high. Yet she had Tickles. And in the
novel the husband had gone away and the architect had appeared.
 XIV
THE “MERCY” OF GOD
“Once, one of his disciples, walking with him in the garden, said:
‘Master, how may I know the Infinite, the Good, and attain to union
with it, as thou hast?’ And he replied: ‘By desiring it utterly, with all thy
heart and with all thy mind.’ And the disciple replied: ‘But that I do.’
‘Nay, not utterly,’ replied the Master, ‘or thou wouldst not now ask how
thou mayst attain to union with it. But come with me,’ he added, ‘and I
will show thee.’ And he led the way to a stream, and into the water,
and there, by reason of his greater strength, he seized upon his
disciple and immersed him completely, so that presently he could not
breathe but must have suffocated and drowned had it not been his
plan to bring him forth whole. Only when, by reason of this, the
strength of the disciple began to wane and he would have drowned,
the Master drew him forth and stretched him upon the bank and
restored him. And when he was sufficiently restored and seeing that
he was not dead but whole, he exclaimed: ‘But, Master, why didst thou
submerge me in the stream and hold me there until I was like to die?’
And the Master replied: ‘Didst thou not say that above all things thou
desirest union with the Infinite?’ ‘Yea, true; but in life, not death.’ ‘That
I know,’ answered the Master. ‘But now tell me: When thou wast thus
held in the water what was it that thou didst most desire?’ ‘To be
restored to breath, to life.’ ‘And how much didst thou desire it?’ ‘As
thou sawest—with all my strength and with all my mind.’ ‘Verily. Then
when in life thou desirest union with the All-Good, the Infinite, as
passionately as thou didst life in the water, it will come. Thou wilt know
it then, and not before.’”
Keshub Chunder Sen.

A FRIEND of mine, a quite celebrated neurologist, psychiatrist,

and interpreter of Freud, and myself were met one night to
discuss a very much talked-of book of his, a book of clinical studies
relative to various obsessions, perversions and inhibitions which had
afflicted various people in their day and which he, as a specialist in
these matters, had investigated and attempted to alleviate. To begin
with, I should say that he had filled many difficult and responsible
positions in hospitals, asylums, and later, as a professor of these
matters, occupied a chair in one of our principal universities. He was
kindly, thoughtful, and intensely curious as to the workings of this
formula we call life, but without lending himself to any—at least to
very few—hard and fast dogmas. More interesting still life appeared
to interest but never to discourage him. He really liked it. Pain, he
said, he accepted as an incentive, an urge to life. Strife he liked
because it hardened all to strength. And he believed in action as the
antidote to too much thought, the way out of brooding and sorrow.
Youth passes, strength passes, life forms pass; but action makes all
bearable and even enjoyable. Also he wanted more labor, not less,
more toil, more exertion, for humanity. And he insisted that through,
not round or outside, life lay the way to happiness, if there was a
way. But with action all the while. So much for his personal point of
view.
On the other hand he was always saying of me that I had a touch
of the Hindu in me, the Far East, the Brahmin. I emphasized too
much indifference to life—or, if not that, I quarreled too much with
pain, unhappiness, and did not impress strongly enough the need of
action. I was forever saying that the strain was too great, that there
had best be less of action, less of pain.... As to the need of less pain,
I agreed, but never to the need of less action; in verification of which
I pointed to my own life, the changes I had deliberately courted, the
various activities I had entered upon, the results I had sought for. He
was not to be routed from his contention entirely, nor I from mine.
Following this personal analysis we fell to discussing a third man,
whom we both admired, an eminent physiologist, then connected
with one of the great experimental laboratories of the world, who had
made many deductions and discoveries in connection with the
associative faculty of the brain and the mechanics of associative
memory. This man was a mechanist, not an evolutionist, and of the
most convinced type. To him nowhere in nature was there any
serene and directive and thoughtful conception which brought about,
and was still bringing about continually, all the marvels of structure
and form and movement that so arrest and startle our intelligence at
every turn. Nowhere any constructive or commanding force which
had thought out, for instance, and brought to pass flowers, trees,
animals, men—associative order and community life. On the
contrary, the beauty of nature as well as the order of all living, such
as it is, was an accident, and not even a necessary one, yet
unescapable, a condition or link in an accidental chain. If you would
believe him and his experiments, the greatest human beings that
ever lived and the most perfect states of society that ever were have
no more significance in nature than the most minute ephemera. The
Macedonian Alexander is as much at the mercy of fate as the lowest
infusoria. For every germ that shoots up into a tree thousands are
either killed or stunted by unfavorable conditions; and although,
beyond question, many of them—the most—bear within themselves
the same power as the successful ones to be and to do, had they the
opportunity, still they fail—a belief of my own in part, albeit a hard
doctrine.
