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Sextus Empiricus Against Those in The Disciplines First Edition Bett All Chapter
Sextus Empiricus Against Those in The Disciplines First Edition Bett All Chapter
Sextus Empiricus
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Sextus Empiricus
Against Those in the Disciplines
1
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3
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Contents
Introduction 1
Note on the Text and Translation 25
Outline of Argument 30
List of Abbreviations
Note: proposals for changes to the Greek text that are attributed in the
notes to scholars by last name alone, where those names are not included
in this list, are recorded in Mau’s apparatus criticus. Scholarly works
cited by author and date are included in the Bibliography.
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ix
Introduction
¹ The question is well treated in Allen 2010. One possibility is that Sextus does not mean
to repudiate Empiricism as a whole, but only one variety of Empiricism. But while the text
admits of this reading, that still leaves the preference for Methodism (rather than an
another, favored variety of Empiricism) to be accounted for.
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besides the passage just mentioned, he refers to (now lost) works of his
called Medical Treatises (M 7.202) and Empirical Treatises (M 1.61).² Galen
wrote about both Empiricism and Methodism,³ had voluminous know-
ledge of the medical discussions of his time, and was not shy about naming
those whose ideas he was considering; for him to have had nothing to say
about Sextus would be very surprising—unless Sextus postdated him.
Beyond this (which is already more definite than many scholars would
be comfortable with), we really know nothing about Sextus the man.⁴
There are very few references to him by name in antiquity, and very few
indications of his works being read. Another curious point is that these
works seem to show no awareness of the philosophy of Sextus’ own day.
Even if one discounts Galen’s silence, Sextus refers in the past tense to the
emperor Tiberius (PH 1.84), which puts him no earlier than the middle
of the first century CE; and yet his knowledge of the history of philosophy,
to judge from those he names, seems to end in the early first century BCE.⁵
The revived Platonism and Aristotelianism that dominated late antiquity
were underway in Sextus’ lifetime (whenever precisely that was), but one
gets no hint of this from his works. This is just one of many questions
about Sextus that are likely to remain unanswered.⁶ In any case, his own
² These may or may not be distinct; they may be the same work under alternative titles,
or the latter may be a part of the former.
³ A good introduction is Frede 1985.
⁴ House 1980 details our comprehensive ignorance, and is also much more non-
committal about Sextus’ dates. On the latter, I have been influenced by Jouanna 2009;
although the argument from Galen’s silence is not new, and although arguments from
silence are never conclusive, Jouanna makes a strong case for how unlikely it would be for
Galen not to refer to Sextus if they were contemporaries. He also sets a terminus ante quem
by the dates of Hippolytus (c.170–c.236 CE), whose Refutation of all Heresies includes text
that is very close to a considerable amount of Sextus’ Against the Astrologers (M 5) and has
generally been thought to be copied from it with insignificant changes. But this is more
questionable; Hippolytus and Sextus could each be drawing on some now lost common
source. This has been argued for in particular by Janáček 1959, 1964 (although Janáček’s
case depends on a highly disputable view of Sextus’ stylistic development; see n. 13).
⁵ The Stoic Basilides is a possible exception (see M 8.258); a Stoic of this name is attested
as a teacher of Marcus Aurelius. But we also have a list of Stoics, seemingly ordered by
chronology, in which a Stoic Basilides shows up in a group from the second century BCE (see
Rose 1866, 370–1). Sextus could be referring to either one.
⁶ Sedley 2003 shows that Sextus was by no means alone in treating philosophy as
extending no later than the early first century BCE, and posits a major transformation of
philosophy, in the mid-first century BCE, towards a project of “recovering and understand-
ing the wisdom of the ancients” (36)—rather than oneself contributing new wisdom, as it
had been previously conceived. Sedley’s case is powerful and intriguing, but I do not think it
fully accounts for the case of Sextus. For Sextus clearly does not think of himself as
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INTRODUCTION
recovering ancient wisdom; while he talks a lot about earlier philosophies, this is always in
the service of his own present brand of Pyrrhonism. Indeed, when it comes to documenting
the relations between earlier philosophers (even earlier Pyrrhonists) and his own thought,
he seems to go out of his way to distance them all from himself; this may even be a reaction
against the tendency in his day to appeal to founding figures from the past (on this, see Bett
2015a). If so, of course, he does have at least a general awareness of the contemporary
philosophical zeitgeist. However, since one of his goals is clearly to promote and publicize
Pyrrhonism, his lack of direct engagement with the alternative philosophies of his contem-
poraries is still very surprising.
