Don Christobal, drawn from the smoking-room by the noise, jeered at his daughter’s fears. Uncle Francis, too, appeared in a night-cap, which started everybody laughing except Maria-Teresa. To quieten her, the major-domo was sent round the house and explored the grounds. He returned to report that he had found nothing.

“You are worried by what you saw this afternoon, my child,” said the Marquis.

But Maria-Teresa would not reenter the room, and ordered another on the opposite side of the villa to be prepared for her. Dick, using every argument he could think of, finally convinced her that she had been the victim of a hallucination. Half ashamed of herself, she made him go out to the first-floor balcony with her, trying, in her turn, to efface any unfavorable impression she might have made.

they were was almost directly over the sea, for on this side the beach reached right up to the walls of the villa. After a time, the immense peace of the night completed Dick’s work, and the girl was perfectly quiet when she took off her bracelet.

“I think this is what has been worrying me,” she said. “I never before imagined that I saw a ghost....” And she threw the bracelet into the sea.

“A very good place for it,” agreed Dick. “A ring will do ever so much better. You do at all events know where that comes from.”

Before long the whole house was at rest, and the remainder of the night passed by quietly. But at seven o’clock, when people were beginning to stir again, an agonized scream from Maria-Teresa’s room sent the servants rushing to her aid. When they entered the room, they found their mistress sitting up in Red, staring at her wrist with horror-stricken eyes. The Golden Sun bracelet had returned during the night I do not know the immediate sequel to the foregoing correspondence.!
BOOK II—THE LIVING PAST I
Dick was nearly as frightened as Maria-Teresa when he found what had happened. On the previous night he himself had seen her throw the bracelet into the sea, and yet it was there on her arm again when she woke up. What could it all mean? He could find nothing to say, and in spite of himself began to go over the terrible legend told by the two old ladies. It was preposterous, impossible, but he could not help believing in it now.

The Marquis and Uncle Francis, brought out by the noise, joined the others in the young girl’s room. Don Christobal’s sharp voice drove the servants from the room and brought out the whole story. Dick confessed his duplicity in the matter of the bracelet, and told how the jewel had been thrown away.

Maria-Teresa was shaking with fever, and her father took her in his arms. He was less worried by the strange story told him than by the state in which his daughter was. He had always seen her so calm, so sure of herself, that her terror shook all his own matter-of-fact convictions.

As to Uncle Francis, half-pleased with this striking story for his next book, he could only repeat:—“But it’s impossible, you know. Quite impossible.”

And then it was all explained in the most absurdly obvious way. Little Concha, back from marketing at Ancon, hurried to her mistress’ room and brought the solution of the mystery with her. Childishly naive, she explained that, on going out onto the beach in the morning, she had seen something glitter in the sand. She picked the object up, and found that it was a bracelet, which she recognized as one worn by her mistress on the previous day. Thinking that it had been lost from the balcony, and rushing to give Maria-Teresa a pleasant surprise, she had put it on her arm again without waking her. A huge burst of laughter from them all greeted the end of her simple story and Concha, terribly vexed, ran out of the room.
 

It was not much that was wanted. To make no mysteries where Nature has made none, to bring his conscience under some% like reasonable control, to give Ernest his head a little more, to ask fewer questions, and to give him pocket-money with a desire it should be spent upon menus plaisirs. . . .

“Call that not much indeed,” laughed Ernest, as I read him what I have just written. “Why, it is the whole duty of a father, but it is the mystery-making which is the worst evil. If people, would dare to speak to one another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the world a hundred years hence.”

To return, however, to Roughborough. On the day of his leaving, when he was sent for into the library to be shaken hands with, he was surprised to feel that, though assuredly glad to leave, he did not do so with any especial grudge against the Doctor rankling in his breast. He had come to the end of it all, and was still alive, nor, take it all round, more seriously amiss than other people. Dr. Skinner received him graciously, and was even frolicsome after his own heavy fashion. Young people are almost always placable, and Ernest felt as he went away that another such interview would not only have wiped off all old scores, but have brought him round into the ranks of the Doctor’s admirers and supporters — among whom it is only fair to say that the greater number of the more promising boys were found　I do not know the immediate sequel to the foregoing correspondence..

bye the Doctor actually took down a volume from those shelves which had seemed so awful six years previously, and gave it to him after having written his name in it, and the words Philias Kai Eunoias Charhin, which I believe means “with all kind wishes from donor.” The book was one written in Latin by a German -Schomann: “De comitiis Atheniensibus”— not exactly light and cheerful reading, but Ernest felt it was high time he got to understand the Athenian constitution and manner of voting; he had got them up a great many times already, but had forgotten them as fast as he had learned them; now, however, that the Doctor had given him this book, he would master the subject once for all. How strange it How strange it was! I He wanted to remember these things very badly; he knew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself they no sooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again, he had such a dreadful memory; whereas, if anyone played him a piece of music and told him where it came from, he never forgot that, though he made no effort to retain it, and was not even conscious of trying to remember it at all. His mind must be badly formed and he was no good.

