Chapter 35

by Herman Melville

　　IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN STRIKINGLY EVINCES THE ARTLESSNESS OF HISNATURE."Well, what do you think of the story of Charlemont?" mildly asked hewho had told it."A very strange one," answered the auditor, who had been such not withperfect ease, "but is it true?""Of course not; it is a story which I told with the purpose of everystory-teller--to amuse. Hence, if it seem strange to you, thatstrangeness is the romance; it is what contrasts it with real life; itis the invention, in brief, the fiction as opposed to the fact. For dobut ask yourself, my dear Charlie," lovingly leaning over towards him,"I rest it with your own heart now, whether such a forereaching motiveas Charlemont hinted he had acted on in his change--whether such amotive, I say, were a sort of one at all justified by the nature ofhuman society? Would you, for one, turn the cold shoulder to a friend--aconvivial one, say, whose pennilessness should be suddenly revealed toyou?""How can you ask me, my dear Frank? You know I would scorn suchmeanness." But rising somewhat disconcerted--"really, early as it is, Ithink I must retire; my head," putting up his hand to it, "feelsunpleasantly; this confounded elixir of logwood, little as I drank ofit, has played the deuce with me.""Little as you drank of this elixir of logwood? Why, Charlie, you arelosing your mind. To talk so of the genuine, mellow old port. Yes, Ithink that by all means you had better away, and sleep it off.There--don't apologize--don't explain--go, go--I understand you exactly.I will see you to-morrow."