IN OXFORD STREET

"In going downstairs the first time I found an unexpected difficulty
because I could not see my feet; indeed I stumbled twice, and there
was an unaccustomed clumsiness in gripping the bolt. By not looking
down, however, I managed to walk on the level passably well.

"My mood, I say, was one of exaltation. I felt as a seeing man
might do, with padded feet and noiseless clothes, in a city of the
blind. I experienced a wild impulse to jest, to startle people, to
clap men on the back, fling people's hats astray, and generally
revel in my extraordinary advantage.

"But hardly had I emerged upon Great Portland Street, however (my
lodging was close to the big draper's shop there), when I heard a
clashing concussion and was hit violently behind, and turning saw
a man carrying a basket of soda-water syphons, and looking in
amazement at his burden. Although the blow had really hurt me, I
found something so irresistible in his astonishment that I laughed
aloud. 'The devil's in the basket,' I said, and suddenly twisted
it out of his hand. He let go incontinently, and I swung the whole
weight into the air.

"But a fool of a cabman, standing outside a public house, made a
sudden rush for this, and his extending fingers took me with
excruciating violence under the ear. I let the whole down with a
smash on the cabman, and then, with shouts and the clatter of feet
about me, people coming out of shops, vehicles pulling up, I
realised what I had done for myself, and cursing my folly, backed
against a shop window and prepared to dodge out of the confusion. In
a moment I should be wedged into a crowd and inevitably discovered.
I pushed by a butcher boy, who luckily did not turn to see the
nothingness that shoved him aside, and dodged behind the cab-man's
four-wheeler. I do not know how they settled the business. I hurried
straight across the road, which was happily clear, and hardly
heeding which way I went, in the fright of detection the incident
had given me, plunged into the afternoon throng of Oxford Street.

"I tried to get into the stream of people, but they were too thick
for me, and in a moment my heels were being trodden upon. I took to
the gutter, the roughness of which I found painful to my feet, and
forthwith the shaft of a crawling hansom dug me forcibly under the
shoulder blade, reminding me that I was already bruised severely. I
staggered out of the way of the cab, avoided a perambulator by a
convulsive movement, and found myself behind the hansom. A happy
thought saved me, and as this drove slowly along I followed in its
immediate wake, trembling and astonished at the turn of my
adventure. And not only trembling, but shivering. It was a bright
day in January and I was stark naked and the thin slime of mud that
covered the road was freezing. Foolish as it seems to me now, I had
not reckoned that, transparent or not, I was still amenable to the
weather and all its consequences.

"Then suddenly a bright idea came into my head. I ran round and got
into the cab. And so, shivering, scared, and sniffing with the first
intimations of a cold, and with the bruises in the small of my back
growing upon my attention, I drove slowly along Oxford Street and
past Tottenham Court Road. My mood was as different from that in
which I had sallied forth ten minutes ago as it is possible to
imagine. This invisibility indeed! The one thought that possessed
me was--how was I to get out of the scrape I was in.

"We crawled past Mudie's, and there a tall woman with five or six
yellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time
to escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight. I made
off up the roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north
past the Museum and so get into the quiet district. I was now
cruelly chilled, and the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me
that I whimpered as I ran. At the northward corner of the Square a
little white dog ran out of the Pharmaceutical Society's offices,
and incontinently made for me, nose down.

"I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a
dog what the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the
scent of a man moving as men perceive his vision. This brute began
barking and leaping, showing, as it seemed to me, only too plainly
that he was aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing
over my shoulder as I did so, and went some way along Montague
Street before I realised what I was running towards.

"Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the
street saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red
shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a
crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I
could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther
from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up
the white steps of a house facing the museum railings, and stood
there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped
at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running
back to Bloomsbury Square again.

"On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about
'When shall we see His face?' and it seemed an interminable time
to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me.
Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for
the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by
me. 'See 'em,' said one. 'See what?' said the other. 'Why--them
footmarks--bare. Like what you makes in mud.'

"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping
at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened
steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their
confounded intelligence was arrested. 'Thud, thud, thud, when,
thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud.' 'There's a
barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don't know nothing,' said
one. 'And he ain't never come down again. And his foot was
a-bleeding.'

"The thick of the crowd had already passed. 'Looky there, Ted,'
quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise
in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and
saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in
splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed.

"'Why, that's rum,' said the elder. 'Dashed rum! It's just like
the ghost of a foot, ain't it?' He hesitated and advanced with
outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was
catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched
me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with
an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into
the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed
enough to follow the movement, and before I was well down the
steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary
astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the
wall.

"They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the
lower step and upon the pavement. 'What's up?' asked someone.
'Feet! Look! Feet running!'

"Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along
after the Salvation Army, and this blow not only impeded me but them.
There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of
bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment
I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with
six or seven astonished people following my footmarks. There was
no time for explanation, or else the whole host would have been
after me.

"Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came
back upon my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the
damp impressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing space
and rubbed my feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether.
The last I saw of the chase was a little group of a dozen people
perhaps, studying with infinite perplexity a slowly drying
footprint that had resulted from a puddle in Tavistock Square, a
footprint as isolated and incomprehensible to them as Crusoe's
solitary discovery.

"This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a
better courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs
hereabouts. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils
were painful from the cabman's fingers, and the skin of my neck
had been scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I
was lame from a little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind
man approaching me, and fled limping, for I feared his subtle
intuitions. Once or twice accidental collisions occurred and I left
people amazed, with unaccountable curses ringing in their ears.
Then came something silent and quiet against my face, and across
the Square fell a thin veil of slowly falling flakes of snow. I had
caught a cold, and do as I would I could not avoid an occasional
sneeze. And every dog that came in sight, with its pointing nose
and curious sniffing, was a terror to me.

"Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and
shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of
my lodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black
smoke streaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was my
lodging burning; my clothes, my apparatus, all my resources indeed,
except my cheque-book and the three volumes of memoranda that
awaited me in Great Portland Street, were there. Burning! I had
burnt my boats--if ever a man did! The place was blazing."

The Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of
the window. "Yes?" he said. "Go on."

The narrator returns to the office and is greeted by a few members of the organization. The memory of Clifton's black dolls haunts him more than the shooting. He feels like a failure for reacting emotionally to the doll without taking the opportunity to educate the people about it. He pulls the doll from his pocket and examines it, noticing the two faces on it and the almost invisible thread that makes it dance. He feels hatred for the doll, almost as if it is a living thing. He thinks of the Brotherhood's concept of individuals having no meaning and begins to cry; he believes that Clifton deserves some integrity in his death, some meaning. He decides to plan a proper burial for him. The narrator calls headquarters, but no one returns his calls. He decides to organize the community without the approval of the Brotherhood. He stirs the neighborhood to anger over Clifton being shot down unarmed. On the day of the funeral, it seems the entire community is in attendance. He wonders if they gather out of love or hate. At the funeral, a song is begun by an old gentleman in the crowd. It moves the narrator and others to join in the singing. Once they reach the end of the procession, it is time for the narrator to give a speech, but he begins feeling resentful towards the crowd. He wonders why they all attend now and not when they could have prevented the tragedy. He begins his speech by telling everyone to go home, because there is not much of a story to tell. There is no preacher, and they already know what has happened. After going in this direction for a while, he decides to deviate from the direction of the Brotherhood. The narrator continues to explain Clifton's death by accusing him of accepting the reality of his place in history, a place that labels him as less than human. He tells them that they are all in the coffin with Clifton, unless they start doing something to get out. Leaving, he looks out to the crowd and sees individual people, as opposed to a uniform group. He leaves, feeling he must continue to organize the people's emotion effectively.


IN THE EMPORIUM

"So last January, with the beginning of a snowstorm in the air
about me--and if it settled on me it would betray me!--weary,
cold, painful, inexpressibly wretched, and still but half convinced
of my invisible quality, I began this new life to which I am
committed. I had no refuge, no appliances, no human being in the
world in whom I could confide. To have told my secret would have
given me away--made a mere show and rarity of me. Nevertheless, I
was half-minded to accost some passer-by and throw myself upon his
mercy. But I knew too clearly the terror and brutal cruelty my
advances would evoke. I made no plans in the street. My sole object
was to get shelter from the snow, to get myself covered and warm;
then I might hope to plan. But even to me, an Invisible Man, the
rows of London houses stood latched, barred, and bolted
impregnably.

