{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5982/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5982","id":"gutenberg_5982","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5982","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEELDROP AND APPLEPLEX\n\nT.S. Eliot\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nEeldrop and Appleplex rented two small rooms in a disreputable part of\ntown. Here they sometimes came at nightfall, here they sometimes slept,\nand after they had slept, they cooked oatmeal and departed in the\nmorning for destinations unknown to each other. They sometimes slept,\nmore often they talked, or looked out of the window.\n\nThey had chosen the rooms and the neighborhood with great care. There\nare evil neighborhoods of noise and evil neighborhoods of silence, and\nEeldrop and Appleplex preferred the latter, as being the more evil. It\nwas a shady street, its windows were heavily curtained; and over it hung\nthe cloud of a respectability which has something to conceal. Yet it\nhad the advantage of more riotous neighborhoods near by, and Eeldrop and\nAppleplex commanded from their windows the entrance of a police station\nacross the way. This alone possessed an irresistible appeal in their\neyes. From time to time the silence of the street was broken; whenever a\nmalefactor was apprehended, a wave of excitement curled into the street\nand broke upon the doors of the police station. Then the inhabitants of\nthe street would linger in dressing-gowns, upon their doorsteps: then\nalien visitors would linger in the street, in caps; long after the\ncentre of misery had been engulphed in his cell. Then Eeldrop and\nAppleplex would break off their discourse, and rush out to mingle with\nthe mob. Each pursued his own line of enquiry. Appleplex, who had the\ngift of an extraordinary address with the lower classes of both sexes,\nquestioned the onlookers, and usually extracted full and inconsistent\nhistories: Eeldrop preserved a more passive demeanor, listened to the\nconversation of the people among themselves, registered in his mind\ntheir oaths, their redundance of phrase, their various manners of\nspitting, and the cries of the victim from the hall of justice within.\nWhen the crowd dispersed, Eeldrop and Appleplex returned to their rooms:\nAppleplex entered the results of his inquiries into large notebooks,\nfiled according to the nature of the case, from A (adultery) to Y\n(yeggmen). Eeldrop smoked reflectively. It may be added that Eeldrop was\na sceptic, with a taste for mysticism, and Appleplex a materialist with\na leaning toward scepticism; that Eeldrop was learned in theology, and\nthat Appleplex studied the physical and biological sciences.\n\nThere was a common motive which led Eeldrop and Appleplex thus to\nseparate themselves from time to time, from the fields of their\ndaily employments and their ordinarily social activities. Both were\nendeavoring to escape not the commonplace, respectable or even the\ndomestic, but the too well pigeonholed, too taken-for-granted, too\nhighly systematized areas, and,--in the language of those whom they\nsought to avoid--they wished \"to apprehend the human soul in its\nconcrete individuality.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Eeldrop, \"was that fat Spaniard, who sat at the table\nwith us this evening, and listened to our conversation with occasional\ncuriosity, why was he himself for a moment an object of interest to us?\nHe wore his napkin tucked into his chin, he made unpleasant noises while\neating, and while not eating, his way of crumbling bread between fat\nfingers made me extremely nervous: he wore a waistcoat cafe au lait, and\nblack boots with brown tops. He was oppressively gross and vulgar;\nhe belonged to a type, he could easily be classified in any town\nof provincial Spain. Yet under the circumstances--when we had been\ndiscussing marriage, and he suddenly leaned forward and exclaimed:\n'I was married once myself'--we were able to detach him from his\nclassification and regard him for a moment as an unique being, a soul,\nhowever insignificant, with a history of its own, once for all. It is\nthese moments which we prize, and which alone are revealing. For any\nvital truth is incapable of being applied to another case: the essential\nis unique. Perhaps that is why it is so neglected: because it is\nuseless. What we learned about that Spaniard is incapable of being\napplied to any