 

The herd regards the exception, whether it be above or beneath its general level, as something which is antagonistic and dangerous to itself. Their trick in dealing with the exceptions above them, the strong, the mighty, the wise, and the fruitful, is to persuade them to become guardians, herdsmen, and watchmen—in fact, to become[Pg 293] their head-servants: thus they convert a danger into a thing which is useful. 

My teaching is this, that the herd seeks to maintain and preserve one type of man, and that it defends itself on two sides—that is to say, against those which are decadents from its ranks (criminals, etc.), and against those who rise superior to its dead level. 236

My philosophy aims at a new order of rank: not at an individualistic morality. The spirit of the herd should rule within the herd—but not beyond it: the leaders of the herd require a fundamentally different valuation for their actions. 

Conscience condemns an action because that action has been condemned for a long period of time: all conscience does is to imitate: it does not create values. That which first led to the condemnation of certain actions, was not conscience: but the knowledge of (or the prejudice against) its consequences.... The approbation of conscience, the feeling of well-being, of "inner peace," is of the same order of emotions as the artist's joy over his work—it proves nothing.

By what means does a virtue attain to power?—With precisely the same means as a political party: slander, suspicion, the undermining of opposing virtues that happen to be already in power, the changing of their names, systematic persecution and scorn; in short, by means of acts of general "immorality.

Cruelty has become transformed and elevated into tragic pity, so that we no longer recognise it as such. The same has happened to the love of the sexes which has become amour-passion; the slavish attitude of mind appears as Christian obedience; wretchedness becomes humility; the disease of the nervus sympathicus, for[Pg 294] instance, is eulogised as Pessimism, Pascalism, or Carlylism, etc. 

g race or class are declared to be the most evil and pernicious things it has: for by means of them it may be harmful to us.

I recognise virtue in that: (1) it does not insist upon being recognised; (2) it does not presuppose the existence of virtue everywhere, but precisely something else; (3) it does not suffer from the absence of virtue, but regards it rather as a relation of perspective which throws virtue into relief: it does not proclaim itself; (4) it makes no propaganda; (5) it allows no one to pose as judge because it is always a personal virtue; (6) it does precisely what is generally forbidden: virtue as I understand it is the actual vetitum within all gregarious legislation; (7) in short, I recognise virtue in that it is in the Renaissance style—virtu—free from all moralic acid The whole of morality of Europe is based upon the values which are useful to the herd..

Lust of property, lust of power, laziness, simplicity, fear; all these things are interested in virtue; that is why it stands so securely. 

Vice is a somewhat arbitrary epitome of certain effects resulting from physiological degeneracy. A general proposition such as that which Christianity teaches, namely, "Man is evil," would be justified provided one were justified in regarding a given type of degenerate man as normal. But this may be an exaggeration. Of course, wherever Christianity prospers and prevails, the proposition holds good: for then the existence of an unhealthy soil—of a degenerate territory—is demonstrated. It is difficult to have sufficient respect for man, when one sees how he understands the art of fighting his way,[Pg 295] of enduring, of turning circumstances to his own advantage, and of overthrowing opponents; but when he is seen in the light of his desires, he is the most absurd of all animals.

The most significant brief essay in this section is an answer made to certain critics who, in reviewing "Beyond Good and Evil," claimed a superiority for the present age over the older civilisations. Nietzsche calls this essay "Have We Become Moral?" and proceeds to make comparisons of contemporaneous virtues with those of the ancients. He denies that to-day, without our decrepit humanitarianism and our doctrines of weakness, we would be able to withstand, either nervously or muscularly, the conditions that prevailed during the Renaissance. He points out that our morals are those of senility, and that we have deteriorated, physically as well as mentally, as a result of an adherence to a code of morality invented to meet the needs of a weak and impoverished[Pg 238] people. Our virtues, he says, are determined and stimulated by our weakness, so that we have come to admire the moralities of the slave, the most prominent among which is the doctrine of equality.

forces of life Nietzsche sees only racial decadence. In this regard it is important to take note of one of the passages relative to the discussion of this decadence, namely: the one wherein he characterises the anarchist as "the mouthpiece of the decaying strata of society." The appellation of "anarchist" has not infrequently been applied to Nietzsche himself by those who have read him superficially or whose acquaintance with him has been the result of distorted hearsay. I know of no better analysis of anarchistic motives or of no keener dissection of anarchistic weakness than is set forth here. Nor do I know of any better answer to those critics who have accused Nietzsche of anarchy, than the criticism contained in this passage.