⁷ See Floridi 2010.
⁸ The first sentence of Against the Logicians (M 7.1) refers back to just such a general
exposition. This was long thought to be a back-reference to PH. But PH as a whole is not a
general exposition—only its first book is; the reference must therefore be to a general
exposition originally preceding Against the Logicians as part of the same work. This was
established by Janáček 1963.
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⁹ Also to distinguish it from Against the Logicians, Physicists, and Ethicists; see n. 12.
¹⁰ Mathêma can sometimes refer to mathematical disciplines in particular, and we shall
see a few cases, in the context of the mathematical books (3 and 4), where this is probably
what Sextus means by the term. But the more general sense is the usual one in this work.
¹¹ I have discussed this question in the introductions to Bett 1997, Bett 2005, and Bett
2012.
¹² Perhaps because of the loss of the opening general book or books, the surviving books
of Skeptical Treatises came to be regarded as a continuation of M 1–6; hence Against the
Logicians is standardly abbreviated as M 7–8, Against the Physicists as M 9–10, and Against
the Ethicists as M 11. Although this makes no sense at all, since M 1–6 is a complete and
self-contained work on a quite distinct subject, this standard nomenclature is entrenched
and I shall adhere to it for purposes of reference.
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INTRODUCTION
or vice versa.¹³ There are some passages where the same topics are treated
in both works, but with the possible exception of some general arguments
against teaching and learning—versions of which appear in all three
works (M 1.9–40, M 11.216–57, PH 3.252–72)—the parallels between M
1–6 and PH are less close than between M 1–6 and the longer work.
Nevertheless, PH, being the only one of Sextus’ three surviving works¹⁴ to
contain a general account of the skeptical outlook, is important for our
understanding of what his brand of Pyrrhonist skepticism is. I turn to this
matter next, before focusing on a number of key features of M 1–6 itself.
¹³ PH has generally been regarded as the earliest of the three works. But this view arose as
a result of a mistake; cf. n. 8. Karel Janáček, having exposed the mistake (see Janáček 1963),
nonetheless continued to argue on stylistic grounds that PH was written first; see Janáček
1972 and Janáček 2008 (a posthumous compilation of his smaller essays on Sextus and
skepticism). These studies are important in establishing stylistic differences among the
works—differences of a kind that do indeed point to their having been composed at
different times (on this point, see Bett 2015b, 35). But that does not tell us the order of
the works, and Janáček’s chronological suppositions are a house of cards; see Bett 1997,
Appendix C. In the commentary on chapter VII (with Appendix A) of the same work,
I argued on the basis of parallel passages that PH is the latest of the three works, but the case
is not conclusive.
¹⁴ Besides the lost medical works referred to earlier, Sextus also refers to a now lost work
of his On the Soul (M 6.55, M 10.284).
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INTRODUCTION
¹⁷ For the first, rational interpretation see Perin 2010, chapter 2; Vogt 2012, chapter 5.3.
For the second, psychological interpretation see Williams 2010.
¹⁸ See Bett 2011a. Here I illustrate why the Modes are hard to fit with the psychological
interpretation, while also expressing a general preference for that interpretation.
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INTRODUCTION
²⁰ I have discussed this matter in Bett 2010 (esp. 189–90) and Bett 2011b (esp. 7–9). It is
notable that in one passage, PH 1.25–30, he seems to switch freely between the two, as if
there was no difference between them.
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INTRODUCTION
3. Negative dogmatism?
So everything looks in order. But there is a complication. Once M 1–6
gets underway, it often does not look as if Sextus is doing what he said he
was going to do. To repeat, Sextus’ self-description has the Pyrrhonist
skeptic suspending judgement, not arguing for definite conclusions—
even negative ones. Thus arguments to the effect that nothing in a certain
domain can be known, or that a certain item does not exist, or that a
certain activity is useless, do not count as skepticism according to the
Pyrrhonist; instead, they are just another form of dogmatism—“negative
dogmatism”, as modern scholarship has called it. (We see here another
contrast with skepticism as discussed in modern philosophy, where
“the skeptic” is usually someone who makes negative knowledge or
existence claims.) And yet negative dogmatism is precisely what Sextus
seems to be engaging in at many points in M 1–6.
The very first phrase of the whole work—“the counter-argument
against those in the disciplines”—already brings the matter into focus.