"Only one thing could I see clearly before me--the cold exposure
and misery of the snowstorm and the night.

"And then I had a brilliant idea. I turned down one of the roads
leading from Gower Street to Tottenham Court Road, and found myself
outside Omniums, the big establishment where everything is to be
bought--you know the place: meat, grocery, linen, furniture,
clothing, oil paintings even--a huge meandering collection of shops
rather than a shop. I had thought I should find the doors open, but
they were closed, and as I stood in the wide entrance a carriage
stopped outside, and a man in uniform--you know the kind of
personage with 'Omnium' on his cap--flung open the door. I contrived
to enter, and walking down the shop--it was a department where they
were selling ribbons and gloves and stockings and that kind of
thing--came to a more spacious region devoted to picnic baskets and
wicker furniture.

"I did not feel safe there, however; people were going to and fro,
and I prowled restlessly about until I came upon a huge section in
an upper floor containing multitudes of bedsteads, and over these I
clambered, and found a resting-place at last among a huge pile of
folded flock mattresses. The place was already lit up and agreeably
warm, and I decided to remain where I was, keeping a cautious
eye on the two or three sets of shopmen and customers who were
meandering through the place, until closing time came. Then I
should be able, I thought, to rob the place for food and clothing,
and disguised, prowl through it and examine its resources, perhaps
sleep on some of the bedding. That seemed an acceptable plan.
My idea was to procure clothing to make myself a muffled but
acceptable figure, to get money, and then to recover my books
and parcels where they awaited me, take a lodging somewhere and
elaborate plans for the complete realisation of the advantages my
invisibility gave me (as I still imagined) over my fellow-men.

"Closing time arrived quickly enough. It could not have been more
than an hour after I took up my position on the mattresses before I
noticed the blinds of the windows being drawn, and customers being
marched doorward. And then a number of brisk young men began with
remarkable alacrity to tidy up the goods that remained disturbed. I
left my lair as the crowds diminished, and prowled cautiously out
into the less desolate parts of the shop. I was really surprised to
observe how rapidly the young men and women whipped away the goods
displayed for sale during the day. All the boxes of goods, the
hanging fabrics, the festoons of lace, the boxes of sweets in the
grocery section, the displays of this and that, were being whipped
down, folded up, slapped into tidy receptacles, and everything that
could not be taken down and put away had sheets of some coarse
stuff like sacking flung over them. Finally all the chairs were
turned up on to the counters, leaving the floor clear. Directly
each of these young people had done, he or she made promptly for
the door with such an expression of animation as I have rarely
observed in a shop assistant before. Then came a lot of youngsters
scattering sawdust and carrying pails and brooms. I had to dodge
to get out of the way, and as it was, my ankle got stung with the
sawdust. For some time, wandering through the swathed and darkened
departments, I could hear the brooms at work. And at last a good
hour or more after the shop had been closed, came a noise of
locking doors. Silence came upon the place, and I found myself
wandering through the vast and intricate shops, galleries, show-rooms
of the place, alone. It was very still; in one place I remember
passing near one of the Tottenham Court Road entrances and listening
to the tapping of boot-heels of the passers-by.

"My first visit was to the place where I had seen stockings and
gloves for sale. It was dark, and I had the devil of a hunt after
matches, which I found at last in the drawer of the little cash
desk. Then I had to get a candle. I had to tear down wrappings and
ransack a number of boxes and drawers, but at last I managed to turn
out what I sought; the box label called them lambswool pants, and
lambswool vests. Then socks, a thick comforter, and then I went to
the clothing place and got trousers, a lounge jacket, an overcoat
and a slouch hat--a clerical sort of hat with the brim turned down.
I began to feel a human being again, and my next thought was food.

"Upstairs was a refreshment department, and there I got cold meat.
There was coffee still in the urn, and I lit the gas and warmed it
up again, and altogether I did not do badly. Afterwards, prowling
through the place in search of blankets--I had to put up at last
with a heap of down quilts--I came upon a grocery section with
a lot of chocolate and candied fruits, more than was good for me
indeed--and some white burgundy. And near that was a toy department,
and I had a brilliant idea. I found some artificial noses--dummy
noses, you know, and I thought of dark spectacles. But Omniums had
no optical department. My nose had been a difficulty indeed--I had
thought of paint. But the discovery set my mind running on wigs and
masks and the like. Finally I went to sleep in a heap of down
quilts, very warm and comfortable.

"My last thoughts before sleeping were the most agreeable I had had
since the change. I was in a state of physical serenity, and that
was reflected in my mind. I thought that I should be able to slip
out unobserved in the morning with my clothes upon me, muffling my
face with a white wrapper I had taken, purchase, with the money I
had taken, spectacles and so forth, and so complete my disguise. I
lapsed into disorderly dreams of all the fantastic things that had
happened during the last few days. I saw the ugly little Jew of a
landlord vociferating in his rooms; I saw his two sons marvelling,
and the wrinkled old woman's gnarled face as she asked for her cat.
I experienced again the strange sensation of seeing the cloth
disappear, and so I came round to the windy hillside and the
sniffing old clergyman mumbling 'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,' at my father's open grave.

"'You also,' said a voice, and suddenly I was being forced towards
the grave. I struggled, shouted, appealed to the mourners, but they
continued stonily following the service; the old clergyman, too,
never faltered droning and sniffing through the ritual. I realised
I was invisible and inaudible, that overwhelming forces had their
grip on me. I struggled in vain, I was forced over the brink, the
coffin rang hollow as I fell upon it, and the gravel came flying
after me in spadefuls. Nobody heeded me, nobody was aware of me. I
made convulsive struggles and awoke.

"The pale London dawn had come, the place was full of a chilly grey
light that filtered round the edges of the window blinds. I sat up,
and for a time I could not think where this ample apartment, with
its counters, its piles of rolled stuff, its heap of quilts and
cushions, its iron pillars, might be. Then, as recollection came
back to me, I heard voices in conversation.

"Then far down the place, in the brighter light of some department
which had already raised its blinds, I saw two men approaching. I
scrambled to my feet, looking about me for some way of escape, and
even as I did so the sound of my movement made them aware of me. I
suppose they saw merely a figure moving quietly and quickly away.
'Who's that?' cried one, and 'Stop there!' shouted the other. I
dashed around a corner and came full tilt--a faceless figure,
mind you!--on a lanky lad of fifteen. He yelled and I bowled him
over, rushed past him, turned another corner, and by a happy
inspiration threw myself behind a counter. In another moment feet
went running past and I heard voices shouting, 'All hands to the
doors!' asking what was 'up,' and giving one another advice how to
catch me.

"Lying on the ground, I felt scared out of my wits. But--odd as
it may seem--it did not occur to me at the moment to take off my
clothes as I should have done. I had made up my mind, I suppose, to
get away in them, and that ruled me. And then down the vista of the
counters came a bawling of 'Here he is!'

"I sprang to my feet, whipped a chair off the counter, and sent it
whirling at the fool who had shouted, turned, came into another
round a corner, sent him spinning, and rushed up the stairs. He
kept his footing, gave a view hallo, and came up the staircase hot
after me. Up the staircase were piled a multitude of those
bright-coloured pot things--what are they?"

"Art pots," suggested Kemp.

"That's it! Art pots. Well, I turned at the top step and swung
round, plucked one out of a pile and smashed it on his silly head
as he came at me. The whole pile of pots went headlong, and I heard
shouting and footsteps running from all parts. I made a mad rush
for the refreshment place, and there was a man in white like a man
cook, who took up the chase. I made one last desperate turn and
found myself among lamps and ironmongery. I went behind the counter
of this, and waited for my cook, and as he bolted in at the head of
the chase, I doubled him up with a lamp. Down he went, and I
crouched down behind the counter and began whipping off my clothes
as fast as I could. Coat, jacket, trousers, shoes were all right,
but a lambswool vest fits a man like a skin. I heard more men
coming, my cook was lying quiet on the other side of the counter,
stunned or scared speechless, and I had to make another dash for
it, like a rabbit hunted out of a wood-pile.

