Introduction Fiction, Imagination, and Cognition
Patrik Engisch and Julia Langkau
There is a widespread use of a distinction between two mutually exclusive—and probably jointly exhaustive—kinds of representations, fictional and non-fictional ones. This distinction has occupied philosophers for a very long time, as testified by Plato’s expelling the poets out of his ideal republic and Aristotle’s subsequent defense of them. Closer to our time, modernist and postmodernist literary and non-literary narrative practices, such as Truman Capote’s iconic In Cold Blood, have reinforced the need for a conceptual exploration of the distinction between fiction and non-fiction challenging conventions and expectations. Today, the distinction still shapes deeply the way we think and talk as well as the ways our bookshops, libraries, streaming services, and academic curricula are organized. But what sets apart fictional from non-fictional representations? And how does this distinction influence the way and the reasons for which we engage with representations?
A simplistic and long-debunked conception has it that non-fictions are true, while fictions are false, and that we read the former to improve cognitively and the latter for mere entertainment. However, many works of non-fiction contain falsehoods, and many works of fiction contain truths, and it is largely accepted that we can read works of each kind both for cognitive improvement and entertainment. Recent philosophy of fiction in the analytic tradition—a now firmly established sub-genre—has concerned itself extensively with the questions of where the difference between fiction and non-fiction might lie and why this distinction matters. Following the pioneering work of the likes of Kendall Walton (Walton 1990), Gregory Currie (Currie 1990) or Peter Lamarque and Stein Haugom Olsen (Lamarque and Olsen 1994), three general theses have been particularly scrutinized:
(T1) The notion of fictional representation can be defined in terms of prescriptions to imagine.
(T2) Works of fiction and non-fiction call for distinct kinds of engagement and give rise to different experiences.
(T3) It is possible for fictional works to contribute to our learning about non-fictional truths, practices, and experiences.
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The present volume gathers original essays in this tradition. It contains three sections, each pertaining to one of the three theses above. In this introduction, we first present some main issues surrounding each of them and provide the context for the chapters of this volume. We then give a brief summary of each chapter.
0.1 Key Themes
0.1.1
The Definition of Fiction
Lamarque and Olsen put the question of how to distinguish fictional from non-fictional representations as follows: “what is the nature of this feature or dimension in virtue of which certain works, but not others, are characterized as fictional”? (Lamarque and Olsen 1994: 29). This question is a metaphysical one and is standardly framed in a realist spirit. From that perspective, the issue targeted by (T1) amounts to whether our ontology should not merely contain representations simpliciter, but in fact, two mutually exclusive sub-kinds of them: fictional and non-fictional ones.
Philosophers have understood this question in two different ways. Some have understood it as pertaining to works of fiction, i.e., narrative representations taken as a whole. In that respect, they have asked what makes it the case that Doris Lessing’s The Summer Before Dark or Aki Kaurismäki I Hired a Contract Killer are works of fiction. This reflects at least one colloquial understanding of fiction, the one relevant when we ponder over whether we should read a novel or an essay or watch a fiction or a documentary (another one—but here ignored—takes “fiction” as a meaning lie or mere fabrication and is prevalent in, e.g., political rhetoric).
However, some philosophers have suggested that it is a mistake to pursue a philosophical analysis of the notion of fiction in terms of this colloquial understanding of fiction as fictional works. Instead, they have suggested that we understand the question not as pertaining to whole works at once but to constituents of such works: sentences or the propositions they express. The question then isn’t whether Brothers Karamazov is fictional, but whether this or that sentence among the sentences that constitute the work is fictional.
While some of the later philosophers have advocated this bottom-up strategy, assuming that the notion of a constituent of a work is the fundamental one (Currie 1990, 2020), some of the former have advocated a top-down strategy, assuming the notion of a work to be the fundamental one (Walton 1990; Friend 2011, 2012). Most contributions to this volume seem to commit to the idea that, as noted by Walton, “the difference we are interested in is between works of fiction and works
of non-fiction” (Walton 1990, 73). It is this notion that is most relevant when discussing the question of the nature of our engagement with works of fiction and of whether we can learn from them.
The debate over the question of the definition of fiction has been dominated by two main realist contenders, one developed by Kendall Walton (Walton 1990) and one developed by Gregory Currie (Currie 1990). Both accounts make use of the same central idea: that we can define fiction in terms of prescriptions to imagine. Walton has advocated a functionalist account according to which works of fiction are to be understood as items that serve as props in games of make-believe (Walton 1990; see Chapter 1 by Richard Woodward for a detailed discussion of Walton’s account). That is, fictions are props whose contents guide our imaginative engagement in games of make-believe by determining what is to be make-believed by participants to the game.
Currie has argued that Walton’s idea of fictions ends up casting too wide a net as it cannot preserve the pre-theoretically important distinction between a representation being fictional and one merely being treated as such (see Chapter 1 for discussion and critique of this point). He has then proposed to substitute this functional account with an intentionalist one where the central stage is given to the notion of fictional statement. According to Currie, a statement is fictional just in case it comes with the Gricean reflexive intention that its content be imagined, and it is at most accidentally true (Currie 1990). Currie then remains skeptical about the possibility of accounting for the fictionality of works but asserts nonetheless that “the fictionality of works is going to depend upon the fictionality of the statements they contain” (Currie 1990, 49; see also Currie 2020 for a renewed defense of this claim).
The aftermath of Walton’s and Currie’s influential discussions has seen the debate over the definition of fiction go into two opposite directions. On the one hand, a large group of authors has explored in different ways the central idea that we can define fiction in terms of prescription to imagine, giving rise to what Derek Matravers calls the “consensus view” (Matravers 2014, 3) about the nature of fiction. Points of disagreement within this family of views have concerned, non- exhaustively, the role that the notion of a social practice should play in a definition of fiction (Lamarque and Olsen 1994); the exact way to understand the Gricean reflexive intention constitutive of fiction first proposed by Currie (Davies 1996, 2007; Stock 2017b); or the nature of the communicative acts required to produce fiction (García-Carpintero 2013, see also Chapter 5 by Manuel García-Carpintero).
On the other hand, a smaller group of authors has taken to challenge the consensus view and has argued that fiction cannot be defined in terms of a prescription to imagine. This rebuttal has taken different forms with different consequences. Stacie Friend, first, has argued
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that theories that fall under the consensus view are “not only subject to numerous counterexamples, they also fail to explain why classification matters to our engagement with actual works: our practices of reading, writing, publishing, criticizing, and so on” (Friend 2012, 181). Instead, she has parted ways with the realist framing of the question of the nature of fiction and has proposed that fiction doesn’t constitute a sub-kind of representation. Instead, fiction should be understood as a genre of representations in terms of standard, neutral, and non-standard traits (see Walton 1970; for a different anti-realist take on the question, see Chapter 1), in which prescriptions to imagine turn out to be standard, but not necessary, traits of works of fiction (see Chapter 7 by Magdalena Balcerak Jackson and Julia Langkau for a suggestion of how the necessity claim could be defended).
Derek Matravers, second, has offered a more radical critique of the consensus view. He claims that its “own definition of the imagination establishes no particular link to fiction” (Matravers 2014, 25). As he sees the matter, the idea that there is a substantial distinction between two kinds of representations, fictional and non-fictional ones, such that we should engage with them differently, is to be replaced by more emphasis on the distinction between engaging with a representation and engaging with a real-life situation. He then proposes a two-layered model of our engagement with representations generally. At the first level, we process the content of representations in a way that is neutral with respect to the distinction between fiction and non-fiction by means of constructing mental models that encode both content and narrative structure. At a second level, we ponder over whether to integrate accessed contents into pre-existing belief structures. That being said, Matravers sees no reason to believe that anything systematic occurs at this second stage that could ground a distinction between fiction and non-fiction. He settles for the idea, not too far from Friend’s, that there is a tradition of narratives “in which authors are not bound by the fidelity constraint” (Matravers 2014, 99) and identifies works of fiction with works in that tradition (see Chapter 2 by Patrik Engisch for a discussion of Matravers’ view).
A further issue in this literature has concerned the way we should understand Walton’s account and the way we should put his account to use, if not directly to provide us with an account of fiction. Instead of framing his account as an attempt to offer an analysis of the pretheoretical notion of fiction, Walton takes himself to be offering the “carving out of a new category” (Walton 1990, 2), with the hope that its theoretical fruitfulness will be vindicated by its explanatory power (for the distinction between conceptual analysis and explanatory theory in the context of fiction, see Stock 2017b and Chapter 7). Reflecting this fact, Friend has referred to fiction in Walton’s sense as “waltfiction” (Friend 2008, 154) and has argued that we have reasons to be interested in the notion of waltfiction that are independent of the issue of the
definition of fiction (see Chapter 12 by Anna Ichino, who deploys the notion of waltfiction to offer an analysis of an important sub-kind of conspiracy theories).
