Life Of John Milton - Richard Garnett (i wanna iguana read aloud txt) 📗

Chapter 9 Pg 81

    Of That Wild Rout That Tore The Thracian Bard."

 

This Allusion To The Licentiousness Of The Restoration Literature Could

Hardly Have Been Made Until Its Tendencies Had Been Plainly Developed.

At This Time "Paradise Lost" Was Half Finished. ("Half Yet Remains

Unsung.") The Remark Permits Us To Conclude That Milton Conceived And

Executed His Poem As A Whole,  Going Steadily Through It,  And Not Leaving

Gaps To Be Supplied At Higher Or Lower Levels Of Inspiration. There Is

No Evidence Of Any Resort To Older Material,  Except In The Case Of

Satan's Address To The Sun.

 

The Publication Of "Paradise Lost" Was Impeded Like The Birth Of

Hercules. In 1665 London Was A City Of The Dying And The Dead; In 1666

The Better Part Of It Was Laid In Ashes. One Remarkable Incident Of The

Calamity Was The Destruction Of The Stocks Of The Booksellers,  Which Had

Been Brought Into The Vaults Of St. An Hold

Out?--With The Terror Of Death Lasting For Weeks?"

 

"Haven't You Just A Little Confidence?" Asked The Judge.  "Haven't We

All To Endure Uncertainty?--The Judge As Well As The Condemned Man?"

 

"But What Am I To Do?" Demanded Konrad.  "How Am I To Employ Myself All

The Dreadful Time?  It's Being Buried Alive."

 

"Unhappily It's Not In My Power To Give You A Better Room,  Though You

Haven't The Worst Cell In The Building.  But Perhaps You Have Some

Other Desire That Can Be Granted.  Speak Out Frankly,  Ferleitner," Said

The Judge.

 

Therewith He Folded The Paper,  And Put The Writing Materials Into His

Coat Pocket.  Konrad Followed His Proceedings With His Eyes.  He Could

Not Comprehend How This Dread Personage Came To Speak To Him In So

Kindly A Fashion.  "As To The Room," He Said,  "It's All I Need--When

You've Nothing To Do,  And Are Not Likely To Have Anything To Do,  What

Can A Man Want?  If A Man Isn't Free,  Nothing Else Matters.  But One

Thing--I Have One Request,  Sir."

 

"Then Speak It," Said The Judge,  And Holding Konrad's Hand Firmly In

His,  Broke Out With: "Don't You See,  It's Cruel To Think,  To Believe,

That We Must Be The Personal Enemies Of All Whom We're Obliged To

Condemn.  You Think The Proceedings In Court Were So Callous,  You've No

Idea How We Actually Feel About The Business.  It Is Not Only The

Accused Who Passes Sleepless Nights--The Judge,  Too,  Knows Them.  We

Lawyers--Outside Our Profession--Have Founded An Association To Support

And Encourage Those We Are Obliged To Pronounce Guilty,  That They May

Not Sink Down Uncomforted.  So,  My Dear Ferleitner,  You May Trust Me

That,  As Far As I Can,  I Will Alleviate Your Position."

 

Then Konrad,  Looking Down On The Floor,  Said: "I Should Like To Have

Writing Materials."

 

"You Want To Write?" Asked The Judge.

 

"If I Might Ask For Paper,  Pens,  And Ink," Returned Konrad.  "In Former

Chapter 9 Pg 82

Years I Used To Like Writing Down My Thoughts--Just As They Came,  I Had

Little Education."

 

"You Wish To Write To Your Friends?" Inquired The Judge.

 

"Oh No!  If I Had Any,  They'd Be Glad Not To Hear From Me," Said Konrad.

 

"Or To Draw Up A Plea Of Justification?"

 

"No."

 

"Or An Account Of Your Life?"

 

"No,  Not That Either.  My Life Has Not Been Good Enough.  Misfortune

Should Be Forgotten Rather Than Recorded.  No,  I Think I Can Write

Something Else," Stated Konrad.

 

"You Shall Have Writing Materials," Said The Judge.  "And Is There

Anything Else?  A More Comfortable Bed?"

 

"No,  Thank You.  It's Right Enough As It Is.  If A Hard Bed Was The

Only Thing----"

 

"And Is Everything Kept Properly Neat And Clean?" Interrupted The Judge.

 

"If You're Always Waiting And Thinking,  'Now,  Now,  They're Coming!' I

Tell You,  Sir,  You Don't Sleep Well," Replied Konrad.

 

"Don't Keep Worrying Yourself With Ideas,  Ferleitner," Said The Judge

Warningly To The Man,  Who Had Again Worked Himself Up Into A State Of

Excitement.  "Not One Of Us Knows What The Next Hour May Bring,  And Yet

We Live On Calmly.  Use The Time," He Continued Playfully,  "In Avenging

Your Condemnation By Some Great Literary Work.  In Olden Times Great

Minds Often Did It."

 

"I Can't Write A Great Work," Answered Konrad.  "And I've Nothing To

Avenge.  I Deserve Death.  But It's This Waiting For It.  The Torments

Of Hell Cannot Be Worse."

 

"We've Nothing To Do With Hell.  We've Merely To Think Of The Purgatory

In Which We Are Placed.  Let Heaven,  As They Say,  Follow.  Haven't You

Any Business To Arrange?  Nothing To Settle For Anyone?" Asked The

Judge.

 

"No One,  No One!" Konrad Assured Him.

 

"That's A Piece Of Luck That Many Of Your Comrades In Misfortune Would

Envy You.  A Man Can Settle Things Easily For Himself Alone.  If It's

Any Consolation,  Ferleitner,  I May Tell You That We Don't Regard You As

A Scoundrel,  Only As A Poor Creature Who Has Been Led Astray.  Now

That's Enough For The Present.  Your Modest Request Shall Be Granted At

Once."