"'This way, policeman!' I heard someone shouting. I found myself in
my bedstead storeroom again, and at the end of a wilderness of
wardrobes. I rushed among them, went flat, got rid of my vest after
infinite wriggling, and stood a free man again, panting and scared,
as the policeman and three of the shopmen came round the corner.
They made a rush for the vest and pants, and collared the trousers.
'He's dropping his plunder,' said one of the young men. 'He _must_
be somewhere here.'

"But they did not find me all the same.

"I stood watching them hunt for me for a time, and cursing my
ill-luck in losing the clothes. Then I went into the refreshment-room,
drank a little milk I found there, and sat down by the fire to
consider my position.

"In a little while two assistants came in and began to talk over
the business very excitedly and like the fools they were. I heard a
magnified account of my depredations, and other speculations as to
my whereabouts. Then I fell to scheming again. The insurmountable
difficulty of the place, especially now it was alarmed, was to get
any plunder out of it. I went down into the warehouse to see if
there was any chance of packing and addressing a parcel, but I
could not understand the system of checking. About eleven o'clock,
the snow having thawed as it fell, and the day being finer and a
little warmer than the previous one, I decided that the Emporium
was hopeless, and went out again, exasperated at my want of
success, with only the vaguest plans of action in my mind."

Brother Jack calls the narrator to a meeting and grills him over the unauthorized funeral for Clifton. The narrator emphasizes the need to organize the people while they are still upset. The group accuses him of acting without permission, and he responds that he has acted out of personal responsibility. They mock him, claiming that Clifton was a traitor given the funeral of a hero. The narrator tries to explain that while Clifton may be defined as a traitor by the Brotherhood, he is not defined as such by the Harlem community. The narrator makes the statement that someone, somewhere always accuses others of being traitors. They make fun of the narrator for using the words "personal responsibility." The tension and anger in the room continue to escalate until Jack gets so frenzied that his glass eye pops out of its socket. The narrator feels it is a planned incident, designed to throw him off balance. Jack screams that he lost his eye in the line of duty, a lesson in self-sacrifice and discipline. The narrator thinks to himself that Jack's sacrifice has made him blind. He realizes once and for all that Jack does not see him. Jack and the other men leave. The narrator makes a decision to leave the public eye, to forget about changing history in a public way. Once again he sees the Brotherhood more clearly, with less blindness.


IN DRURY LANE

"But you begin now to realise," said the Invisible Man, "the full
disadvantage of my condition. I had no shelter--no covering--to
get clothing was to forego all my advantage, to make myself a
strange and terrible thing. I was fasting; for to eat, to fill
myself with unassimilated matter, would be to become grotesquely
visible again."

"I never thought of that," said Kemp.

"Nor had I. And the snow had warned me of other dangers. I could not
go abroad in snow--it would settle on me and expose me. Rain, too,
would make me a watery outline, a glistening surface of a man--a
bubble. And fog--I should be like a fainter bubble in a fog,
a surface, a greasy glimmer of humanity. Moreover, as I went
abroad--in the London air--I gathered dirt about my ankles, floating
smuts and dust upon my skin. I did not know how long it would be
before I should become visible from that cause also. But I saw
clearly it could not be for long.

"Not in London at any rate.

"I went into the slums towards Great Portland Street, and found
myself at the end of the street in which I had lodged. I did not
go that way, because of the crowd halfway down it opposite to the
still smoking ruins of the house I had fired. My most immediate
problem was to get clothing. What to do with my face puzzled me.
Then I saw in one of those little miscellaneous shops--news,
sweets, toys, stationery, belated Christmas tomfoolery, and so
forth--an array of masks and noses. I realised that problem was
solved. In a flash I saw my course. I turned about, no longer
aimless, and went--circuitously in order to avoid the busy ways,
towards the back streets north of the Strand; for I remembered,
though not very distinctly where, that some theatrical costumiers
had shops in that district.

"The day was cold, with a nipping wind down the northward running
streets. I walked fast to avoid being overtaken. Every crossing was
a danger, every passenger a thing to watch alertly. One man as I
was about to pass him at the top of Bedford Street, turned upon
me abruptly and came into me, sending me into the road and almost
under the wheel of a passing hansom. The verdict of the cab-rank
was that he had had some sort of stroke. I was so unnerved by this
encounter that I went into Covent Garden Market and sat down for
some time in a quiet corner by a stall of violets, panting and
trembling. I found I had caught a fresh cold, and had to turn out
after a time lest my sneezes should attract attention.

"At last I reached the object of my quest, a dirty, fly-blown little
shop in a by-way near Drury Lane, with a window full of tinsel
robes, sham jewels, wigs, slippers, dominoes and theatrical
photographs. The shop was old-fashioned and low and dark, and the
house rose above it for four storeys, dark and dismal. I peered
through the window and, seeing no one within, entered. The opening
of the door set a clanking bell ringing. I left it open, and walked
round a bare costume stand, into a corner behind a cheval glass. For
a minute or so no one came. Then I heard heavy feet striding across
a room, and a man appeared down the shop.

"My plans were now perfectly definite. I proposed to make my way
into the house, secrete myself upstairs, watch my opportunity, and
when everything was quiet, rummage out a wig, mask, spectacles, and
costume, and go into the world, perhaps a grotesque but still a
credible figure. And incidentally of course I could rob the house
of any available money.

"The man who had just entered the shop was a short, slight,
hunched, beetle-browed man, with long arms and very short bandy
legs. Apparently I had interrupted a meal. He stared about the shop
with an expression of expectation. This gave way to surprise, and
then to anger, as he saw the shop empty. 'Damn the boys!' he said.
He went to stare up and down the street. He came in again in a
minute, kicked the door to with his foot spitefully, and went
muttering back to the house door.

"I came forward to follow him, and at the noise of my movement he
stopped dead. I did so too, startled by his quickness of ear. He
slammed the house door in my face.

"I stood hesitating. Suddenly I heard his quick footsteps returning,
and the door reopened. He stood looking about the shop like one who
was still not satisfied. Then, murmuring to himself, he examined the
back of the counter and peered behind some fixtures. Then he stood
doubtful. He had left the house door open and I slipped into the
inner room.

"It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of
big masks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast,
and it was a confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have
to sniff his coffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed
his meal. And his table manners were irritating. Three doors opened
into the little room, one going upstairs and one down, but they
were all shut. I could not get out of the room while he was there;
I could scarcely move because of his alertness, and there was a
draught down my back. Twice I strangled a sneeze just in time.

"The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but
for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done
his eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly
crockery on the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and
gathering all the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took
the whole lot of things after him. His burden prevented his shutting
the door behind him--as he would have done; I never saw such a man
for shutting doors--and I followed him into a very dirty underground
kitchen and scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash
up, and then, finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick
floor being cold on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his
chair by the fire. It was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put
on a little coal. The noise of this brought him up at once, and
he stood aglare. He peered about the room and was within an ace
of touching me. Even after that examination, he scarcely seemed
satisfied. He stopped in the doorway and took a final inspection
before he went down.

"I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up
and opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him.

"On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly
blundered into him. He stood looking back right into my face and
listening. 'I could have sworn,' he said. His long hairy hand
pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase.
Then he grunted and went on up again.

"His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again
with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of
the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had
diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage. 'If
there's anyone in this house--' he cried with an oath, and left the
threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find
what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and
pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the
head of the staircase until his return.

"Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of
the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face.

"I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so
as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down,
damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and
rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid
to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and
others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I
judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot
of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness
forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy
footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the
tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand.
I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and
suspicious. 'It must have been her,' he said slowly. 'Damn her!'

"He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in
the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I
was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked
from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger
came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did
anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an
upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That
time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood
astonished in the middle of the room.

"Presently he calmed a little. 'Rats,' he said in an undertone,
fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly
out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute
started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door
after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to
I had a fit of rage--I could hardly control myself sufficiently to
watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house,
and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."

"Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.

"Yes--stunned him--as he was going downstairs. Hit him from
behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs
like a bag of old boots."