0.1.2 Engaging with Fiction
The thesis that our engagement with—and experience of—fiction is of a distinct kind (T2) can be understood in a variety of ways, depending on whether we have psychological, behavioral, epistemic, aesthetic, or ethical aspects in mind. That is, one might hold that engaging with fiction calls for distinct psychological states, for distinct behavioral reactions (or lack thereof), for the impossibility to form justified beliefs and gain knowledge, for a distinct kind of aesthetic experience, or distinctive kinds of ethical requirements. We will mostly be concerned with psychological aspects of our engagement with fiction in this section and with epistemic ones in the next section (when addressing T3).
One idea to be dismissed at the outset is that our engagement with works of fiction is psychologically distinct because it is characterized by our being mentally transported from our actual premises to the world of the fiction, the familiar experience of losing one’s attentional grip on one’s surroundings and finding oneself immersed into a fictional world (see Gerrig 1993). Even though transportation is a real phenomenon, it is not distinct to our engagement with fiction and, as Richard Gerrig makes clear, applies equally to engagement with non-fictional narratives. Accordingly, if we are looking for a kind of engagement and experience proprietary to fiction, we need to look beyond the idea of transportation (note that this is not to say that the notion of transportation doesn’t pose any interesting philosophical questions, see, e.g., Schellenberg 2013).
(T1) and (T2) have different targets: the first concerns the distinction between two kinds of representations and the role of the imagination therein and the second concerns our engagement with different kinds of representations. (T2) is, in principle, independent of (T1). It doesn’t follow from the fact that we ought to engage differently with fictions and non-fictions that we should define fiction by appeal to a prescription to imagine. (T1), however, entails a specific version of (T2): that we ought to engage distinctly with works of fiction by imagining their content. One obvious way to commit oneself to (T2) is thus to endorse (T1). The consensus view offers not only a definition of the sub-kind of representations “fiction” in terms of prescriptions to imagine but also an account of how we engage with instances of this sub-kind: by imagining their content. Imagination could thus do double duty for the philosophy of fiction: to provide us with a definition of fiction and an account of our engagement with it. That being said, it is remarkable how little the mere endorsement of (T1) settles with respect to (T2). As a result, proponents of the consensus view have disagreed in substantial ways
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about what engaging with a work of fiction in terms of imagining its content amounts to.
A particularly strong conception of the consequences of the endorsement of (T1) for (T2) has been put forward by Peter Lamarque and Stein Haugom Olsen (Lamarque & Olsen 1994), with a special emphasis on fictional literature. At the core of their account stands the idea that the creation and consumption of fiction are two aspects of a distinct practice— i.e., a human activity determined by conventions—called fiction (see Chapter 4 by Margherita Arcangeli on the nature of the imagination involved in creating and engaging with fiction).
Central to this practice is the idea that works of fiction are artifacts produced for being engaged with by displaying a “particular kind of attention” they call “the fictive stance” (Lamarque and Olsen 1994, 43). They conceive of the fictive stance as having several features: first, we should make-believe or imagine a content (a psychological feature). Second, to make-believe or imagine a content involves recognizing that it is presented in a way that disengages it from standard commitments of speech acts performed in the content of non-fiction (a pragmatic aspect). This is what is responsible for what Lamarque and Olsen refer to as “the idea of ‘cognitive distance’ associated with fiction” (Lamarque & Olsen 1994, 44), and that permeates the fictive stance. Third, and as a result of this disengagement, the contents of fiction call for a specific kind of concern: we should not be concerned with their semantic value but, rather, with the way they explore a theme or their more formal elements. This is what Lamarque and Olsen call the “no truth” aspect of their theory: the notion of truth, they claim, plays no role neither in defining fiction nor in accounting for our engagement with it (Lamarque and Olsen 1994, 1). Despite rejecting the idea that the fictive stance is concerned with the truth of the contents presented in a fiction, Lamarque and Olsen take themselves to be defending the idea that works of fiction develop humanly relevant themes and should be engaged as such. Moreover, they also acknowledge that it is possible to acquire factual knowledge of a common currency from a work of fiction—for instance, geographical or historical knowledge (see also Section 0.1.3). However, for them, this should be taken as a sign that one has lapsed outside of the fictive stance.
Many have regarded this account as carving a too narrow conception of fictional literature. In particular, the “no truth” aspect of their account has been deemed too strong by several authors (see Stecker 2015; Köppe & Langkau 2021). Friend writes:
We should reject outright the claim that fiction invites no belief, but only mere-make-believe, in its explicit content. We read this in Ian Fleming’s Thunderball (1961): “New Providence, the island containing Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas, is a drab sandy slab of
land fringed with some of the most beautiful beaches in the world”. This statement is not only true, it was intended to be true, and any informed reader of Fleming will believe it. It meets all the standard requirements on (sincere) assertion.
(Friend 2008, 159)
But if the content of a fiction can be straightforwardly asserted and presented to be believed, then it cannot be the case that our engagement with works of fiction should be characterized by the fictive stance as conceived by Lamarque and Olsen.
A very different account of the relation between (T1) and (T2), compatible with Friend’s remark, is Currie’s. According to him, “a work of fiction is a patchwork of truth and falsity, reliability and unreliability, fiction-making and assertion” (Currie 1990, 49). But since acts of fiction-making and assertions call for different psychological responses (imagining and belief, respectively), it follows that our engagement with fiction is a psychological patchwork of imagining and believing (see also Konrad 2017).
Currie’s account has been under a lot of fire. On the one hand, Friend has argued that works on both sides of the fiction/non-fiction divide amount to a patchwork of fiction and assertion in Currie’s sense (Friend 2008). On the other hand, coming from within the consensus view, Kathleen Stock has argued that Currie’s version of (T1) and, in particular, his focus on providing an account of fiction that operates at the level of statements puts us in a position to face what she calls “patchwork puzzles” (Stock 2011; see also Engisch 2019 for a discussion).
These puzzles operate at two different levels: first, at the level of statements and second, at the level of attitudes prescribed by these statements. At the level of statements, Stock points to the fact that it is not so clear how the author of a fiction could furnish the fictional world of a work by alternating between fictional statements and assertions. At the level of attitudes, she finds the description of our experience of fiction as an alternance between imagining and believing wanting. As a result, she suggests that taking seriously (T2) sets some requirements on the way we should conceive the appeal to imagination in (T1). For this purpose, she develops a conception of imagination more suited to account for the production and consumption of fiction (“F-imagining”, Stock 2011, 2017b), which focuses not on individual contents and the attitudes we take towards them but rather on sets of contents and sets of attitudes (see Chapter 2 for discussion of Stock’s account of F-imagining).
Another way to shed light on the relation between (T1) and (T2) is by focusing on the relation between our imaginative engagement with fiction and the role it plays with respect to some standard features of fiction. A paradigmatic example of such features is our encountering fictional narrators. Indeed, as noted by Friend, the presence of fictional
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narrators is “standard for works in the category of fiction” (Friend 2008, 164). Andrew Kania defines narrators as “fictional agents” that convey the story told in a fiction (Kania 2005, 47). While the presence of fictional narrators in works of non-fiction is not impossible, it is much less standard and raises distinct issues. Friend, for instance, mentions the case of Edmund’s Morris Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan, where the author inserted himself as a fictional narrator who reports events he didn’t take part in, thereby jeopardizing the epistemic import of these reports (Friend 2008, 150).
Even though there are many questions for narratology with respect to how narrators convey fictional contents, there doesn’t seem to be much of an issue with the fact that they can, and indeed, do convey fictional contents. One might wonder whether this fact couldn’t be used as a launchpad for a development of (T2). This is one way of understanding Chapter 5 by Manuel García-Carpintero. According to him, fictional narrators are essentially a tool of the craft: something an author can rely on to enhance the worthwhile character of the imaginative project they are creating. This means that there is a whole series of questions about the epistemic perspective of fictional narrators that we can simply bypass (e.g., how do they find themselves in the position to report on the situation in the way they do?), pointing to a quite unique feature of our engagement with fiction.