other Spaniard, or even recalled in words. With the\ndecline of orthodox theology and its admirable theory of the soul, the\nunique importance of events has vanished. A man is only important as he\nis classed. Hence there is no tragedy, or no appreciation of tragedy,\nwhich is the same thing. We had been talking of young Bistwick, who\nthree months ago married his mother's housemaid and now is aware of the\nfact. Who appreciates the truth of the matter? Not the relatives, for\nthey are only moved by affection, by regard for Bistwick's interests,\nand chiefly by their collective feeling of family disgrace. Not the\ngenerous minded and thoughtful outsider, who regards it merely as\nevidence for the necessity of divorce law reform. Bistwick is classed\namong the unhappily married. But what Bistwick feels when he wakes up\nin the morning, which is the great important fact, no detached outsider\nconceives. The awful importance of the ruin of a life is overlooked. Men\nare only allowed to be happy or miserable in classes. In Gopsum Street a\nman murders his mistress. The important fact is that for the man the act\nis eternal, and that for the brief space he has to live, he is already\ndead. He is already in a different world from ours. He has crossed the\nfrontier. The important fact is that something is done which can not\nbe undone--a possibility which none of us realize until we face it\nourselves. For the man's neighbors the important fact is what the man\nkilled her with? And at precisely what time? And who found the body?\nFor the 'enlightened public' the case is merely evidence for the Drink\nquestion, or Unemployment, or some other category of things to be\nreformed. But the mediaeval world, insisting on the eternity of\npunishment, expressed something nearer the truth.\"\n\n\"What you say,\" replied Appleplex, \"commands my measured adherence.\nI should think, in the case of the Spaniard, and in the many other\ninteresting cases which have come under our attention at the door of\nthe police station, what we grasp in that moment of pure observation\non which we pride ourselves, is not alien to the principle of\nclassification, but deeper. We could, if we liked, make excellent\ncomment upon the nature of provincial Spaniards, or of destitution (as\nmisery is called by the philanthropists), or on homes for working girls.\nBut such is not our intention. We aim at experience in the particular\ncentres in which alone it is evil. We avoid classification. We do not\ndeny it. But when a man is classified something is lost. The majority of\nmankind live on paper currency: they use terms which are merely good for\nso much reality, they never see actual coinage.\"\n\n\"I should go even further than that,\" said Eeldrop. \"The majority not\nonly have no language to express anything save generalized man; they are\nfor the most part unaware of themselves as anything but generalized men.\nThey are first of all government officials, or pillars of the church, or\ntrade unionists, or poets, or unemployed; this cataloguing is not only\nsatisfactory to other people for practical purposes, it is sufficient\nto themselves for their 'life of the spirit.' Many are not quite real at\nany moment. When Wolstrip married, I am sure he said to himself: 'Now I\nam consummating the union of two of the best families in Philadelphia.'\"\n\n\"The question is,\" said Appleplex, \"what is to be our philosophy. This\nmust be settled at once. Mrs. Howexden recommends me to read Bergson. He\nwrites very entertainingly on the structure of the eye of the frog.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" interrupted his friend. \"Our philosophy is quite\nirrelevant. The essential is, that our philosophy should spring from our\npoint of view and not return upon itself to explain our point of view. A\nphilosophy about intuition is somewhat less likely to be intuitive than\nany other. We must avoid having a platform.\"\n\n\"But at least,\" said Appleplex, \"we are...\"\n\n\"Individualists. No!! nor anti-intellectualists. These also are labels.\nThe 'individualist' is a member of a mob as fully as any other man: and\nthe mob of individualists is the most unpleasing, because it has\nthe least character. Nietzsche was a mob-man, just as Bergson is an\nintellectualist. We cannot escape the label, but let it be one which\ncarries no distinction, and arouses no self-consciousness. Sufficient\nthat we should find simple labels, and not further exploit them. I am, I\nconfess to you, in private life, a bank-clerk....