"But--I say! The common conventions of humanity--"

"Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that
I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me.
I couldn't think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged
him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet."

"Tied him up in a sheet!"

"Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the
idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out
of--head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it's no good your
sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He
had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe
me--"

"But still," said Kemp, "in England--to-day. And the man was in
his own house, and you were--well, robbing."

"Robbing! Confound it! You'll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp,
you're not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can't you see
my position?"

"And his too," said Kemp.

The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?"

Kemp's face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked
himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of
manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still--"

"Of course I was in a fix--an infernal fix. And he made me wild
too--hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver,
locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don't
blame me, do you? You don't blame me?"

"I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It's quite out of fashion. What
did you do next?"

"I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese--more
than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and
water, and then went up past my impromptu bag--he was lying quite
still--to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out
upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the
window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside
the day was bright--by contrast with the brown shadows of the
dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk
traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a
pile of boxes, a fishmonger's cart. I turned with spots of colour
swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My
excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position
again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I
suppose, in cleaning the garments.

"I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the
hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a
curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me
I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate
selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and
some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster.

"I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that
there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but
the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require
turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time
before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better
type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings,
dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no
underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I
swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I
could find no socks, but the hunchback's boots were rather a loose
fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and
about thirty shillings' worth of silver, and in a locked cupboard I
burst in the inner room were eight pounds in gold. I could go forth
into the world again, equipped.

"Then came a curious hesitation. Was my appearance really
credible? I tried myself with a little bedroom looking-glass,
inspecting myself from every point of view to discover any
forgotten chink, but it all seemed sound. I was grotesque to the
theatrical pitch, a stage miser, but I was certainly not a physical
impossibility. Gathering confidence, I took my looking-glass down
into the shop, pulled down the shop blinds, and surveyed myself
from every point of view with the help of the cheval glass in the
corner.

"I spent some minutes screwing up my courage and then unlocked the
shop door and marched out into the street, leaving the little man
to get out of his sheet again when he liked. In five minutes a
dozen turnings intervened between me and the costumier's shop. No
one appeared to notice me very pointedly. My last difficulty seemed
overcome."

He stopped again.

"And you troubled no more about the hunchback?" said Kemp.

"No," said the Invisible Man. "Nor have I heard what became of him.
I suppose he untied himself or kicked himself out. The knots were
pretty tight."

He became silent and went to the window and stared out.

"What happened when you went out into the Strand?"

"Oh!--disillusionment again. I thought my troubles were over.
Practically I thought I had impunity to do whatever I chose,
everything--save to give away my secret. So I thought. Whatever I
did, whatever the consequences might be, was nothing to me. I had
merely to fling aside my garments and vanish. No person could hold
me. I could take my money where I found it. I decided to treat
myself to a sumptuous feast, and then put up at a good hotel, and
accumulate a new outfit of property. I felt amazingly confident;
it's not particularly pleasant recalling that I was an ass. I went
into a place and was already ordering lunch, when it occurred to me
that I could not eat unless I exposed my invisible face. I finished
ordering the lunch, told the man I should be back in ten minutes,
and went out exasperated. I don't know if you have ever been
disappointed in your appetite."

"Not quite so badly," said Kemp, "but I can imagine it."

"I could have smashed the silly devils. At last, faint with the
desire for tasteful food, I went into another place and demanded a
private room. 'I am disfigured,' I said. 'Badly.' They looked at
me curiously, but of course it was not their affair--and so at
last I got my lunch. It was not particularly well served, but it
sufficed; and when I had had it, I sat over a cigar, trying to plan
my line of action. And outside a snowstorm was beginning.

"The more I thought it over, Kemp, the more I realised what a
helpless absurdity an Invisible Man was--in a cold and dirty
climate and a crowded civilised city. Before I made this mad
experiment I had dreamt of a thousand advantages. That afternoon
it seemed all disappointment. I went over the heads of the things
a man reckons desirable. No doubt invisibility made it possible
to get them, but it made it impossible to enjoy them when they
are got. Ambition--what is the good of pride of place when you
cannot appear there? What is the good of the love of woman when
her name must needs be Delilah? I have no taste for politics, for
the blackguardisms of fame, for philanthropy, for sport. What was
I to do? And for this I had become a wrapped-up mystery, a swathed
and bandaged caricature of a man!"

He paused, and his attitude suggested a roving glance at the
window.

"But how did you get to Iping?" said Kemp, anxious to keep his
guest busy talking.

"I went there to work. I had one hope. It was a half idea! I have
it still. It is a full blown idea now. A way of getting back! Of
restoring what I have done. When I choose. When I have done all I
mean to do invisibly. And that is what I chiefly want to talk to
you about now."

"You went straight to Iping?"

"Yes. I had simply to get my three volumes of memoranda and my
cheque-book, my luggage and underclothing, order a quantity of
chemicals to work out this idea of mine--I will show you the
calculations as soon as I get my books--and then I started. Jove!
I remember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to
keep the snow from damping my pasteboard nose."

"At the end," said Kemp, "the day before yesterday, when they found
you out, you rather--to judge by the papers--"

"I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?"

"No," said Kemp. "He's expected to recover."

"That's his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why
couldn't they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?"

"There are no deaths expected," said Kemp.

"I don't know about that tramp of mine," said the Invisible Man,
with an unpleasant laugh.

"By Heaven, Kemp, you don't know what rage _is_! ... To have worked
for years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some
fumbling purblind idiot messing across your course! ... Every
conceivable sort of silly creature that has ever been created has
been sent to cross me.

"If I have much more of it, I shall go wild--I shall start
mowing 'em.

"As it is, they've made things a thousand times more difficult."

"No doubt it's exasperating," said Kemp, drily.