A similar point has been discussed within the philosophy of poetry. An important trend in literary theory and criticism has been the idea that a poem entails the postulation of a poetic persona distinct from the author (see, e.g., Gudas 1993; Budd 1995). If this were to be true throughout the spectrum of poetic genres, it would follow that all poems count as fiction and that we should engage with them as such. This would foreclose a conception of poetry, or of some sub-genre of poetry, as an expression of the self and would support the claim that engagement with poems should amount to what Gudas calls “a proper concern with a poem’s internal relations” (Gudas 1993, 900). But is this really the case? Are all genres of poetry such that they entail the presence of a poetic persona and, as such, should be engaged with as fiction? And if we don’t engage with them as fiction, then how should we engage with them? Anna Cristina Ribeiro tackles these questions in Chapter 8.
Another way to conceive of the relation between (T1) and (T2) is to consider the relation between the fictional nature of a representation and the nature of our emotional reaction to it. Fictional works appear to move us—this is a well-known fact. But many authors have found this fact rather confounding. As Richard Moran puts it, “how [is it] so much as possible for a person to get emotionally worked up over what she knows to be unreal, merely fictional”? (Moran 1994, 75) This observation has given rise to what is known in the literature as the “paradox of fiction”, first formally stated by Colin Radford (Radford 1975, see also, e.g., Carroll 1990; Moran 1994; Lamarque 1996; Paskow 2004; and
more recently, e.g., Todd 2012; Teroni 2019; Gilmore 2020 and Chapter 9 by Fiora Salis). The paradox of fiction can be presented in terms of three theses which are each plausible but cannot be jointly true:
1) We are moved by the fate of fictional characters.
2) In order to be moved by something, we must believe that it exists.
3) We don’t believe that fictional characters exist.
The idea behind thesis 1) is that we should understand being “moved” in the context of our engagement with fiction in the same way we would understand it in the context of our engagement with what is not fiction (i.e., non-fictional representations and real-life situations). Many authors have thought that this cannot be true. Our psychological, and in particular our emotional, engagement with works of fiction might be real and even intense, but it cannot be of the very same kind as our engagement with what is not fiction. One solution to this paradox is thus to reject thesis 1). As Walton puts it, describing the case of Charles, who watches a horror movie and is seemingly afraid of a slime:
Charles’ state is crucially different from that of a person with an ordinary case of fear. The fact that Charles is fully aware that the slime is fictional is, I think, good reason to deny that what he feels is fear. It seems a principle of common sense, one which ought not to be abandoned if there is any reasonable alternative, that fear must be accompanied by, or must involve, a belief that one is in danger. Charles does not believe that he is in danger; so he is not afraid.
(Walton 1978, 6–7)
If Walton is correct, this means that our engagement with works of fiction is distinct in a psychological sense. Charles’ psychological state, however intense it is, fails to meet a certain necessary criterion to be a genuine affective state. As part of the game of make-belief Charles is engaging in, it is a “quasi-fear” (Walton 1978, 6).
A central point of debate has concerned the conception of emotions presupposed in 2), and many have rejected the presupposition that being moved by something entails belief in its existence. After all, as remarked by Moran, “comparatively little of one’s emotional attention concerns objects in the actual here and now” (Moran 1994, 78): some effective states, like regret or nostalgia, are directed toward things that don’t exist anymore, and others, like anticipation, are directed towards things that don’t yet exist. Yet Robert Stecker has argued that even if there was ample support for the rejection of 2), there is still room to argue that our emotional engagement with fiction is distinct because “the psychological states in play in fictional contexts have a different functional role than they do in mainline contexts” (Stecker 2011, 308).
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A further possibility of understanding the relation between (T1) and (T2) is to reject (T1), the idea that we can define fiction through a prescription to imagine, and independently endorse (T2), the idea that works of fiction call for a special kind of engagement. This position has not been discussed much in recent analytic philosophy of fiction due to the prevalence of the consensus view. According to Derek Matravers, there is little room for an independent endorsement of (T2):
Rejecting the view that there is any special connection between fiction and the imagination prompts the question: what difference is there, if any, between reading as fiction and reading as non-fiction?
… I am skeptical that there is much in the way of systematic differences within engaging with representations between the way we engage with fiction and the way we engage with non-fiction.
(Matravers 2016, 172)
As he sees the matter, there is no systematic difference between fictional and non-fictional representation and, thereby, no systematic difference between different ways to engage with each supposed sub-kinds of representations. There is, instead, a systematic difference between being confronted with a real-world situation and being confronted with a representation. As we saw above, Matravers at most recognizes the existence of a tradition of narratives that are not governed by the fidelity constraint. However, he contends that the existence of such a kind of narrative doesn’t entail that we engage with them in a distinct way; at most, “knowing that a narrative lies in this tradition should encourage readers to exercise a cautious scepticism” (Matravers 2014, 99).
Some, however, disagree with Matravers. Even if we cannot establish (T2) by relying on an entailment from (T1) to (T2), for the reasons pointed at by the likes of Friend and Matravers, and even if we cannot establish (T2) independently of (T1), Eileen John argues that we might nonetheless be able to establish a weaker, yet substantial version of (T2) (see Chapter 7). Namely, that some ways we engage with works of fiction, though not incompatible with non-fictional representations, simply make better sense in the context of fiction. Similarly, Richard Woodward argues that if we were to shun a realist conception of the distinction between fiction and non-fiction, we could still account for the idea that we engage with works of fiction differently (see Chapter 1).
0.1.3 Learning from Fiction
One issue with the thesis that fiction can contribute to our learning about non-fictional matters (T3) is that one can understand the way in which we learn from fiction in various different ways. One can understand it as something rather demanding, like the acquisition of knowledge or
of justified beliefs, or as something quite weak, like the stimulation of one’s curiosity. Moreover, issues surrounding (T3) don’t concern just the question whether we can learn from fiction but also whether learning from fiction is somewhat special. A rather commonsensical remark often rehearsed in the debate is that fictions are not an obvious first choice when it comes to learning as, after all, there is a class of representations whose nature seems better fitted for learning, namely works of nonfiction. Accordingly, one might wonder whether the relation of works of fiction to learning is purely accidental and contingent or whether, in some way or other, works of fiction constitute a special opportunity when it comes to their contribution to our learning about non-fictional matters. Finally, one might wonder what the relation between a work of fiction’s cognitive value and its artistic value is. In that respect, we can see the complex and wide-ranging debate surrounding thesis (T3) as articulated around the following main questions:
• Can we learn from fiction?
• Which kinds of knowledge can fiction help us acquire?
• What is the relation between a fiction’s cognitive value(s) and its artistic value?
• Do works of fiction promote cognitive value(s) of a specific, proprietary kind?
• Do works of fiction promote cognitive value(s) in a specific, proprietary way?
Often referred to as “cognitivists”, a first broad group of philosophers answer the question of whether we can learn from fiction positively and without qualification. By contrast, the label “non-cognitivists” can be applied to two different kinds of authors. On the one hand, to “strong non-cognitivists”, who don’t think we can learn from fiction, and, on the other hand, to “weak non-cognitivists” who answer the question positively, though with a major qualification: they think that works of fiction can be a source of learning but deny that they can be such as works of fiction or when engaged with as such.
Strong non-cognitivists are virtually absent from the recent discussion over the cognitive value of fiction (a rare exception is Stolnitz 1992). Almost everyone agrees that the question of whether we can learn from fiction can be answered positively, either straightforwardly or with some qualification. Peter Lamarque, the foremost proponent of weak noncognitivism, writes:
That we can learn from fiction—acquire beliefs or skills as a result of reading works of fiction— is … an obvious matter of fact and not even especially interesting. We can and do acquire beliefs about all kinds of things from reading fiction: the nature and feel of a place,
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historical or biographical facts, matters of etiquette, how people behave when they are angry, greedy or jealous … Likewise we can acquire skills or practical knowledge from fiction: how to fix a carburetor, how to survive in the wilds, how to rob a bank. (Lamarque 2007, 14, emphasis added)
While weak non-cognitivists like Lamarque think we can trivially learn from fiction, it is the question of the relation between the possibility for works of fiction to bear such cognitive values and their aesthetic value that really exercises them. However, they think there is no such relation. As we saw above, Lamarque and Olsen think that works of fiction must be engaged with through the fictive stance, and this stance leaves no room for issues such as truth and knowledge. And if the artistic value of a work of fiction is the one it displays when engaged with as such, then it follows that there can’t be a relation between the artistic value of a work of fiction and its cognitive value (see Lamarque & Olsen 1994, Lamarque 2007).
