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Chapters (51)
  1. Introduction by Michael Bronski
  2. BEGINNING
  3. II
  4. III
  5. IV
  6. V
  7. VI
  8. VII
  9. VIII
  10. IX
  11. X
  12. XI
  13. XII
  14. XIII
  15. MIDDLE
  16. II
  17. III
  18. IV
  19. V
  20. VI
  21. VII
  22. VIII
  23. IX
  24. X
  25. XI
  26. XII
  27. XIII
  28. XIV
  29. XV
  30. XVI
  31. XVII
  32. XVIII
  33. XIX
  34. XX
  35. END
  36. II
  37. III
  38. IV
  39. V
  40. VI
  41. VII
  42. VIII
  43. IX
  44. X
  45. XI
  46. XII
  47. XIII
  48. XIV
  49. XV
  50. XVI
  51. About the Author

. . . But were the coming narrative to reveal, in any instance, the complete abasement of poor Starbuck’s fortitude, scarce might I have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful—nay, shocking—to expose the fall of valor in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint stock-­companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone, bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man.

—Herman Melville, Moby Dick

BEGINNING

BEGINNING

Remembering the instructions in her last letter that morning, John Grandin went around pulling down the shades. A letter from his wife still seemed a very unusual event, somehow; though he had received half a dozen in the past week, it would be a long time before he would be seeing her handwriting again. In spite of the bright morning, the living room suddenly became so dark that he had to turn on one of the lamps for a last look around.

The solid wall of books opposite the windows facing the Drive was such a familiar sight he scarcely saw it any more, like a family photograph which one rarely looks at after the first few weeks, though its every feature is only too well remembered and can be traced or seen in the dark; he could lay his hand on Hazlitt, for example, by reaching along the third shelf to the left, just so far and no farther, like the pianist whose unseeing finger finds the right key by habit. The ash trays were empty; the slipcovers had been pulled down and smoothed out; the magazines were neatly arranged on the converted butler’s tray which served as coffee table in front of the big sofa. He was satisfied that the place was in order and clean. Only the hearth was untidy; last evening he had burned a number of themes unclaimed by careless or indifferent students, and their weightless blowy ash moved restlessly behind the firescreen. He removed the screen, took up the brass-­handled tongs, and poked the more substantial masses farther back into the fireplace. Having thus carried out Ethel’s instructions about cleaning up, he inserted her letter between the pages of the book he was taking along for the train trip and stuck the book in the pocket of his jacket. Finally, he looked in at the door of the study which, too long, had been his literal retreat—where intense concentration and the expenditure of hundreds of solitary hours had helped to stave off the mounting depression which lately threatened to swamp him.