The narrator walks through Harlem and finds different groups organized throughout the community, apparently a result of Cliftons motivating funeral. He feels relieved that things might continue to happen despite the disapproval and discouragement from the Brotherhood. He then comes upon a crowd listening to Ras the Exhorter. Ras notices him and points him out as a representative of the Brotherhood. He asks the narrator in front of the crowd what the Brotherhood is doing in response to the tragedy. The narrator defends the Brotherhood, though with some misgivings; he hears his defense for what it is -- a sell-out. Two men approach the narrator from behind, and he calls out to Ras to tell his men to leave him alone and stop following him. The two men depart with hatred in their eyes. When the narrator leaves, he encounters them again, and they begin hitting him. A doorman nearby comes to his aid, and the fight is stopped before he is too badly injured. He continues walking in fear until he notices three men on the street wearing dark sunshades. He decides to purchase a pair, walking into a nearby drugstore. Immediately upon leaving the drugstore with the sunglasses on his face, he is approached by a woman who calls him Rinehart. They briefly embrace, and she invites him to her home. When he speaks, she realizes he is not Rinehart. The narrator heads back toward the area where Ras is speaking, hoping to pass without being identified or harassed. Once again he is mistaken for Rinehart, this time by a group of men. He waves at them as he passes and goes on. He begins to grow curious about who Rinehart is. As he passes the two men who harassed him earlier, they do not recognize him due to the sunshades. When he is greeted a third time as Rinehart, he decides to put his disguise to a test. He returns to a bar where the people have been very angry with him for being a sell-out for the Brotherhood. He orders a beer from Barrelhouse, the bartender, who does not recognize him and calls him Poppa-stopper. He feels relieved that his new disguise works so well. Then, the narrator sees Brother Maceo and approaches him. Maceo does not recognize him as a member of the Brotherhood and is fearful that the narrator is going to pull a knife on him; he tells him to go ahead and kill him. The narrator breaks a bottle and approaches Maceo, but Barrelhouse tells them to stop. He calls the narrator Rinehart and tells him to get out. Once outside, he relieves his tension with laughter, treating the whole incident is a joke. He wonders once again who Rinehart is. As the narrator walks down the street, he is addressed as Rinehart again by two men who are drinking. When they ask him for a job, he waves them off and continues down the street. Suddenly, his arm is taken by a woman who calls him Rine. She wants to know some figures from him since he is the numbers runner. He explains that he is not Rine. She apologizes and she says she would have known if she had looked at his shoes. Rine wore knob-toed shoes. The narrator is next approached by a police officer who mistakes him for Rinehart. The narrator explains that he is not Rinehart, but the officer does not believe him. The officer tells him that he better give him his cut in the numbers business if he does not want trouble. A group of men with guns show up as the police officer leaves. They want to know if the officer has been harassing him. He tells them that the officer had mistaken him for Rinehart. They cannot believe that anyone would mistake him for Rinehart, though a couple of them admit that he does favor Rinehart a little. They tell him that they are patrolling the community to put a stop to police violence. The narrator is amazed that a hat and shades can change his identity so quickly. Another woman approaches him on the street calling him Rinehart and trying to give him money. He regrets to inform her that he is not who she thinks he is. She insults him, a fight erupts, and he walks away. He comes to a church where two boys are handing out leaflets. He accepts one, only to be informed of what the community is doing. He cannot believe that the reverend listed on the leaflet is Rinehart. He wonders if this could be the same Rinehart, the numbers runner. He enters the church and is immediately mistaken for Rinehart. A group of old Southern women introduces a new member who has come up North just to hear him. They report on their recent sales on his latest sermon recordings. He feels safer not telling them he is not Rinehart. Again, the narrator wonders about Rinehart. He figures the man must be years ahead of him, understanding the world of possibility when one is invisible. He tries to understand how this sort of dual existence fits in theoretically with the wisdom of the Brotherhood. The narrator continues to Hambro's house to talk about his future in the Brotherhood. He asks Hambro what he should do with his district. Hambro announces that the members of his district will have to be sacrificed for the good of the larger plans of the Brotherhood. He realizes that since he has awakened to the lifestyle of Rinehart, living many lives in his invisible state, there is little to say between him and Hambro anymore. He does not understand why his district is to be sacrificed. He asks Hambro why the sacrificed are not informed so that they may at least be willing to offer themselves as a sacrifice. Hambro tells him that the new objective will be to slow down the people of his district for their own good. The narrator cannot believe this. He wonders how he could have relied on the Brotherhood for so much integrity, seeing now how they are acting, how they have used him and his district. Hambro tells him his new job will be to teach whoever will listen. The narrator says he would feel two-faced. Hambro admits that it is impossible not to take advantage of the people, but argues it is in their own best interests. The narrator becomes frustrated with Hambro and tells him how everywhere in his life he has been asked to sacrifice for the good, to give up the weak for the benefit of the strong. He leaves in a worse mood than when he came. He wonders what Hambro would think if he were the one being sacrificed. The narrator agonizes over what to do; what to tell his district. Suddenly he realizes he does not have to tell them anything. They do not know anything about him. He is meaningless to them beyond giving them hope. He can probably walk amongst them unrecognized, unwelcomed. He can become a Rinehart, an invisible man. This realization confuses the narrator; he wonders how he can exist and yet be so invisible to the people he is with. The narrator becomes filled with resentment for the Brotherhood. They know nothing of the community nor do they appreciate the work done in their name. He is flooded with emotion and memory when he realizes they cannot take his identity from him any more than they can give it to him. They may not be able to see him, but he is made of his experiences, and they cannot take that from him. He had thought they accepted him regardless of color, but now he sees they only used him. He understands at last his invisibility and is ready to test it to its fullest. The narrator believes he understands the words of his grandfather now and decides to set out to "overcome them with yesses," the phrase his grandfather used to describe his resistance strategy. He will use his invisibility to confirm all of their misconceptions; he will not be accountable because he is not visible. He realizes that he has already changed his whole identity once without anyone ever questioning him about it. He decides to deceive the Brotherhood, coax them into a false sense of security about his compliance in relation to the district. He will become a spy, an invisible force The narrator knows he has no theorists with whom to work and no allies. He must find his possibility on his own within the lifestyle of Rinehart and invisibility. He falls asleep trying to figure out how he can invade the intelligence of headquarters. When he wakes up, he wonders how Rinehart would have behaved in his position. Suddenly, he thinks that the solution to his problem of infiltrating the Brotherhood is through using a woman. He recalls a woman involved in the Brotherhood who is making plans for Jack's upcoming birthday party. It is a significant recollection.


THE PLAN THAT FAILED

"But now," said Kemp, with a side glance out of the window, "what
are we to do?"

He moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to
prevent the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who
were advancing up the hill road--with an intolerable slowness, as
it seemed to Kemp.

"What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port
Burdock? _Had_ you any plan?"

"I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that
plan rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the
weather is hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South.
Especially as my secret was known, and everyone would be on the
lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers
from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the
risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else
get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always
be invisible--and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp
as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my
books and things sent over to meet me."

"That's clear."

"And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden
my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!"

"Best plan to get the books out of him first."

"But where is he? Do you know?"

"He's in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in
the strongest cell in the place."

"Cur!" said the Invisible Man.

"But that hangs up your plans a little."

"We must get those books; those books are vital."

"Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard
footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that
won't be difficult, if he doesn't know they're for you."

"No," said the Invisible Man, and thought.

Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the
Invisible Man resumed of his own accord.

"Blundering into your house, Kemp," he said, "changes all my plans.
For you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has
happened, in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of
what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge
possibilities--"

"You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly.

Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said.

"No one?" insisted Griffin.

"Not a soul."

"Ah! Now--" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo
began to pace the study.

"I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing
through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone--it
is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little,
to hurt a little, and there is the end.

"What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place,
an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and
unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with
food and rest--a thousand things are possible.

"Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that
invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little
advantage for eavesdropping and so forth--one makes sounds. It's
of little help--a little help perhaps--in housebreaking and so
forth. Once you've caught me you could easily imprison me. But on
the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is
only good in two cases: It's useful in getting away, it's useful in
approaching. It's particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can
walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike
as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like."

Kemp's hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement
downstairs?

"And it is killing we must do, Kemp."

"It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I'm listening to your
plan, Griffin, but I'm not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?"

"Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they
know there is an Invisible Man--as well as we know there is an
Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a
Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it's startling. But I mean it. A
Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and
terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that
in a thousand ways--scraps of paper thrust under doors would
suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill
all who would defend them."

"Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound
of his front door opening and closing.

"It seems to me, Griffin," he said, to cover his wandering
attention, "that your confederate would be in a difficult
position."

"No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man,
eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What's that downstairs?"

"Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast.
"I don't agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don't
agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How
can you hope to gain happiness? Don't be a lone wolf. Publish
your results; take the world--take the nation at least--into your
confidence. Think what you might do with a million helpers--"

The Invisible Man interrupted--arm extended. "There are
footsteps coming upstairs," he said in a low voice.

"Nonsense," said Kemp.

"Let me see," said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended,
to the door.

And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second
and then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood
still. "Traitor!" cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown
opened, and sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made
three swift steps to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man--his
legs had vanished--sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the
door open.

As it opened, there came a sound of hurrying feet downstairs and
voices.

With a quick movement Kemp thrust the Invisible Man back, sprang
aside, and slammed the door. The key was outside and ready. In
another moment Griffin would have been alone in the belvedere
study, a prisoner. Save for one little thing. The key had been
slipped in hastily that morning. As Kemp slammed the door it fell
noisily upon the carpet.

Kemp's face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with
both hands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six
inches. But he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a
foot wide, and the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the
opening. His throat was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left
his hold on the handle to defend himself. He was forced back,
tripped and pitched heavily into the corner of the landing. The
empty dressing-gown was flung on the top of him.

Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp's
letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at
the sudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight
of clothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and
struggling to his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again,
felled like an ox.

Then suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight,
it seemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the
staircase, with a grip on his throat and a knee in his groin. An
invisible foot trod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs,
he heard the two police officers in the hall shout and run, and the
front door of the house slammed violently.

He rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the
staircase, Kemp, dusty and disheveled, one side of his face white
from a blow, his lip bleeding, and a pink dressing-gown and some
underclothing held in his arms.

"My God!" cried Kemp, "the game's up! He's gone!"