A large consensus of philosophers of fiction agrees that positions like Lamarque’s are unconvincing. Indeed, in the light of the diversity of works of fiction and of projects authors intend to realize through the crafting of such works, it is likely that a work of fiction’s bearing some cognitive value be one ingredient that contributes to its artistic value. Noel Carroll, for instance, remarks that “some [works of fictional literature] can and do [transmit knowledge], and even ought to, given the kind of artworks they are” (Carroll 2007, 26—our emphasis; see also Rowe 2004 and Stecker 2015). Here, the notion of genre and the idea of specific norms governing certain genres are likely to play an important role. One can think of politically or socially engaged novels, like Upton Sinclair’s Jungle, or of historical novels like Gore Vidal’s Julian, where it is crucial for the aims pursued in such works that their factual background be correct or at least assessed as such.
Moving to cognitivism, the first question is whether works of fiction can be sources of propositional knowledge. The debate has focused on two different interpretations of this claim:
(T4) Works of fiction can be constituted of true propositions and it is possible to come to know them as a result of engaging with the works.
(T5) The meaning of a work of fiction can be equivalent to a proposition that is presented as true by the work as a whole and one can come to know that proposition on the basis of engaging with the work.
(T4) and (T5) differ, first, with respect to their targets: bits of propositional knowledge one might acquire along one’s engagement with a work
of fiction for (T4) and some truth that the work as a whole is supposed to convey—sometimes referred to as its morale or its point—for (T5). Second, they differ with respect to the way they conceive of works of fiction as sources of knowledge. The issue raised by (T4) is, to a great extent, whether a work of fiction can serve as a source of knowledge by testimony on a par with a work of non-fiction. (T5) raises the issue of whether a work of fiction itself and its content can support the truth of a proposition. In a sense, then, (T5) is more demanding than (T4): it doesn’t just require that authors and works of fiction be on a par with authors and works of non-fiction when it comes to transmitting knowledge by testimony, it requires that authors and works of fiction be epistemic authorities with respect to some truth works convey as a whole. But one might wonder how and why authors and works of fiction should be regarded as such authorities. (See, e.g., Elgin 2007, Stock 2017a, 2019 and Currie and Ichino 2017 for, respectively, a skeptic take and a defense of (T4); see, e.g., Putnam 1978, Nussbaum 1990, Carroll 2007, Elgin 2007, and Currie 2020 for discussion of (T5).)
Recently, however, the debate over (T4) and (T5) has taken a new turn, with a focus on versions of them framed not in terms of knowledge but in different, and often weaker, epistemic notions. Catherine Elgin, for instance, has argued that the cognitive value of works of fiction resides less in their ability to transmit propositional knowledge of any form than in building an epistemically rewarding but less demanding relation to some proposition. As she puts it,
Fictions function cognitively by exemplifying factors that are worth noticing, enabling us to adopt perspectives that yield insights and/ or to frame hypotheses that are worth investigating… the nontruths that constitute a fiction are cognitively valuable because they equip us to discern truths that we would otherwise not see or not so clearly. A work of fiction brings certain factors to the fore and renders them salient.
(Elgin 2007, 53)
In a similar vein, some authors (including Elgin herself) have argued that works of fiction can also allow us to foster not just knowledge but an understanding of a certain proposition (Elgin 2007; Mikkonen 2021). The epistemology of understanding being still relatively underdeveloped at the moment, there is considerable opacity as to how exactly we should understand this claim. However, the general idea is clear: knowing that p can turn out to be rather cheap, especially when it comes to propositions known by testimony. That is, sometimes, only superficial knowledge of the subject matter is required for one to be said to know that p. But sometimes we don’t simply know that p, but also understand that p, where this entails a more demanding epistemic relation to p.
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As Jukka Mikkonen paraphrases Elgin, “cognitive progress is not only about gaining new information but deepening what we already know” (Mikkonen 2021, 51). Works of fiction could allow us to achieve such a deepening of our understanding.
We have said that the question is not just whether we can learn from fiction. Several authors have played with the idea that works of fiction constitute not just an opportunity but rather a special one when it comes to fostering knowledge or understanding of a proposition. Martha Nussbaum, for instance, writes that,
There may be some views of the world and how one should live in it—views, especially, that emphasize the world’s surprising variety, its complexity and mysteriousness, its flawed and imperfect beauty—that cannot be fully and adequately stated in the language of conventional philosophical prose, a style remarkably flat and lacking in wonder—but only in a language and in forms themselves more complex, more allusive, more attentive to particulars. Not perhaps, either, in the expositional structure conventional to philosophy, which sets out to establish something and then does so, without surprise, without incident—but only in a form that itself implies that life contains significant surprises, that our task, as agents, is to live as good characters in a good story do, caring about what happens, resourcefully confronting each new thing.
(Nussbaum 1990, 3–4)
However, such a passage weaves together two different issues. First, there is an issue about the relation between form, style, and subject matter, and the idea that some subject matters are better expressed in certain styles and forms. Second, there is an issue about certain subject matters and fictionality (“good characters in a good story”). These two issues are different from one another. By definition, works of non-fiction are not fictional, but they can nonetheless implement considerations about form, style, and subject matter that bring them in line with Nussbaum’s remarks. One must thus distinguish the issue of literariness from the issue of fictionality, and it is an open question whether the cognitive value that some authors such as Nussbaum attribute to works of fiction must be accounted for in terms of literariness or in terms of fictionality. This issue is at the center of the distinction between the last two questions at the outset of this sub-section: whether works of fiction can present us with proprietary cognitive values or with cognitive values of a common currency in a specific way. (See Chapter 10 by María José Alcaraz León and Chapter 7 by Magdalena Balcerak Jackson and Julia Langkau for discussion of these issues).
Coming now to the possibility for works of fiction to contribute to non-propositional forms of knowledge, we will restrict ourselves to the
consideration of two different kinds of knowledge: knowledge-how or the possession of skill and experiential knowledge. When addressing the question of whether works of fiction can help us acquire knowledge-how or skills, it is important to bear in mind two complementary distinctions. The first one concerns two kinds of practical skills. On the one hand, some skills aim at things like the formation of beliefs, the acquisition of knowledge, or the formation of hypotheses, such as perceiving, imagining, understanding, or reasoning. On the other hand, some skills rather aim at performing a practical task such as repairing a carburetor. And even if there are likely interesting and substantial relations between these kinds of skills, it is not clear that they stand in similar relations with works of fiction. Indeed, granted that it is possible to learn how to fix a carburetor from reading fiction, could one learn how to perceive, reason, understand, or imagine from it as well?
Here, we must operate a second distinction between the acquisition of skill and the mere fostering of it and, hence, between two distinct questions: can engagement with a work of fiction result in the acquisition of skills? And can engagement with a work of fiction result in the fostering of skills? The claim that one can come to acquire a skill such as repairing a carburetor from a work of fiction seems plausible insofar as such knowledge-how can be broken down into other skills that one already possesses, such as the ability to follow instructions, to use one’s hand for tasks, and so forth. However, one might wonder whether it is equally plausible that one can acquire skills like perceiving or reasoning as well. Such skills seem to be more basic and rather to be presupposed for our engagement with works of fiction. However, it is plausible to think that our engagement with fiction doesn’t always leave such skills untouched and that sometimes we can improve them through reading works of fiction.
First, we might be able to deploy some of our cognitive skills in the context of fiction in the same way we deploy them in the context of non-fiction and with similar results. For instance, some have argued that we can empathize with fictional characters in the same way as we can empathize with real people and, thereby, gain vicarious knowledge of (fictional) mental states like thoughts and experiences (see, e.g., Keen 2007; Langkau 2020, Maibom 2020; and Chapter 11 by Olivia Bailey). Second, some authors have argued that engagement with works of fiction can foster our cognitive skills if not enable us to acquire new ones, such as imagining and empathizing (see, e.g., Mar and Oatley 2008; Chapter 13 by Amy Kind and Chapter 11).