 

After This Remarkable Conversation With The Poor Sinner,  The Judge Left

Chapter 9 Pg 83

The Cell.  He Was Not Satisfied.  HAd He Not Listened Enough,  Or Had He

Spoken Too Much?  How Could So Childlike A Creature Take An Oath To

Commit Murder?  In The Corridor He Spoke Seriously To The Gaoler.

 

"I Must Point Out To You That The Man Is Very Ill.  Don't Treat Him

Harshly."

 

The Old Man Was Annoyed.

 

"I Beg Your Pardon,  Sir!  To Treat A Poor Devil Like That Harshly!  If

You Pity Him,  Why Were You So Rough With Him?"  He Rubbed A Lamp-Glass

With A Coarse Rag In Order To Get The Black Off.  "'To Die By Hanging.'

Even Said As Gently As That,  It Hurts More Than When We Roundly Abuse

The People,  And Yet That's At Once Taken Amiss.  Only To Prove It.

Ill!  Of Course He's Ill,  Poor Devil.  I Am Only Surprised The Doctors

Haven't Been To Cure Him.  I Suppose He's Well Enough To Be Hanged?"

 

"That Will Do,  Trapser."

 

The Gaoler Put Down His Work,  Stood Up Straight In Military Fashion,

And Said: "Sir,  I Beg To Resign My Post."

 

"What!" Exclaimed The Judge,  "You Wish To Go?"

 

"I Respectfully Hand In My Resignation."  He Stood Up Straight As A

Dart.  "Do You Know,  I've Got Accustomed To Most Things Here In

Six-And-Twenty Years,  I've Seen Seventeen Hanged--Just Seventeen,  Sir.

There Ought To Have Been Twenty-Four,  But Seven Were Granted

Imprisonment For Life.  They're Still Undergoing That Mercy.  Do You

Know,  Sir,  It's A Miserable Calling!  But As To That Ferleitner,  I

Never Afore Saw Anything Like Him.  What Has He Done,  I Ask You?  He's

Done Nothing.  You See We've Had Quite Different Gallows-Birds Here.  A

Speculator Who Had Ruined Six Families And Driven The Seventh To

Suicide--Eight Months.  A Student With Two Duel Murders On His

Conscience--Six Months.  But He Is There Now--Because He's Done

Nothing,  It Seems To Me.  Well,  The Long And The Short Of It Is,  It

Horrifies Me."

 

"Always The Same In Temper And Disposition,  You Old Bear!  God Keep

You!"  And Then A Kindly Tap On The Shoulder.  The Attempt At

Resignation Was Again Met With A Refusal.  The Judge Formally Put It

Aside.  But The Old Man Growled On For A Long Time.  "Old Bear! Old

Bear!  That's His Whole Stock Of Wit Every Time,  I'll Show Him The Old

Bear.  Good God! That's How Things Are With Us!"  He Whistled And Made

A Harsh Noise With His Bunch Of Keys So That The Prisoners Could Make

Their Preparations Before He Performed His Duty Of Looking Through The

Spyhole To See How His Charges Were Spending Their Time.  Then He Went

And Procured A Big Bottle Of Ink And A Packet Of Foolscap Paper For

Number 19.

 

"Is That Enough?" He Asked.

 

"Thank You,  Thank You!" Said Ferleitner; "Only Now I Want A Pen."

Chapter 9 Pg 84

 

"Oh No,  My Dear Sir,  No.  We Know That Sort Of Thing.  Since The Notary

In Number 43 Stabbed Himself With A Steel Pen Five Years Ago,  I Don't

Give Any More," Said The Gaoler.

 

"But I Can't Write Without A Pen," Returned Konrad.

 

"That's Not My Business; I Can't Let You Have A Pen," The Old Man

Assured Him.

 

"The Judge Gave Me Permission To Have One," Konrad Remonstrated

Modestly.

 

Then The Old Man Exclaimed Afresh: "Do You Know This Judge,  He Just

Comes Up As Far As This," And He Placed His Hand On A Level With His

Chin.  "He Crumbles Everything Up And Then We're To Spoon It Out."

Then He Muttered Indistinctly In His Beard; "I Say Just This,  If They

Let A Man Hang For A Week Before They Hang Him,  It's A--A--Good God!  I

Can't Properly--I Can't Find Any More Fine Words!  If A Man Puts A

Knife Into Himself,  No Wonder!"

 

"I Shan't Kill Myself," Said Konrad Quietly.  "They Say I May Put My

Hopes In The King."

 

"And You Want To Write To Him?  That Won't Help Much,  But You Can Do It

If You Like; There's Time.  For Once It's A Good Thing That Our

Officials Are So Slow.  If It's Any Comfort To You,  You May Know That

They Wrong Me,  Too.  They Won't Accept My Resignation.  Yes,  That's How

It Is With Us," Concluded The Old Man.

 

Then He Went And Brought A Pot With Rusty Steel Pens.  "But Don't You

Spoil Them!"  For They Were The Very Pens With Which Death-Warrants Had

Been Signed--The Old Man Had A Collection Of Such Things AndAre Inherent In The Subject. If Milton Had

Not Thought That He Could Justify The Ways Of Jehovah To Man He Would

Not Have Written At All; Common Sense On The Part Of The Angels Would

Have Paralysed The Action Of The Poem; We Should,  If Conscious Of Our

Loss,  Have Lamented The Irrefragable Criticism That Should Have Stifled

The Magnificent Allegory Of Sin And Death. Another Critical Thrust Is

Equally Impossible To Parry. It Is True That The Evil