One would have thought, as I said to Professor Z—— at this
meeting, that such a mental conviction would be dulling and
destructive to initiative and force, and I asked him why he thought it
had not operated to blunt and destroy this very great man. “For the
very reasons I am always emphasizing,” he replied. “Pain, necessity,
life stung him into action and profound thought, hence success. He is
the person he is by reason of enforced mental and physical action.”
“But,” I argued, “his philosophy makes him account it all as
worthless, or, if not that, so fleeting and unstable as to make it
scarcely worth the doing, even though he does it. As he sees it,
happiness and tribulation, glory and obscurity, are all an accident.
Science, industry, politics, like races and planets, are accidents.
Trivial conditions cause great characters and geniuses like himself to
rest or to remain inactive, and mediocre ones are occasionally
permitted to execute great deeds or frustrate them in the absence of
the chance that might have produced a master. Circumstances are
stronger than personalities, and the impotence of individuals is the
tragedy of everyday life.”
“Quite so,” agreed my friend, “and there are times when I am
inclined to agree with him, but at most times not. I used to keep
hanging in one of my offices, printed and framed, that famous
quotation from Ecclesiastes: ‘I returned, and saw under the sun that
the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet
bread to the wise, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance
happeneth to them all.’ But I took it down because it was too
discouraging. And yet,” he added after a time, because we both fell
silent at this point, “although I still think it is true, as time has gone on
and I have experimented with life and with people I have come to
believe that there is something else in nature, some not as yet
understood impulse, which seeks to arrange and right and balance
things at times. I know that this sounds unduly optimistic and vainly
cheerful, especially from me, and many—you, for one, will disagree
—but I have sometimes encountered things in my work which have
caused me to feel that nature isn’t altogether hard or cruel or
careless, even though accidents appear to happen.”
“Accidents?” I said; “holocausts, you mean.” But he continued:
“Of course, I do not believe in absolute good or absolute evil,
although I do believe in relative good and relative evil. Take
tenderness and pity, in some of their results at least. Our friend Z
——, on the contrary, sees all as accident, or blind chance and
without much if any real or effective pity or amelioration, a state that I
cannot reason myself into. Quite adversely, I think there is something
that helps life along or out of its difficulties. I know that you will not
agree with me; still, I believe it, and while I do not think there is any
direct and immediate response, such as the Christian Scientists and
the New Thought devotees would have us believe, I know there is a
response at times, or at least I think there is, and I think I can prove
it. Take dreams, for instance, which, as Freud has demonstrated, are
nature’s way of permitting a man to sleep in the presence of some
mental worry that would tend to keep him awake, or if he had fallen
asleep, and stood in danger to wake him.”
I waived that as a point, but then he referred to medicine and
surgery and all the mechanical developments as well as the
ameliorative efforts of life, such as laws relating to child labor,
workingmen’s compensation and hours, compulsory safety devices
and the like, as specific proofs of a desire on the part of nature,
working through man, to make life easier for man, a wish on her part
to provide him, slowly and stumblingly, mayhap, with things helpful to
him in his condition here. Without interrupting him, I allowed him to
call to mind the Protestant Reformation, how it had ended once and
for all the iniquities of the Inquisition; the rise of Christianity, and how,
temporarily at least, it had modified if not entirely ended the
brutalities of Paganism. Anesthetics, and how they had served to
ameliorate pain. I could have pointed out that life itself was living on
life and always had been, and that as yet no substitute for the flesh
of helpless animals had been furnished man as food. (He could not
hear my thoughts.) The automobile, he went on, had already
practically eliminated the long sufferings of the horse; our anti-
slavery rebellion and humane opposition in other countries had once
and for all put an end to human slavery; also he called to mind the
growth of humane societies of one kind and another, that ministered
to many tortured animals. And humane laws were being constantly
passed and enforced to better if not entirely cure inhuman
conditions.
I confess I was interested, if not convinced. In spite of life itself
existing on life, there was too much in what he said to permit any
one to pass over it indifferently. But there came to my mind just the
same all the many instances of crass accident and brutish
mischance which are neither prevented nor cured by anything—the
thousands who are annually killed in railroad accidents and industrial
plants, despite protective mechanisms and fortifying laws compelling
their use; the thousands who die yearly from epidemics of influenza,
smallpox, yellow fever, cholera and widespread dissemination of
cancer, consumption and related ills. These I mentioned. He
admitted the force of the point but insisted that man, impelled by
nature, not only for his own immediate protection but by reason of a
sympathy aroused through pain endured by him, was moved to
kindly action. Besides if nature loved brutality and inhumanity and
suffering why should any atom of it wish to escape pain, and why in
those atoms should it generate sympathy and tears and rejoicing at
escape from suffering by man, why sorrow and horror at the
accidental or intentional infliction of disaster on man by nature or
man?