\"\n\n\"And should, according to your own view, have a wife, three children,\nand a vegetable garden in a suburb,\" said Appleplex.\n\n\"Such is precisely the case,\" returned Eeldrop, \"but I had not thought\nit necessary to mention this biographical detail. As it is Saturday\nnight, I shall return to my suburb. Tomorrow will be spent in that\ngarden....\"\n\n\"I shall pay my call on Mrs. Howexden,\" murmured Appleplex.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nThe suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the gardens of the\nsmall houses to left and right were rank with ivy and tall grass and\nlilac bushes; the tropical South London verdure was dusty above and\nmouldy below; the tepid air swarmed with flies. Eeldrop, at the window,\nwelcomed the smoky smell of lilac, the gramaphones, the choir of the\nBaptist chapel, and the sight of three small girls playing cards on the\nsteps of the police station.\n\n\"On such a night as this,\" said Eeldrop, \"I often think of Scheherazade,\nand wonder what has become of her.\"\n\nAppleplex rose without speaking and turned to the files which contained\nthe documents for his \"Survey of Contemporary Society.\" He removed the\nfile marked London from between the files Barcelona and Boston where it\nhad been misplaced, and turned over the papers rapidly. \"The lady you\nmention,\" he rejoined at last, \"whom I have listed not under S. but as\nEdith, alias Scheherazade, has left but few evidences in my possession.\nHere is an old laundry account which she left for you to pay, a cheque\ndrawn by her and marked 'R/D,' a letter from her mother in Honolulu (on\nruled paper), a poem written on a restaurant bill--'To Atthis'--and a\nletter by herself, on Lady Equistep's best notepaper, containing some\ndamaging but entertaining information about Lady Equistep. Then there\nare my own few observations on two sheets of foolscap.\"\n\n\"Edith,\" murmured Eeldrop, who had not been attending to this catalogue,\n\"I wonder what has become of her. 'Not pleasure, but fulness of life...\nto burn ever with a hard gem-like flame,' those were her words. What\ncuriosity and passion for experience! Perhaps that flame has burnt\nitself out by now.\"\n\n\"You ought to inform yourself better,\" said Appleplex severely, \"Edith\ndines sometimes with Mrs. Howexden, who tells me that her passion for\nexperience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bayswater. She is also\nsaid to be present often at the Anarchist Tea Rooms, and can usually be\nfound in the evening at the Cafe de l'Orangerie.\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied Eeldrop, \"I confess that I prefer to wonder what has\nbecome of her. I do not like to think of her future. Scheherazade grown\nold! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed, with blond hair, living\nin a small flat with a maid, walking in the Park with a Pekinese,\nmotoring with a Jewish stock-broker. With a fierce appetite for food and\ndrink, when all other appetite is gone, all other appetite gone except\nthe insatiable increasing appetite of vanity; rolling on two wide\nlegs, rolling in motorcars, rolling toward a diabetic end in a seaside\nwatering place.\"\n\n\"Just now you saw that bright flame burning itself out,\" said Appleplex,\n\"now you see it guttering thickly, which proves that your vision\nwas founded on imagination, not on feeling. And the passion for\nexperience--have you remained so impregnably Pre-Raphaelite as to\nbelieve in that? What real person, with the genuine resources of\ninstinct, has ever believed in the passion for experience? The passion\nfor experience is a criticism of the sincere, a creed only of the\nhistrionic. The passionate person is passionate about this or that,\nperhaps about the least significant things, but not about experience.\nBut Marius, des Esseintes, Edith...\"\n\n\"But consider,\" said Eeldrop, attentive only to the facts of Edith's\nhistory, and perhaps missing the point of Appleplex's remarks, \"her\nunusual career. The daughter of a piano tuner in Honolulu, she secured\na scholarship at the University of California, where she graduated\nwith Honors in Social Ethics. She then married a celebrated billiard\nprofessional in San Francisco, after an acquaintance of twelve hours,\nlived with him for two days, joined a musical comedy chorus, and was\ndivorced in Nevada. She turned up several years later in Paris and\nwas known to all the Americans and English at the Cafe du Dome as Mrs.