Moreover, it has often been claimed that we can gain experiential knowledge such as what it was like to live in a certain era or what it is like to live at a certain location by engaging with fiction (e.g., Novitz 1987). However, such claims must be taken with a certain degree of caution. A first problem concerns the question of the use of the locution
Patrik Engisch and Julia Langkau
“what it is like”: namely, is there really a way it is like to live in a certain era or a certain location in the same way that there is a way it is like to experience redness or despair? Second and more importantly, the kinds of experiential knowledge that we are said to be able to gain from fiction, for instance, what it was like to live at the time of the Virginia slave rebellion of 1831, are high stake ones in terms of their ethical and psychological dimensions. But works of fiction are known to have powers of persuasion that outstrip their epistemic credentials (see, e.g., Gerrig 1993, Gendler 2006, Harold 2016). This generates what James Harold calls “the problem of false confidence” (Harold 2016 390):
One of the dangers noted in the criticisms of Styron’s Nat Turner is that white readers would come to believe, falsely, that they had understood what it had been like to be a black slave in early nineteenth-century Virginia. This kind of phenomenal knowledge has, we noted, often been thought to be one of the cognitive virtues of literature. But the illusion of phenomenal knowledge can be dangerous epistemically and ethically. If a reader imagines he knows what it is like to be another, then he might attempt to make ethical or policy decisions on that basis. Such decisions could be terrible mistakes, reinforcing racist policies, for example, rather than reforming them. Ignorance and the illusion of knowledge is a dangerous combination. (Harold 2016, 390)
Another difficulty concerning phenomenal knowledge concerns the following structural issue. Let’s assume that one can come to know what it is like to feel despair from engaging with a fictional work. Does this mean that this experience of despair acquired by proxy and its real-life counterpart are structurally similar? One way to argue that they are not is to point to the fact that many forms of phenomenal knowledge are unreflective: we simply know what it is like to feel resentment without necessarily ever having reflected on it or without even being aware of ever having felt resentment. But instances of phenomenal knowledge we may gain through fiction will be much tainted by elements of self-reflection of the kind: “Oh! That’s what it feels like to be resentful!” Accordingly, if some form of phenomenal knowledge can indeed be acquired by engaging with fiction, there are reasons to doubt that it will be the exact same kind of phenomenal knowledge one can gain from a real-life situation.
That being said, this reflective nature of phenomenal knowledge gained through engagement with works of fiction can be turned from a potential weakness to a strength. As pointed out in Chapter 10 by María José Alcaraz León, an important feature of works of fiction and of our engagement with them might be that they offer us a special opportunity to make salient and thematize certain aspects, including structural ones, of experiences.1
0.2 Summaries
0.2.1 Imagination and the Definition of Fiction
Richard Woodward’s “Projecting Fiction” is putting forth a novel, expressivist approach to defining fiction. According to such an approach, a judgment of the form “x is fiction” is not a recognition of the fact that x possesses the property of being fiction but, rather, an expression of a non-cognitive attitude on our part. Woodward’s starting point is a discussion of the notions of “treating something as fiction” and “being a fiction”, which are at the center of the debate between anti-intentionalist and intentionalist accounts of fiction. He argues that the notion of “treating something as fiction” is the more fundamental of the two and, building up on pre-existing expressivist accounts of moral discourse and vagueness due to Allan Gibbard and John MacFarlane, he develops an expressivist account of judgments of the kind “x is fiction”.
Patrik Engisch’s “Imagination, Fiction, and Narrative” focuses on the recent debate over the attempt to define fiction in terms of prescriptions to imagine. Engisch proposes an interpretation of an argument put forward by Derek Matravers against such attempts and defends it against a recent rejoinder offered by Gregory Currie. He then develops the idea that our engagement with narratives broadly is to be accounted for in terms of a deflationist conception of imagination. This raises a challenge to versions of the consensus view such as Kathleen Stock’s, which attempt to avoid Matravers’ argument by defending a view according to which fiction can be defined by appealing to such a deflationist conception of imagination.
Derek Matravers’ “Fiction and the Actual World” replies to an objection to his influential view on the nature of fiction. Originally put forward by David Davies, it attacks Matravers’ contention that we engage neutrally with both fiction and non-fiction by means of constructing mental models. On the contrary, the objection goes, fictional and non-fictional contexts lead us to treat differently what Matravers’ calls “troublesome” propositions, namely propositions that are part of a narrative but that are inconsistent with what we believe: we accommodate them in the context of fiction while rejecting them in the context of non-fiction. Matravers argues that this idea stems from a false contrast already noticed by Walton: people tend to compare fiction with reality rather than fictional representations with non-fictional representations. If we look at fiction and non-fiction in terms of representations and our engagement as reading and building a mental model, all strategies are available for fictional and non-fictional models.
Margherita Arcangeli’s “The Creative Side of Recreative Imagination” tackles the question of the nature of the imaginative capacities we put into play in our crafting of, and engagement with, fiction. The philosophical
Engisch and Julia Langkau
literature suggests that these two different aspects of our fiction practices rely on two different kinds of imaginative capacities, creative imagination for the creation of fiction and recreative imagination for our engagement with works of fiction. However, Arcangeli argues that this distinction between creative and recreative imagination is not wellformed. She concludes that both facets of our fiction practices rely on the same imaginative faculty: recreative imagination.
0.2.2 Imagination and Engagement with Fiction
Manuel García-Carpintero is concerned with the question of whether there are covert narrators in all fictions, as is assumed in certain models of fictional truth, such as David Lewis’. He argues that despite the fact that some fictions might not contain such covert narrators, many actually do. He then develops an account of so-called “silly questions” in order to defend the claim that such narrators are “effaced”, namely that their presence is to be assessed only on aesthetic grounds and that, pace Bery Gaut, it doesn’t make sense to be concerned with their epistemic standpoint.
Eileen John’s “The Experience of Fiction” claims that what is distinctive about our engagement with fiction may not lie in the reader’s attitude of imagining as opposed to believing, but instead in the kind of experience we have as a consequence of the author’s lapsing the fidelity constraint. She appeals to and discusses three typical aspects of this experience, emphasizing the consequences for epistemic, aesthetic, and ethical norms. The experience of fiction depicts individuals as representing kinds (“representativeness”), makes us enjoy detailed descriptions without further purpose (“minimal epistemic-aesthetic interest”), and allows us to be free in our judgment and response (“judgmental freedom”). While these aspects might not be defining markers of fiction vs. non-fiction and might sometimes occur in non-fiction as well, they are nonetheless typical features of fiction.
Magdalena Balcerak Jackson and Julia Langkau’s “Literary Fiction and Imagination” is challenging an assumption underlying the idea that imagination plays a crucial role in our engagement with fiction. This assumption is that imagination plays this role due to its features that distinguishes it from belief. The authors argue that a different kind of imagination can account for our intuition that imagination is crucial to reading fiction, namely phenomenal or experiential imagining. Literary fiction prescribes that the reader imagine certain aspects of the fiction phenomenally or experientially.
Anna Christina Ribeiro’s “The Gift of the Lyric” is concerned with the representational status of lyric poetry. Recent theorizing about poetry has led to the detrimental consequence that lyric poetry has been regarded as an expression of a poetic persona rather than of poets
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Kreivi Hannibal: Historiallinen romaani Ranskan hovista
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Kreivi Hannibal: Historiallinen romaani Ranskan hovista
Author: Stanley John Weyman
Translator: Aili Somersalo
Release date: July 1, 2022 [eBook #68438]
Language: Finnish
Original publication: Finland: Arvi A. Karisto Oy, 1920
Credits: Timo Ervasti and Tapio Riikonen
Historiallinen romaani Ranskan hovista
Kirj.
J. WEYMAN
Englanninkielestä suomentanut
Aili Tarvas [Aili Somersalo]
Hämeenlinnassa, Arvi A. Karisto Oy, 1920.
KREIVI HANNIBAL
STANLEY
SISÄLLYS:
I. Veripunaista suosiota.
II. Hannibal de Saulx, kreivi de Tavannes.
III. Kultaisen neidon viereinen talo.
IV. Juhlan aattona.
V. Korkea kosinta.
VI. Kuka loukkaa Tavannesia?
VII. Amfiteatterissa.
VIII. Kaksi kanaa ja yksi muna.
IX. Epävakaa.
X. Rouva St. Lo.
XI. Sopimus.
XII. Louvren etusalissa.
XIII. Lähettinä.
XIV. Liian lyhyt lusikka.
XV. St. Magloiren veli.
XVI. Pahassa pulassa.
XVII. Kaksintaistelu.
XVIII. Andromeda, Perseuksen poissaollessa.
XIX. Orleansin metsissä.
XX. Linnan kukkulalla.
XXI. Tahtoi eikä tahtonutkaan.
XXII. Tulella leikkimistä.
XXIII. Kahdenvaiheilla.
XXIV. Kuninkaan majatalossa.
XXV. Vertavuotavan sydämen veljeskunta.
XXVI. Pahaa tuulta.
XXVII. Musta kaupunki.
XXVIII. Pienessä kapitulissa.
XXIX. Pako.
XXX. Pyhänhäväistys.
XXXI. Pako Angersista.
XXXII. Teräskoe.
XXXIII. Väijytys.
XXXIV. Kumman valitsette, rouva?
XXXV. Seinää vasten.
XXXVI. Hänen kuningaskuntansa.
I.
VERIPUNAISTA SUOSIOTA.