The narrator attends the next Brotherhood meeting and tells them everything they want to hear. He says things are calming down in Harlem, even though he really knows that tension is mounting perilously. He gives them a fake list of new members who support the Brotherhood. The leaders are impressed. The narrator has planned to use Sybil, the lonely wife of one of the Brotherhood leaders, to enact his underhanded plan to corrupt the Brotherhood's goals. He gives Sybil a ride home and arranges for them to meet at his apartment. When they are together, he botches his plan, serving drinks that are too strong. He also talks of politics, a subject that she hates. He tries to gather information from her about the Brotherhood leadership, his role in the organization, and what plans are being made. When he fails to gain any information, he imagines how Rinehart might handle the situation. Sybil becomes drunk and sexually aggressive, inviting him to perform acts he has never done. She wants him to pretend to rape her. She says she trusts him and thinks he is beautiful, calling him a "big black buck." He begins to wonder if she is using him, just as he is using her. He realizes that he is not even special to her, just a black man she is going to have sex with. The Brotherhood calls and tells him something is brewing in Harlem and he needs to come at once. When he gets to Harlem, wild riots have erupted. Debris is flying, and the narrator is struck on the head. He puts his briefcase over him as protection and begins to run.


THE HUNTING OF THE INVISIBLE MAN

For a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the
swift things that had just happened. They stood on the landing,
Kemp speaking swiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on
his arm. But presently Adye began to grasp something of the
situation.

"He is mad," said Kemp; "inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks
of nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened
to such a story this morning of brutal self-seeking.... He has wounded
men. He will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a
panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now--furious!"

"He must be caught," said Adye. "That is certain."

"But how?" cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. "You must
begin at once. You must set every available man to work; you must
prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away, he may go
through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams
of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a
watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You
must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the
thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will
tell you of that! There is a man in your police station--Marvel."

"I know," said Adye, "I know. Those books--yes. But the tramp...."

"Says he hasn't them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must
prevent him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must
be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so
that he will have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must
be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The
whole country-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you,
Adye, he is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured,
it is frightful to think of the things that may happen."

"What else can we do?" said Adye. "I must go down at once and begin
organising. But why not come? Yes--you come too! Come, and we
must hold a sort of council of war--get Hopps to help--and the
railway managers. By Jove! it's urgent. Come along--tell me as we
go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down."

In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found
the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at
empty air. "He's got away, sir," said one.

"We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you
go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us--quickly. And
now, Kemp, what else?"

"Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don't see him, but they wind
him. Get dogs."

"Good," said Adye. "It's not generally known, but the prison
officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What
else?"

"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food
shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating.
You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And
put all weapons--all implements that might be weapons, away. He
can't carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and
strike men with must be hidden away."

"Good again," said Adye. "We shall have him yet!"

"And on the roads," said Kemp, and hesitated.

"Yes?" said Adye.

"Powdered glass," said Kemp. "It's cruel, I know. But think of what
he may do!"

Adye drew the air in sharply between his teeth. "It's
unsportsmanlike. I don't know. But I'll have powdered glass got
ready. If he goes too far...."

"The man's become inhuman, I tell you," said Kemp. "I am as sure he
will establish a reign of terror--so soon as he has got over the
emotions of this escape--as I am sure I am talking to you. Our
only chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind.
His blood be upon his own head."

The narrator is suddenly aware of people crouching in the darkness and in doorways everywhere. Men come towards him pushing a safe, telling him to get out of the way. Police begin to fire at the men with the safe, and they run, letting the safe swerve out into the road. Other men approach the narrator and notice the blood coming down his face and the injury on his head. Someone comments on a person who has been shot and killed. Someone asks him if the briefcase on the ground is his, and he grabs it in panic. There is the sound of breaking glass and shouting further down the street. Two men invite the narrator to come along with them. He follows the looting men while gunshots ring out all around. The men, Scofield and Dupre, ask him if he has some loot, pointing to his briefcase. He opens it up and looks inside to find his Brotherhood identification, the anonymous letter he received, Clifton's doll, and Mary's bank. The looters invite him to fill his briefcase, but he tells them he has enough to carry already. He remembers where he was originally going, but is unable to leave his present company who argue about how the riot got started. The destination of Scofield and Dupre is the tenement building in which they live; they plan to torch it. The narrator asks them where they will live if the building is burned down. They tell him to stay in the tenement is not "living." A woman runs up to Dupre and asks him to stop because she will have a child soon. He says he does not want anymore children and insists that no one can change his mind. The narrator hears someone call him by his Brotherhood name. The person thanks him for leading the people as he had promised. Suddenly Ras's men are after him, but he manages to blend in with the crowds on the street. Then Scofield finds him again. The two of them almost bump into a man bleeding to death. The narrator stops to help put a tourniquet on him; he tells someone to take him to a doctor. Scofield wants to know if someone has called him brother. The narrator denies it. Cops come from ahead. As bricks fall from the building tops, the police fire their guns. The rioters duck to avoid the bullets. The narrator overhears a man talking about the "race riot;" he realizes that it is a phrase that gives meaning to much that he could never articulate before, but he is frightened at being a part of it. He gets up and runs away, wanting to leave before more guns arrive. As he departs the area, he is horrified to see the bodies of several white women hanging from street lampposts. He is greatly relieved when he realizes that they are mannequins. Ras's men head towards narrator. Their plan is to get themselves heavily armed and attack the other political forces in the streets. They are calling for people to stop looting and to join them. The narrator searches for his glasses to conceal his identity, but he drops them and they break. Ras sees him and spears a hanging dummy before pointing him out to the crowd and calling him a betrayer. Then someone announces his identity as a brother. He shouts that he is no longer a brother and claims that the Brotherhood wants a race war so every one in the community will be killed. When he declares that he is against the Brotherhood now, Ras calls him a liar and instructs his men to lynch him as an example. He protests, saying that the Brotherhood has planned the riots. They want to use blacks to help kill other blacks. When Ras again orders him to be hanged, the narrator realizes he cannot talk his way out of this situation. The narrator realizes suddenly that he does not want to die. He will live out his absurd life as the invisible person he is. He grabs the spear and throws it back in the air to catch them off guard. Ras turns his head to shout, and the spear catches him through both cheeks. His men pull out guns but are too close to shoot. The narrator knocks them with Tarp's leg chain and his briefcase and runs. They chase after him but do not shoot. He realizes he is running to Mary's. He escapes into a crowd, but is punched and pointed out again. He wishes he could turn around and organize the people to work together with him in his new understanding. As he runs, a mounted officer approaches; he is so close that his eyes are slapped by the horse's tail, blinding him. He continues as best he can, running towards Mary's house. The narrator stops behind a house to rest. Men approach and stand around drinking. He realizes that they are two neighborhood men, commenting on the crimes of the night. One recounts seeing Ras shoot people for insulting him. The event of Ras' clash with police is told comically. The narrator, still on the ground, thinks how Ras may be funny, but he is also dangerous. He also accepts that he was used as a tool by Jack and that his grandfather was wrong. Perhaps his grandfather was right for his time, but his philosophy does not work in the present. When the neighborhood men have left, the narrator gets up to go look for Jack. Someone shouts at him and asks him what is in his briefcase. He is filled with shame when he thinks about the assortment of things he is carrying; they are the relics of his past that he cannot seem to discard. He takes off running and falls into a manhole. The men chasing him stop around the hole and look down, wondering if he is dead. The narrator tells the men that they are inside his briefcase, and they decide he is crazy. They light a match, but cannot see him in the dark, which makes them angry. They cover the manhole, and the narrator finds he cannot remove the cover because of its weight. He realizes he does not need to panic, because he has been living a disaster all his life. This acknowledgement helps him to go to sleep. Because the cover blocks the sunlight, the narrator does not wake in the morning. In fact, he does not even realize how long he has been underground, sleeping. When he gropes in the darkness, he cannot find the cover or a ladder. He does, however, locate a packet of matches that the men had dropped down into the hole. With only three matches left, he searches for a piece of paper to light. When he finds nothing to burn, he reaches for something from inside his briefcase to use. He begins by lighting his high school diploma and sees that he is in a large basement. He realizes he will need to burn everything in the briefcase to find his way out. Next he burns Clifton's doll. Then he grabs the anonymous letter. As he uses the anonymous letter to light the paper with his Brotherhood identity, he sees the handwriting is identical. He realizes that Jack had written the letter that sent him running. He becomes enraged, causing his flame to burn out. He thrashes himself about angrily, and screams. The narrator drifts in and out of consciousness, dreaming of Norton, Bledsoe, Jack, Emerson, and countless others, who all demand that he come back to them and run some more. When he tells them he refuses to run again, they castrate him. They then laugh at him in his pain and ask him how it feels to be free of illusions. He responds that he it is empty and painful. The narrator then begins to laugh, saying he now sees what he could not see before. He has paid the price for his blindness. He realizes he cannot go back to Mary's or anywhere else. He knows he must stay underground or move ahead, and so he chooses to stay.


