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On a Saturday evening in the autumn, Herman arrives in London. He’s made some concessions to English propriety. He’s wearing a spencer of just the right cut, stirrup pants that tug a little at the backs of his knees, slender boots, and a top hat. Yes, a top hat. How many times did he examine this top hat in his cabin? He kept on taking it out of its box and placing it in his berth. He couldn’t imagine he was going to put the thing on, especially with all the familiar sounds of a ship groaning and creaking around him. Oh! More than a hundred times he puffed his cheeks out, as if he were getting ready to send a blast through a blowpipe. Then, in London, he puts it on. And it doesn’t look ridiculous at all. Not in the least. Likewise, his long, relaxed stride—a bit of a swagger, which he can’t alter; the way he sways his arms and shifts his broad shoulders; the mocking way he holds his head; and the isolation and bitterness of his faraway eyes: All of this goes well. Everything goes so well . . . so very, very well. He arrives at his publishers. As soon as he starts talking, they agree to everything, absolutely everything, no discussion, no reservations of any kind, and they place enormous emphasis on the fact that there really is nothing, Mr. Melville, that we have to say contrary to your wishes. We’ll do everything you want. Just give us your manuscript. Hand it over right away. He presents it, they thank him, they express their admiration, they accompany him to the entrance, where they take their leave of him again. So there, it’s over. He’d expected some negotiations, but no, it’s over, it’s done. Over and done with in no time.

He rushes back to his hotel. He has to make an effort to hide a savage guffaw inside his beard. Nevertheless, if he doesn’t hurry even faster, he’s going to burst into uproarious laughter, right there on the sidewalk. And he knows himself: He’ll fling his top hat to the ground and dance all over it, right there in the street. What will the English say? He knows what the English will say. So now he starts to run. Which isn’t very good form, all things considered, for a man in a top hat. But, too bad, the important thing is not to be “someone who creates a scandal” in the street, as Maria would say. And it’s dusk, so no one sees him running, except when he passes in front of the lamplit storefronts. He races up the stairs of his hotel. Now, at long last, he can dance in jubilation all over his top hat. “Did you call, sir?” the chambermaid comes to ask. “No. Well, yes, wait a moment . . . perhaps I did. No . . . after all, no, thank you. Thank you very much.” Bewildered, the girl goes out, shuts the door, leans back against the wall, wraps herself in her arms, and laughs, dazzled and captivated at once by the extraordinary charm of this madman.