Herra de Tavannes hymyili. Neiti vältti hänen katsettaan. Häntä värisytti, ikäänkuin viereisestä ovesta huokuva kesäyön ilma, vaikka se olikin painostavan lämmin, olisi tuntunut hänestä kylmältä. Samassa sattui tervetullut keskeytys.
— Tavannes!
— Teidän majesteettinne!
Kreivi Hannibal nousi hitaasti. Kuningas oli kutsunut häntä, eikä hänellä ollut valitsemisen varaa, vaan oli heti toteltava. Hän viivytteli kuitenkin vielä hetkisen kumartuneena seuralaisensa puoleen, joka tunsi vihaavansa hänen henkäystäänkin, kun se hipaisi hiuksia.
— Meidän huvimme keskeytettiin liian äkkiä, neiti, — sanoi kreivi Hannibal sillä erikoisella äänensävyllä ja katsellen häntä sillä tavalla, jota tyttö inhosi. — Mutta ainoastaan muutamiksi tunneiksi, sillä me tapaamme huomenna. Tai ehkä… aikaisemminkin.
Tyttö ei vastannut mitään. — Tavannes! — kertasi kuningas kiihtyneenä.
— Tavannes! Herran nimessä! — jatkoi hänen majesteettinsa katsellen ympärilleen vihan vimmassa. — Eikö kukaan voi noutaa häntä tänne?
Olenko minä kuningas vai koira, joka…
— Minä tulen, teidän majesteettinne! — huudahti kreivi kiireesti.
Sillä Kaarle, Ranskan kuningas, yhdeksäs järjestyksessä, ei ollut maltillisimpia, ja tuskinpa kukaan muu hovissa olisi uskaltanut antaa hänen odottaa niin kauan. — Minä tulen, teidän majesteettinne, minä tulen! — toisti Tavannes siirtyessään neidin luota.
Hän raivasi itselleen tien hoviherrojen piirin puhki, joka ehkäisi pääsemästä kuninkaan läheisyyteen ja osaksi suojeli neitiä näkymästä. Hän työntäytyi pöydän ohi, jolla Kaarle ja kreivi Rochefoucauld olivat pelanneet primeroa, ja jonka ääressä viimeksimainittu yhä istui leikkien laiskasti kortteineen. Vielä kolme askelta, ja hän saavutti kuninkaan, joka seisoi seinäkomerossa Rambouilletin ja italialaisen marskin kanssa. Jälkimmäisen pyynnöstä oli kuningas heti keskeyttänyt pelinsä.
Katsellen kreivin jälkeen neiti näki sen verran ja lisäksi kuninkaan harhailevan katseen ja laihat kasvot ja nuo neljä miestä seisomassa erikseen huoneen yläosassa täydessä valaistuksessa. Sitten hovimiesten piiri jälleen sulkeutui hänen edessään, ja hän istuutui taas töyrytuolilleen. Häneltä pääsi pitkä, värisevä huokaus. Nyt, jospa hän nyt voisi hiipiä ulos ja paeta! Nyt — hän silmäili ympärilleen. Hän ei ollut kaukana ovesta; helpolta näytti poistua. Mutta tuijottava ja kuiskaileva parvi herroja ja hovipoikia sulki tien, ja
tytöllä, joka ei tuntenut hovielämän sääntöjä ja jolla oli ainoastaan viikon kokemus Pariisista, ei ollut rohkeutta nousta ja lähteä yksinään ryhmän puhki.
Hän oli tänä lauantai-iltana tullut Louvreen sulhasensa serkun, rouva d'Yvernen suojassa. Pahaksi onneksi oli rouva, kutsuttuna leski-prinsessan työhuoneeseen, pakosta jättänyt hänet. Mutta olihan neidillä vielä luonaan sulhasensa, jonka turvissa hän aivan tyytyväisenä istuutui odottamaan suureen pylväskäytävään, missä oli hyörinää, iloa ja huvitusta. Sillä tänä, seitsemäntenä päivänä niitä juhlia, joita vietettiin Navarran kuninkaan ja Kaarlen sisaren häiden johdosta — näiden kun tuli sovittaa kaksi niin kauan keskenään sotinutta puoluetta, hugenotit ja katolilaiset — oli Louvre niin iloisena, vilkkaana ja täpötäytenä kuin juhlien ensimmäisenä päivänä. Maaseudulla kasvaneen tytön aika oli hauskasti kulunut iloisessa ihmisvilinässä; hän oli katsellut naamioittuja ja hovineitejä, vartijoita ja piispoja, sveitsiläisiä yllään Anjoun musta-valko-vihreä sotilaspuku ja tummempiin vaatteisiin pukeutuneita hugenotti-aatelisia yhtämittaisessa kulkueessa. Siten oli ilta vähitellen kulunut, ja hän oli alkanut tuntea itsensä hermostuneeksi; ja herra Tignonville, hänen sulhasensa, oli jättänyt hänet erääseen akkunakomeroon ja lähtenyt hakemaan rouvaa.
Hän oli pahaa aavistamatta odottanut jonkun aikaa, luullen joka hetki näkevänsä sulhasensa palaavan. Hän palaisi, ennenkuin hän ehtisi laskea sataan, hän palaisi, ennenkuin hän ehtisi laskea, kuinka monen penikulman päässä hän oli rakkaasta maakunnastaan ja Biskajanlahden rannalla olevasta kodistaan, jossa hänen ajatuksensa tässäkin komeassa ympäristössä hellästi viipyivät. Mutta hetki hetkeltä oli kulunut, eikä hänen sulhasensa ollut palannut. Ja mikä oli vieläkin pahempi — hänet oli tavannut
Tavannes, — ei marski, vaan hänen veljensä, kreivi Hannibal, hän, jonka vihattu huomaavaisuus, ollen samalla uhka ja herjaus, oli ovelasti ympäröinyt häntä koko viime viikon. Kreivi oli istuutunut hänen viereensä, ottanut hänet huostaansa ja käyttäen hyväkseen hänen kokemattomuuttaan tehnyt pilaa hänen pelostaan ja hymyillyt hänen paheksumiselleen. Lopuksi kreivi oli kysymättä hänen tahtoaan vienyt hänet mukanaan salonkiin, missä kuningas oli. Loppupuoli iltaa oli ollut kiduttava, kuin yöllinen painajainen, josta ainoastaan kuninkaan Tavannesta luokseen kutsuva ääni oli hänet pelastanut.
Hänen aikomuksensa oli paeta nyt, ennenkuin kreivi palaisi, tai ennenkuin joku toinen nähdessään hänet yksinään omaksuisi kreivin osan ja olisi hänelle hävytön. Lähellä olevat hoviherrat olivat jo alkaneet tuijottaa häneen, ja hovipojat kääntyivät katsomaan virnistellen ja kuiskaillen keskenään. Katsoipa hän minne tahansa, aina hän kohtasi jonkun tarkastavan silmäyksen, jonkun parin, joka iloitsi hänen hämmingistään. Asia yhä paheni hänen huomatessaan olevansa ainoa nainen salongissa, ja hän tajusi samalla olevan sopimatonta, että hän oli siellä tähän aikaan. Tämä ajatus nosti hänen poskilleen polttavan punan, ja hän loi katseensa maahan. Koko huone tuntui humisevan hänen nimeään, törkeää puhetta, pilkkaa ja ivaa hänen kustannuksellaan.
Lopuksi, kun asema oli käynyt miltei sietämättömäksi, hajaantui parvi oven edessä, ja sinne ilmestyi Tignonville. Tyttö nousi huudahtaen helpotuksesta, ja sulhanen astui hänen luokseen. Hoviherrat katselivat heitä hymyillen.
Tignonville ei salannut hämmästystään löytäessään morsiamensa sieltä. — Mutta, neiti, mitä tämä merkitsee? — kysyi hän hiljaa. Hän
oli kuten tyttökin tietoinen siitä huomiosta, jota he herättivät, ja yhtä epätietoinen, sopiko tytön siellä olla. — Minä jätin teidät pylväskäytävään, mutta palatessani olitte kadonnut ja…
Tyttö teki liikkeen, joka keskeytti hänet. — Ei täällä, — kuiskasi hän hilliten kärsimättömyyttään. — Minä kerron, kun vain pääsemme täältä. Saattakaa minut pois, ulos, olkaa niin hyvä, aivan heti!