ACT I. SCENE I.
Athens. TIMON'S house

Enter POET, PAINTER, JEWELLER, MERCHANT, and MERCER, at several
doors

  POET. Good day, sir.
  PAINTER. I am glad y'are well.
  POET. I have not seen you long; how goes the world?
  PAINTER. It wears, sir, as it grows.
  POET. Ay, that's well known.
    But what particular rarity? What strange,
    Which manifold record not matches? See,
    Magic of bounty, all these spirits thy power
    Hath conjur'd to attend! I know the merchant.
  PAINTER. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.
  MERCHANT. O, 'tis a worthy lord!
  JEWELLER. Nay, that's most fix'd.
  MERCHANT. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were,
    To an untirable and continuate goodness.
    He passes.
  JEWELLER. I have a jewel here-
  MERCHANT. O, pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir?
  JEWELLER. If he will touch the estimate. But for that-
  POET. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile,
    It stains the glory in that happy verse
    Which aptly sings the good.
  MERCHANT. [Looking at the jewel] 'Tis a good form.
  JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water, look ye.
  PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication
    To the great lord.
  POET. A thing slipp'd idly from me.
    Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
    From whence 'tis nourish'd. The fire i' th' flint
    Shows not till it be struck: our gentle flame
    Provokes itself, and like the current flies
    Each bound it chafes. What have you there?
  PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?
  POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.
    Let's see your piece.
  PAINTER. 'Tis a good piece.
  POET. So 'tis; this comes off well and excellent.
  PAINTER. Indifferent.
  POET. Admirable. How this grace
    Speaks his own standing! What a mental power
    This eye shoots forth! How big imagination
    Moves in this lip! To th' dumbness of the gesture
    One might interpret.
  PAINTER. It is a pretty mocking of the life.
    Here is a touch; is't good?
  POET. I will say of it
    It tutors nature. Artificial strife
    Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

              Enter certain SENATORS, and pass over

  PAINTER. How this lord is followed!
  POET. The senators of Athens- happy man!
  PAINTER. Look, more!
  POET. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.
    I have in this rough work shap'd out a man
    Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
    With amplest entertainment. My free drift
    Halts not particularly, but moves itself
    In a wide sea of tax. No levell'd malice
    Infects one comma in the course I hold,
    But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,
    Leaving no tract behind.
  PAINTER. How shall I understand you?
  POET. I will unbolt to you.
    You see how all conditions, how all minds-
    As well of glib and slipp'ry creatures as
    Of grave and austere quality, tender down
    Their services to Lord Timon. His large fortune,
    Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
    Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
    All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer
    To Apemantus, that few things loves better
    Than to abhor himself; even he drops down
    The knee before him, and returns in peace
    Most rich in Timon's nod.
  PAINTER. I saw them speak together.
  POET. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill
    Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The base o' th' mount
    Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures
    That labour on the bosom of this sphere
    To propagate their states. Amongst them all
    Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd
    One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame,
    Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;
    Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
    Translates his rivals.
  PAINTER. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope.
    This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,
    With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
    Bowing his head against the steepy mount
    To climb his happiness, would be well express'd
    In our condition.
  POET. Nay, sir, but hear me on.
    All those which were his fellows but of late-
    Some better than his value- on the moment
    Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,
    Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,
    Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
    Drink the free air.
  PAINTER. Ay, marry, what of these?
  POET. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood
    Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants,
    Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top
    Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down,
    Not one accompanying his declining foot.
  PAINTER. 'Tis common.
    A thousand moral paintings I can show
    That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's
    More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
    To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen
    The foot above the head.

         Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON, addressing himself
          courteously to every suitor, a MESSENGER from
         VENTIDIUS talking with him; LUCILIUS and other
                       servants following

  TIMON. Imprison'd is he, say you?
  MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt;
    His means most short, his creditors most strait.
    Your honourable letter he desires
    To those have shut him up; which failing,
    Periods his comfort.
  TIMON. Noble Ventidius! Well.
    I am not of that feather to shake of
    My friend when he must need me. I do know him
    A gentleman that well deserves a help,
    Which he shall have. I'll pay the debt, and free him.
  MESSENGER. Your lordship ever binds him.
  TIMON. Commend me to him; I will send his ransom;
    And being enfranchis'd, bid him come to me.
    'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
    But to support him after. Fare you well.
  MESSENGER. All happiness to your honour!                  Exit

                      Enter an OLD ATHENIAN

  OLD ATHENIAN. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
  TIMON. Freely, good father.
  OLD ATHENIAN. Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius.
  TIMON. I have so; what of him?
  OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.
  TIMON. Attends he here, or no? Lucilius!
  LUCILIUS. Here, at your lordship's service.
  OLD ATHENIAN. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature,
    By night frequents my house. I am a man
    That from my first have been inclin'd to thrift,
    And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd
    Than one which holds a trencher.
  TIMON. Well; what further?
  OLD ATHENIAN. One only daughter have I, no kin else,
    On whom I may confer what I have got.
    The maid is fair, o' th' youngest for a bride,
    And I have bred her at my dearest cost
    In qualities of the best. This man of thine
    Attempts her love; I prithee, noble lord,
    Join with me to forbid him her resort;
    Myself have spoke in vain.
  TIMON. The man is honest.
  OLD ATHENIAN. Therefore he will be, Timon.
    His honesty rewards him in itself;
    It must not bear my daughter.
  TIMON. Does she love him?
  OLD ATHENIAN. She is young and apt:
    Our own precedent passions do instruct us
    What levity's in youth.
  TIMON. Love you the maid?
  LUCILIUS. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.
  OLD ATHENIAN. If in her marriage my consent be missing,
    I call the gods to witness I will choose
    Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
    And dispossess her all.
  TIMON. How shall she be endow'd,
    If she be mated with an equal husband?
  OLD ATHENIAN. Three talents on the present; in future, all.
  TIMON. This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me long;.
    To build his fortune I will strain a little,
    For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter:
    What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,
    And make him weigh with her.
  OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble lord,
    Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.
  TIMON. My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise.
  LUCILIUS. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may
    That state or fortune fall into my keeping
    Which is not owed to you!
                                Exeunt LUCILIUS and OLD ATHENIAN
  POET. [Presenting his poem] Vouchsafe my labour, and long live
your lordship!
  TIMON. I thank you; you shall hear from me anon;
    Go not away. What have you there, my friend?
  PAINTER. A piece of painting, which I do beseech
    Your lordship to accept.
  TIMON. Painting is welcome.
    The painting is almost the natural man;
    For since dishonour traffics with man's nature,
    He is but outside; these pencill'd figures are
    Even such as they give out. I like your work,
    And you shall find I like it; wait attendance
    Till you hear further from me.
  PAINTER. The gods preserve ye!
  TIMON. Well fare you, gentleman. Give me your hand;
    We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel
    Hath suffered under praise.
  JEWELLER. What, my lord! Dispraise?
  TIMON. A mere satiety of commendations;
    If I should pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd,
    It would unclew me quite.
  JEWELLER. My lord, 'tis rated
    As those which sell would give; but you well know
    Things of like value, differing in the owners,
    Are prized by their masters. Believe't, dear lord,
    You mend the jewel by the wearing it.
  TIMON. Well mock'd.