\nShort. She reappeared in London as Mrs. Griffiths, published a small\nvolume of verse, and was accepted in several circles known to us. And\nnow, as I still insist, she has disappeared from society altogether.\"\n\n\"The memory of Scheherazade,\" said Appleplex, \"is to me that of\nBird's custard and prunes in a Bloomsbury boarding house. It is not my\nintention to represent Edith as merely disreputable. Neither is she\na tragic figure. I want to know why she misses. I cannot altogether\nanalyse her 'into a combination of known elements' but I fail to touch\nanything definitely unanalysable.\n\n\"Is Edith, in spite of her romantic past, pursuing steadily some hidden\npurpose of her own? Are her migrations and eccentricities the sign\nof some unguessed consistency? I find in her a quantity of shrewd\nobservation, an excellent fund of criticism, but I cannot connect them\ninto any peculiar vision. Her sarcasm at the expense of her friends\nis delightful, but I doubt whether it is more than an attempt to mould\nherself from outside, by the impact of hostilities, to emphasise her\nisolation. Everyone says of her, 'How perfectly impenetrable!' I suspect\nthat within there is only the confusion of a dusty garret.\"\n\n\"I test people,\" said Eeldrop, \"by the way in which I imagine them as\nwaking up in the morning. I am not drawing upon memory when I imagine\nEdith waking to a room strewn with clothes, papers, cosmetics, letters\nand a few books, the smell of Violettes de Parme and stale tobacco. The\nsunlight beating in through broken blinds, and broken blinds keeping out\nthe sun until Edith can compel herself to attend to another day. Yet the\nvision does not give me much pain. I think of her as an artist without\nthe slightest artistic power.\"\n\n\"The artistic temperament--\" began Appleplex.\n\n\"No, not that.\" Eeldrop snatched away the opportunity. \"I mean that what\nholds the artist together is the work which he does; separate him from\nhis work and he either disintegrates or solidifies. There is no interest\nin the artist apart from his work. And there are, as you said, those\npeople who provide material for the artist. Now Edith's poem 'To Atthis'\nproves beyond the shadow of a doubt that she is not an artist. On the\nother hand I have often thought of her, as I thought this evening, as\npresenting possibilities for poetic purposes. But the people who can\nbe material for art must have in them something unconscious, something\nwhich they do not fully realise or understand. Edith, in spite of what\nis called her impenetrable mask, presents herself too well. I cannot use\nher; she uses herself too fully. Partly for the same reason I think,\nshe fails to be an artist: she does not live at all upon instinct.\nThe artist is part of him a drifter, at the mercy of impressions, and\nanother part of him allows this to happen for the sake of making use of\nthe unhappy creature. But in Edith the division is merely the rational,\nthe cold and detached part of the artist, itself divided. Her material,\nher experience that is, is already a mental product, already digested by\nreason. Hence Edith (I only at this moment arrive at understanding)\nis really the most orderly person in existence, and the most rational.\nNothing ever happens to her; everything that happens is her own doing.\"\n\n\"And hence also,\" continued Appleplex, catching up the thread, \"Edith\nis the least detached of all persons, since to be detached is to be\ndetached from one's self, to stand by and criticise coldly one's own\npassions and vicissitudes. But in Edith the critic is coaching the\ncombatant.\"\n\n\"Edith is not unhappy.\"\n\n\"She is dissatisfied, perhaps.\"\n\n\"But again I say, she is not tragic: she is too rational. And in\nher career there is no progression, no decline or degeneration. Her\ncondition is once and for always. There is and will be no catastrophe.\n\n\"But I am tired. I still wonder what Edith and Mrs. Howexden have\nin common. This invites the consideration (you may not perceive the\nconnection) of Sets and Society, a subject which we can pursue tomorrow\nnight.\"\n\nAppleplex looked a little embarrassed. \"I am dining with Mrs. Howexden,\"\nhe said. \"But I will reflect upon the topic before I see you again.\"","title":"Eeldrop and Appleplex","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":2886}