Tignonville oli yhtä valmis lähtemään kuin tyttökin. Ovensuussa teki parvi tietä, ja tyttö astui ulos sulhasensa seuraamana. Hetken kuluttua molemmat seisoivat suuressa pylväskäytävässä sen salin yläpuolella, jossa on naisenmuotoiset pilarit. Ihmisjoukko, joka tunti sitten tungeksi siellä, oli hävinnyt. Ja laaja kaikuva tila, jota siihen aikaan käytettiin vartijain asemapaikkana, oli melkein tyhjä. Ainoastaan silloin tällöin jossakin akkunakomerossa tai oven suojassa jokunen pari puheli hiljaisella äänellä. Perimmäisessä päässä, lähellä porraskäytävää, joka johti alhaalla olevaan etusaliin ja linnan pihalle, vetelehti asestettu osasto sveitsiläistä vartiostoa joutilaana. Neiti katsahti terävästi kumpaankin suuntaan ja kääntyi sitten suuttumuksesta hehkuvin kasvoin sulhasensa puoleen.
— Miksi te jätitte minut? — kysyi hän. — Miksi jätitte minut, jos ette heti voinut tulla takaisin? Käsitättekö, hyvä herra, että teidän hartaasta pyynnöstänne minä tulin Pariisiin, tulin tähän hoviin, jatkoi hän, — ja että minä odotin teiltä suojelusta?
Aivan niin, — sanoi Tignonville. — Ja…
— Ja ovatko Carlat ja hänen vaimonsa teidän mielestänne minulle soveliaita suojelijoita? Luuletteko, että olisin tullut tai edes ajatellutkaan tulla näihin häihin ilman teidän ja serkkunne lupausta?
Ellen olisi pitänyt itseäni melkein vaimonanne, — jatkoi hän
lämpimästi, — ja ollut varma suojeluksestanne, luuletteko, että olisin lähestynyt tätä kamalaa kaupunkia edes sadan penikulman päähän? Ei kukaan meikäläisistä olisi tullut tänne, jos minä olisin saanut määrätä.
— Kamalaa kaupunkia? Totisesti, tokkopa se nyt onkaan niin kamala, — vastasi hänen sulhasensa hymyillen ja koettaen kääntää keskustelua leikilliseksi. — Te olette viikon kuluessa nähnyt enemmän kuin olisitte koko elämänne aikana nähneet Vrillacissa, neiti.
— Ja minä tukehdun! — vastasi tyttö kiivaasti. — Minä tukehdun!
Ettekö huomaa, kuinka meitä kadulla katsellaan, meitä hugenotteja? Kuinka ne, jotka asuvat täällä, osoittavat meitä sormellaan ja kiroavat meitä? Kuinka koiratkin haukkuvat meitä ja murisevat kintereillämme, ja pienet lapsukaiset tekevät ristinmerkin kulkiessamme ohi? Voitteko nähdä Gastinesin toria muistamatta, mitä siellä tapahtuu? Voitteko mennä yöllä Greven poikki kuulematta ilmassa kiljahduksia, vaikerrusta ja kamalia tuskanhuutoja, siellä murhattujen meikäläisten huutoja? — Hän pysähtyi hengähtääkseen, rauhoittui hiukan ja sanoi matalammalla äänellä: — Minulle muistuu mieleeni Philippine de Luns päivällä ja yöllä. Räystäskourut näyttävät minusta uhkaavilta; tiilikivet putoisivat katoilta päällemme, jos voisivat tehdä niinkuin haluavat; talot kumartuvat, kumartuvat…
— Mitä varten, neiti? — kysyi hänen sulhasensa teeskennellen kyynillisyyttä ja kohauttaen hartioitaan.
— Murskatakseen meidät allensa! Niin, herra, murskatakseen meidät!
— Ja kaikki tämä vain siksi, että jätin teidät hetkeksi?
— Tunniksi… tai melkein tunniksi, — vastasi tyttö maltillisemmin.
— Entä jos se ei ollutkaan minun syyni?
— Teidän olisi tullut ajatella sitä… ennenkuin toitte minut Pariisiin, hyvä herra. Näin levottomina aikoina.
Puna nousi herra Tignonvillen kasvoille. — Te teette minulle vääryyttä, neiti, — sanoi hän. — On seikkoja, jotka te unohdatte; hovissa ei aina ole oma herransa.
— Sen tiedän, — vastasi tyttö kuivasti, muistellen kuinka hänen itsensä oli käynyt.
— Mutta te ette tiedä, mitä tapahtui, — tokaisi hänen sulhasensa kärsimättömästä — Te ette tiedä, että syy ei ole minun. Kun saavuin leski-prinsessan kammioon, oli rouva d'Yverne jo lähtenyt Navarran kuningattaren luo. Kiirehdin hänen jälkeensä ja tapasin joukon herroja Navarran kuninkaan huoneessa. Siellä oli neuvottelu, ja he pyysivät, ei, vaan pakottivat minut jäämään.
— Sekö teitä pidätti niin kauan?
— Juuri se, neiti.
— Eikä… rouva St. Lo?
Herra de Tignonville lensi tulipunaiseksi. Tämä isku oli odottamaton. Tässä siis oli selitys neidin pahaan tuuleen.
— Mitä te tarkoitatte? — änkytti hän.
— Kuinka kauan olitte Navarran kuninkaan huoneessa ja kuinka kauan rouva St. Lon luona? — kysyi tyttö pilkallisesti. — Taikka olkoon, en tahdo panna teitä koetteelle, — jatkoi hän sukkelasti, nähdessään sulhasensa epäröivän. — Kuulin salongissa istuessani teidän juttelevan rouva St. Lon kanssa pylväskäytävässä. Tiedän, kuinka kauan viivyitte hänen luonaan.
— Tapasin rouvan palatessani, — änkytti Tignonville yhä punaisena kasvoiltaan, — kysyin häneltä, missä te olitte. En tiennyt, neiti, ettei minulla ole lupa puhutella tuntemiani naisia.
— Minä olin yksinäni ja odotin.
— Kuinka olisin sen tiennyt… en totisesti tiennyt, — vastasi hänen sulhasensa, tehden parastaan. — Te ette ollut siellä, jonne teidät jätin. Myönnän, että luulin teidän lähteneen. Luulin, että olitte mennyt kotiin.
— Kenen kanssa? Kenen kanssa? — kertasi tyttö säälimättä. Oliko tuo nyt luultavaa? Kenen kanssa olisin voinut mennä? Ja sittenkin on totta, että olisin voinut mennä kotiin, jos olisin tahtonut… herra de Tavannesin seurassa. Niin, — jatkoi hän ankarasti moittivalla äänellä, punastuen hiusrajaa myöten, — sellaista sallitte minulle tapahtuvan! Te sallitte, että minua ajaa takaa, kiusaa ja vaivaa mies, jonka katse kauhistuttaa, jonka kosketusta minä… minä vihaan! Te sallitte, että mihin ikinä menenkään, minua puhuttelee mies, jonka jokainen sana osoittaa, että minä olen hänelle otus, ja jolle te olette vain tyhjää ilmaa. Te olette mies ettekä tiedä, ette voi tietää, kuinka minä kärsin! Kuinka minä olen kärsinyt koko tämän viime viikon joka kerta, kun olette jättänyt minut yksin!
Tignonville näytti synkältä. — Mitä hän on puhunut teille? — kysyi hän hampaittensa lomitse.
— Ei mitään, jota saattaisin teille kertoa, — vastasi tyttö väristen.
— Hän se oli, joka vei minut kuninkaan huoneeseen.
— Miksi te menitte sinne?
— Odottakaahan, kunnes hän käskee teitä tekemään jotakin, sanoi tyttö. — Hänen tapansa, hymynsä, äänensä, kaikki pelottaa minua. Ja tänä iltana niissä kaikissa oli jotakin pahempaa, sata kertaa pahempaa kuin nähdessäni hänet viime kerralla… se oli torstaina! Hän näytti tuijottavan minua, — änkytti tyttö häpeänpuna poskillaan, — ikäänkuin olisin ollut hänen omaisuuttaan. Oi, herrani, jospa emme olisi jättäneet Poitoutamme! Näemmeköhän enää milloinkaan Vrillacia, kalastajani mökkejä satamassa ja kivipengertä vastaan aaltoilevaa sinistä merta?
Tignonville oli kuunnellut synkkänä, melkein jörönä, mutta nyt, nähdessään kyynelten kohoavan tytön silmiin, hän yritti nauraa.
— Mitä hullutuksia, te olette yhtä lapsellinen kuin herra de Rosny ja Vidame! — sanoi hän. — Ja he ovat yhtä täynnä pelkoa kuin muna ruskuaista! Siitä asti, kun tuo roisto perjantaina haavoitti amiraalia, he luulottelevat, että koko Pariisi on liittoutunut meitä vastaan.