                      Enter APEMANTUS

  MERCHANT. No, my good lord; he speaks the common tongue,
    Which all men speak with him.
  TIMON. Look who comes here; will you be chid?
  JEWELLER. We'll bear, with your lordship.
  MERCHANT. He'll spare none.
  TIMON. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!
  APEMANTUS. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow;
    When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest.
  TIMON. Why dost thou call them knaves? Thou know'st them not.
  APEMANTUS. Are they not Athenians?
  TIMON. Yes.
  APEMANTUS. Then I repent not.
  JEWELLER. You know me, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. Thou know'st I do; I call'd thee by thy name.
  TIMON. Thou art proud, Apemantus.
  APEMANTUS. Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon.
  TIMON. Whither art going?
  APEMANTUS. To knock out an honest Athenian's brains.
  TIMON. That's a deed thou't die for.
  APEMANTUS. Right, if doing nothing be death by th' law.
  TIMON. How lik'st thou this picture, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. The best, for the innocence.
  TIMON. Wrought he not well that painted it?
  APEMANTUS. He wrought better that made the painter; and yet
he's
    but a filthy piece of work.
  PAINTER. Y'are a dog.
  APEMANTUS. Thy mother's of my generation; what's she, if I be a
dog?
  TIMON. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. No; I eat not lords.
  TIMON. An thou shouldst, thou'dst anger ladies.
  APEMANTUS. O, they eat lords; so they come by great bellies.
  TIMON. That's a lascivious apprehension.
  APEMANTUS. So thou apprehend'st it take it for thy labour.
  TIMON. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. Not so well as plain dealing, which will not cost a
man a doit.
  TIMON. What dost thou think 'tis worth?
  APEMANTUS. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet!
  POET. How now, philosopher!
  APEMANTUS. Thou liest.
  POET. Art not one?
  APEMANTUS. Yes.
  POET. Then I lie not.
  APEMANTUS. Art not a poet?
  POET. Yes.
  APEMANTUS. Then thou liest. Look in thy last work, where thou
hast feign'd him a worthy fellow.
  POET. That's not feign'd- he is so.
  APEMANTUS. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy
    labour. He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' th'
flatterer.
    Heavens, that I were a lord!
  TIMON. What wouldst do then, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. E'en as Apemantus does now: hate a lord with my
heart.
  TIMON. What, thyself?
  APEMANTUS. Ay.
  TIMON. Wherefore?
  APEMANTUS. That I had no angry wit to be a lord.- Art not thou
a merchant?
  MERCHANT. Ay, Apemantus.
  APEMANTUS. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not!
  MERCHANT. If traffic do it, the gods do it.
  APEMANTUS. Traffic's thy god, and thy god confound thee!

                Trumpet sounds. Enter a MESSENGER

  TIMON. What trumpet's that?
  MESSENGER. 'Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse,
    All of companionship.
  TIMON. Pray entertain them; give them guide to us.
                                          Exeunt some attendants
    You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence
    Till I have thank'd you. When dinner's done
    Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.

                Enter ALCIBIADES, with the rest

    Most welcome, sir!                             [They salute]
  APEMANTUS. So, so, there!
    Aches contract and starve your supple joints!
    That there should be small love amongst these sweet knaves,
    And all this courtesy! The strain of man's bred out
    Into baboon and monkey.
  ALCIBIADES. Sir, you have sav'd my longing, and I feed
    Most hungerly on your sight.
  TIMON. Right welcome, sir!
    Ere we depart we'll share a bounteous time
    In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.
                                        Exeunt all but APEMANTUS

                        Enter two LORDS

  FIRST LORD. What time o' day is't, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. Time to be honest.
  FIRST LORD. That time serves still.
  APEMANTUS. The more accursed thou that still omit'st it.
  SECOND LORD. Thou art going to Lord Timon's feast.
  APEMANTUS. Ay; to see meat fill knaves and wine heat fools.
  SECOND LORD. Fare thee well, fare thee well.
  APEMANTUS. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.
  SECOND LORD. Why, Apemantus?
  APEMANTUS. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to
give thee none.
  FIRST LORD. Hang thyself.
  APEMANTUS. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding; make thy
requests to thy friend.
  SECOND LORD. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I'll spurn thee hence.
  APEMANTUS. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o' th' ass.  Exit
  FIRST LORD. He's opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in
    And taste Lord Timon's bounty? He outgoes
    The very heart of kindness.
  SECOND LORD. He pours it out: Plutus, the god of gold,
    Is but his steward; no meed but he repays
    Sevenfold above itself; no gift to him
    But breeds the giver a return exceeding
    All use of quittance.
  FIRST LORD. The noblest mind he carries
    That ever govern'd man.
  SECOND LORD. Long may he live in fortunes! shall we in?
  FIRST LORD. I'll keep you company.                      Exeunt

A Poet, a Painter, a Jeweler, and a Merchant enter Timon's house in Athens. The Jeweler shows off an impressive jewel he hopes to sell to Timon, and the Painter and Poet discuss commissioned works they have completed for Timon. The Poet comments about the senators entering Timon's house, but no one can understand his elevated prose, so he clarifies. He observes that Timon's large fortune and his generous nature draw all kinds of people to his house, from the lowest flatterers to Apemantus, a man who usually criticizes rather than praises. The Poet says that his latest work concerns Timon, a man enthroned by Fortune, sitting atop a hill where all gaze up at him adoringly. But he says that Fortune is fickle, and those who adore the man now blessed by Fortune will later not come to his aid if he falls. The Painter is impressed, but the Poet says that it is easy to demonstrate the quick actions of Fortune. Timon and his attendants enter. A messenger tells him that his friend Ventidius has been imprisoned by creditors, and Timon decides to pay his debt in order to free him. Then an old Athenian enters and tells Timon about how his servant Lucilius hangs around his house charming his daughter. Timon negotiates with the old man for Lucilius to wed his daughter, and offers to provide cash to Lucilius to make the deal sweeter. Lucilius is thankful, and admits he owes Timon everything. Then Timon accepts the poem and the painting from the Poet and the Painter, and he admires the Jeweler's gem. Apemantus enters, and Timon greets him. But Apemantus says Timon shouldn't expect a polite greeting from him until Timon is changed into his own dog, an event as unlikely as Timon's hangers-on becoming honest. Timon asks Apemantus's opinion about the painting and the jewel, and Apemantus scorns both, and then criticizes the Poet, calling him a flatterer. The arrival of Alcibiades is announced, and Timon welcomes him. On the sidelines Apemantus scorns the fake courtesy of Timon's flatterers. Timon and Alcibiades exit, leaving Apemantus with several Lords. They ask if Apemantus plans to attend Timon's feast, which he plans to do, if only to watch flatterers at work. Apemantus exits, and the Lords discuss Timon's seemingly inexhaustible bounty--so great that his very possessions seem to breed and multiply under his nearly magical touch.

Commentary The first scene gives the audience a sense of Timon's status in Athens. Attended by merchants and artists anxious to sell him goods or artworks, Timon is the patron with the bottomless purse. And this bounty draws the lords and senators of Athens, who are anxious to benefit from his generosity. Timon seems glad to give gifts to any and all who arrive. He'll buy a painting, a poem, a jewel, merely because it is presented to him, and he'll offer cash to any who seem to need it--or not. And those around him come to believe that Timon's bounty is truly endless--that the more he spends, the more he has--that wealth breeds wealth. We also meet two other significant characters, Apemantus and Alcibiades, though Alcibiades will be more fleshed out later. Apemantus criticizes Timon for creating a court of flatterers, and is quick to make vicious observations. Yet Timon welcomes him to his house, apparently trying to get him to break down and be friendly. Apemantus, for his part, seems to enjoy being the critic, and has a rich environment to observe at Timon's house. But it's unclear what his real opinion of Timon is; if he really thinks he is a despicable breeder of flatterers, why does he consent to attend his feasts? Or is he merely a different breed of Timon's flatterers? The Poet says his poem depicts a man favored by Fortune and admired by all, but also comments that Fortune is fickle, and can change suddenly. And in that situation, those who admired and flattered the successful man would not step to his aid. For the moment Timon is the man admired by all, and several will admit that they owe Timon everything . In the event of a change of fortune, the Poet has predicted correctly--Timon's friends will abandon him. But the Poet depicts this as a fault of Fortune, whereas for Timon it comes to be a fault of his fickle friends.