Moral judgment has this in common with the religious one, that it believes in realities which are not real. Morality is only an interpretation of certain phenomena: or more strictly speaking, a misinterpretation of them. Moral judgment, like the religious one, belongs to a stage of ignorance in which even the concept of reality, the distinction between real and imagined things, is still lacking.... 

of the Middle Ages, during which the Church was most distinctly and above all a menagerie, the most beautiful examples of the "blond beast" were hunted down in all directions,—the noble Germans, for instance, were "improved." But what did this "improved" German, who had been lured to the monastery look like after the process? He looked like a caricature of man, like an abortion: he had become a "sinner," he was caged up, he had been imprisoned behind a host of appalling notions. He now lay there, sick, wretched, malevolent even toward himself: full of hate for the instincts of life, full of suspicion in regard to all that is still strong and happy. In short a "Christian." In physiological terms: in a fight with an animal, the only way of making it weak may be to make it sick. The Church understood this: it ruined man, it made him weak,—but it laid claim to having "improved" him Whether I look with a good or an evil eye upon men..

All means which have been used heretofore with the object of making man moral, were through and through immoral.
My impossible people—Seneca, or the toreador of virtue.—Rousseau, or the return to nature, in impuris naturalibus.—Schiller, or the Moral Trumpeter of S?ckingen.—Dante, or the hy?na that writes poetry in tombs.—Kant, or cant as an intelligible character.—Victor Hugo,[Pg 242] or the lighthouse on the sea of nonsense.—Liszt, or the school of racing—after women.—George Sand, or lactea ubertas, in plain English: the cow with plenty beautiful milk.—Michelet, or enthusiasm in its shirt sleeves.—Carlyle, or Pessimism after undigested meals.—John Stuart Mill, or offensive lucidity.—The brothers Goncourt, or the two Ajaxes fighting with Homer. Music by Offenbach.—Zola, or the love of stinking.
 

"I came off in one of the canoes, sir, and watching my chance jumped into the hold. I was willing[265] to fight for my liberty, but I was afraid that if I tried to join in with you, you would kill me, not knowing who I was, and if you didn't the natives would, when they saw me trying to desert 'em; and I was so anxious to see my home and family once more that I didn't dare run any risks."

Chips then went on to tell how he came to be a prisoner in the hands of the islanders. His narrative would make an interesting chapter by itself; but as it has no bearing on our story, and nothing to do with the events that happened afterward, we condense it into a few sentences. The ship to which he belonged was wrecked while lying at the island to fill up with water. A furious storm first disabled her, so that she could not make an offing, and then drove her high and dry upon the bar. Only two of the crew succeeded in reaching the shore, Chips and another, and they were immediately pounced upon by the natives, who carried them in triumph to their principal village, which was hidden away among the rocky gorges in the interior of the island. They found four other prisoners[266] there, and it was owing to their influence that Chips was so well received. He was a carpenter, and just the man the natives wanted. His companion, however, was nothing but a foremast hand, and not being of any particular use, he was harshly treated, and was often in danger of his life. Being driven desperate at last, he seized the first opportunity for escape that presented itself, and succeeded, at very great risk, in swimming off to a ship that came there for water. He warned the captain off, most likely, for the vessel went away at once, and it was probably through him that the news of the loss of the Mary Starbuck was carried to Nantucket. The five prisoners who were left were constantly on the alert to elude the vigilance of their captors, but this was the first opportunity that Chips had ever found. He and his companions were allowed the freedom of the island until a vessel hove in sight, and then they were hurried to the village and kept under guard as long as she remained.

at last that there was but one way to accomplish his object, Chips made himself[267] perfectly at home on the island, acted quite contented, and finally succeeded in making the natives believe that he had no desire to leave them. He became a savage to all intents and purposes. He took part in their dances and pow-wows, joined in their debates, tried to teach them the use of the fire-arms they found on the vessels that fell into their hands, and so won their confidence that they permitted him to take part in the attack on the Tycoon. Watching his chance, while the fight was in progress, he slipped into the hold, and there he was among his own kind once more From thecrest ofa waveon which hestruck..

"And now I hope you'll lend a hand to them poor fellows I left behind, sir," said Chips, in conclusion. "It can be easy done now, but to-morrow it'll be too late. There ain't more'n a hundred fighting men on the island, but to-night they'll send off canoes after help, and in the morning, if you're here, you will have an army of 'em howling about you."

"How far is it to the village?" asked Mr. Gale.

"O, you'll not have to go back to the principal[268] town, sir," answered Chips. "There's a little fishing village right here on the beach, and the natives will all be there to-night, holding a grand pow-wow and waiting for the help that's coming to-morrow. If we can get close to them and give them a volley before they know it, they'll run like deer!"