— Ja miksi se ei voisi olla totta? — kysyi tyttö kalpeana katsellen häntä ikäänkuin tutkien hänen ajatuksiaan.
— Miksikä? Tietysti siksi, että niin hirvittävää mahdollisuutta ei voi ajatellakaan! — vastasi Tignonville varmassa luottamuksessa, sillä hän ei käyttänyt tätä todistuskeinoa ensimmäistä kertaa. Kuningasta ei mikään voi loukata pahemmin kuin sellainen epäluulo. Joku Borgia murhatkoon vieraansa, mutta Ranskan kuninkaat eivät ole koskaan sellaisia vehkeitä viritelleet. Totisesti, minä en enää välitä. Asukoot missä tahansa, toisella puolella virtaa tai vallien ulkopuolella, mutta Rue de l'Arbre Sec on minulle kyllin hyvä, ja kuninkaan nimi minulle kyllin varmana takeena.
— Ei ole teidän tapaistanne olla pelkuri, sen tiedän kyllä, — vastasi tyttö hymyillen ja katsellen häntä naisellisesti ylpeänä rakastetustaan. — Olkoon miten hyvänsä, mutta te ette enää jätä minua pulaan, ettehän?
Sulhanen vannoi, ettei niin tekisi, suuteli tytön kättä, katsoi häntä silmiin, ja sitten äkkiä heltyen hän hämmentyneenä ja änkyttäen mainitsi rouva St. Lon nimen. Tyttö keskeytti hänet.
— Ei kannata puhua siitä asiasta, — sanoi hän vastaten ystävällisesti sulhasensa katseeseen ja kieltäytyen kuulemasta hänen selityksiään. Ettekö kahden viikon kuluttua ole mieheni? Kuinka minä teitä epäilisin? Sehän vain oli ikävää, että hänen jutellessaan minä odotin… odotin; ja… ja rouva St. Lo on kreivi Hannibalin serkku. Hetken aikaa olin niin mieletön, että luulin hänen tahallaan pidättävän teitä. Luuletteko, että hän teki niin?
— Hänkö? — huudahti Tignonville kiivaasti ja hätkähti kuin olisi sellainen ajatus häntä loukannut. — Mahdotonta! Mutta tosiasia on, neiti, — jatkoi hän hieman kiihtyneenä, — että te olette samanlainen kuin monet muut meikäläisistä: te uskotte, että katolilainen voi tehdä minkä konnantyön tahansa.
— Olemme uskoneet sitä jo kauan Vrillacissa, — vastasi tyttö vakavasti.
— Ne ajat ovat jo menneet, jos ihmiset vain ymmärtäisivät. Nämä häät ovat tehneet lopun kaikesta sellaisesta. Mutta mitä niistä vanhoista! Sallikaa, että sensijaan saatan teidät kotiin.
— Olkaa niin ystävällinen. Carlat ja palvelijat ovat varmaankin alhaalla.
Tignonville tarttui sen ajan tavan mukaan oikealla kädellään tytön vasempaan ja laskien toisen kätensä miekkansa kahvalle saattoi tytön alas portaita, jotka tehden käännöksen johtivat suoraan linnan pihalle. Täällä liikkui joutilaana edestakaisin meluava joukko asestettuja palvelijoita, lakeijoita ja juoksupoikia, muutamat kantaen soihtuja, toiset herrojensa viittoja ja päällyskenkiä.
Jos herra de Tignonville olisi käyttänyt huomiokykyään enemmän, taikka ellei hän olisi ollut siinä määrin vaipunut oman tärkeytensä tuntoon, niin hän luultavasti olisi huomannut, että monet silmät tarkastivat häntä synkästi. Hän olisi ehkä kuullut, että monet ilmeisesti päästivät pilkkanaurun hänen kustannuksellaan. Mutta kutsuessaan luokseen Carlatia, joka oli neiti de Vrillacin hovimestari ja taloudenhoitaja, hän ei tullut kuulleeksi, kuinka eräs juoksupoika halveksivasti sähähti heille: »Kristityt koirat!» ja kuinka toinen kuninkaan veljen sotilaspukuun puettu räyhääjä mutisi partaansa: »Etelän koirat!»
Hänen huomionsa oli kiintynyt hovimestarin hakemiseen ja auttamaan tätä kietomaan viittaa emäntänsä ympärille. Sitten hän mahtavin liikkein, jotka olivat hänelle uusi saavutus ja jotka hän Pariisiin tultuaan oli oppinut, avasi tien tytölle tungoksen läpi. Hetken
kuluttua he kaikki kolme, kuuden asestetun keihäitä ja tulisoihtuja kantavan palvelijan seuraamina erosivat ihmisjoukosta ja astuen linnanpihan poikki, jota valaisivat kirkkaat akkunarivit, menivät ulos pallokenttien välisestä portista Fosses de St. Germain-kadulle.
Heidän edessään kohosivat St. Germain-kirkon torni ja gootilaiset kuvut tummassa siroudessaan taivasta vasten, jolla iltaruskon viimeinen heikko hohde vielä kilpaili tähtien kanssa. Kello oli hiukan yli yhdeksän. Elokuun-päivän kuumuus hehkui vielä tungokseen asti ihmisiä täynnä olevan kaupungin yllä, heikentäen etäistä aseiden ja varustusten helinää, joka kuitenkin pyrki hiljaisuudesta tai oikeammin hillitystä humusta kuuluville.
Kun neiti sivuutti St. Germainin luostarin viereisen suljetun talon, jonka edustalla juuri eilen oli haavoitettu amiraali Colignytä, hugenottien johtajaa, puristi hän seuralaisensa kättä ja painautui vaistomaisesti häntä lähemmäksi. Mutta Tignonville nauroi hänelle.
— Se oli yksityistä kostoa, — sanoi hän vastaukseksi tytön lausumattomiin ajatuksiin. — Se oli luultavasti Guisein työtä. Mutta nyt he tietävät, mikä on kuninkaan tahto, he ovat ymmärtäneet viittauksen ja vetäytyneet syrjään. Sellaista ei enää tapahdu, neitiseni. Ja todistuksena siitä ovat vartijat, katsokaa, — he olivat juuri tulleet Bethizy-kadun päähän, jonka kulmatalossa, Arbre Seckadun puolella, Coligny asui — jotka kuningas on asettanut hänen suojukseen. Viisikymmentä keihästä Cosseinsin johdolla.
— Cosseinsin? — kertasi tyttö. — Mutta minä luulin…
— Että hän ei meitä juuri rakastanut? — vastasi Tignonville nauraa hihittäen. — Ei hän ollutkaan siihen taipuvainen. Mutta koirat nuolevat, mitä heidän herransa käskee, neiti. Hän ei ollut ennen
puolellamme, mutta nyt hän on. Nämä häät ovat tehneet kaikessa muutoksen.
— Toivokaamme, ettei niistä koidu onnettomuutta! — kuiskasi tyttö. Hän sanoi sen sisäisestä pakosta.
— Mitä vielä! — vastasi hänen sulhasensa vakuuttavasti. — Miksi niin kävisi?
He olivat hänen puhuessaan pysähtyneet viimeisen talon edustalle St. Honoré-kadun kulmaan, vastapäätä Croix du Tiroiria, joka kohosi varjomaisena neljän kadun yhtymästä. Tignonville koputti ovelle.
— Mutta, — sanoi tyttö lempeästi katsoen häntä kasvoihin, tämä muutos on niin äkillinen, eikö olekin? Kuninkaan ei ollut tapana olla niin hyvä meille.
Hänen sulhasensa toisti samat sanat kohteliaasti. — Unia teistä!
— huudahti hän ja tehden kädenliikkeen jäähyväisiksi kääntyi paluumatkalle.
Hän kulki reippaasti taakseen katsomatta, vaikka tyttö vitkasteli hetkisen seuraten häntä katseillaan. Tyttö ei huomannut kiinnittävänsä tähän seikkaan huomiota taikka sen loukkaavan mieltään. Kuitenkin, kun ovi lukittiin ja teljettiin hänen takanaan, kun hän kohosi senaikuisia kylmiä, autioita portaita yläkertaan — kun hän kuuli palvelijoittensa hiljaiset, kumajavat askeleet heidän poistuessaan komeroihinsa ja makuusuojilleen, ja ennen kaikkea silloin, kun hän oli astunut huoneensa kynnyksen poikki ja kädenliikkeellä viittasi rouva Carlatia ja kamarineitiään kuuntelemaan, tunsi hän varmasti jotakin puuttuvan.