Sextus says that the Epicureans and the Pyrrhonists both made such
“counter-arguments”, though of different kinds (M 1.1). But although he
criticizes the Epicureans for being dogmatic in criticizing the disciplines
for their uselessness (M 1.5), and this is repeated in a later book (M 6.4),
he does not back away from the idea that the Pyrrhonist is in the business
of issuing counter-arguments. Even after having spoken of the skeptical
enterprise of suspension of judgement, in the passage we considered at
the end of Section 2, he immediately reverts to repeated talk of assem-
bling arguments against the disciplines, and the introductory section ends,
as it began, with the word “counter-argument” (antirrêsin, M 1.7–8). And
this really sets the tone for much of the work. For example, in the middle
books on geometry and arithmetic, Sextus argues that lines, points,
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INTRODUCTION
²³ M 7.443, 8.2, 159–60, 298, 476–7, 9.59, 137, 191, 192, 194, 10.168.
²⁴ Concerning these passages, Benjamin Morison says “The way to avoid saddling Sextus
with an inconsistency is to see that Sextus is not suggesting that the Skeptic must believe that
nothing is good or bad by nature, but rather that the Skeptic must have equally convincing
arguments up his sleeve that conclude that nothing is by nature good or bad” (Morison 2014,
section 4.2, his emphasis). I simply fail to see how the text can be read in this way; that the
skeptic (or anyone else who wants to avoid trouble) must believe this is exactly what Sextus
says here. It does not follow that he must be accused of inconsistency; in Bett 1997 I argue
that in Against the Ethicists Sextus is offering a consistent variety of skepticism distinct from
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negative arguments was much more extensive than this; one can find it in
the evidence for Aenesidemus, and also in the life of Pyrrho by Diogenes
Laertius (9.61–108), much of which summarizes a form of Pyrrhonism
from some time subsequent to Aenesidemus.²⁵ But these issues are
complex and controversial, and it would be too much of a distraction
to embark upon them here. What we can say is that if there was any
phase of Pyrrhonism in which the endorsement of negative conclusions
was considered acceptable—and Sextus’ own Against the Ethicists alone
is enough to make this plausible—then the very strong emphasis on
“counter-argument” in M 1–6 becomes less surprising. We know that
Sextus drew extensively on earlier sources in his writing, often without
making much change to them; this is clear from the many close verbal
parallels between passages of Sextus and of Diogenes Laertius, which
must be drawing on earlier (now lost) Pyrrhonist writings.²⁶ If, as is likely
enough, M 1–6 uses material from such writings, then it would not be a
great surprise if this material included negative arguments that the
original author endorsed, and if Sextus did not do much to adapt this
material to suit the form of Pyrrhonism he officially professes.
And in this case, we do not need to accuse Sextus of negative dogma-
tism in M 1–6.²⁷ As the earlier “easy answer” suggested, we can under-
stand the strongly negative thrust of Sextus’ argumentation as designed
to cancel out the positive cases for the disciplines made by their propon-
ents, resulting in just the suspension of judgement he says he is aiming for.
It may be that, had he been composing this work from scratch, rather than
drawing on earlier sources, he would not have framed these arguments in
what we find in PH. (This does, of course, require us to posit a change of mind, but that is
not the same thing.) Since in Against the Ethicists, as in PH, he calls himself a skeptic and he
speaks of suspension of judgement, I refrain from calling this position negative dogmatism.
But this does mean that some key notions, including suspension of judgement itself, have to
be interpreted in a different way from usual.
²⁵ I have argued this case in Bett 2000, chapter 4; see also Woodruff 1988. Other readings
of Aenesidemus, which put him much closer to the Pyrrhonism of PH, are Schofield 2007
and Hankinson 2010. On Diogenes, see also Vogt 2015.
²⁶ On this see Barnes 1992, esp. section X.
²⁷ In Bett 2006 I concluded that the negative argumentation could not be reconciled
with Sextus’ official purpose in M 1–6. I now think that this went too far, and that, without
giving up the idea of an earlier phase of Pyrrhonism where negative argumentation was
accepted, or the idea that M 1–6 shows traces of that earlier phase, we can give a consistent
account of the work on its own terms. For a little more on Sextus’ mindset in this work, see
Bett 2013, section 2.
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INTRODUCTION
citations; see the List of Abbreviations for the full bibliographical information, and the Note
on the Text and Translation for further details.)
³⁰ The Athenaeus passage (cf. n. 28), among others, suggests some fluidity.
³¹ Though the point is not as prominent, there are at least hints of the same kind of
contrast in the book on rhetoric; ordinary language can do as well as, or often better than,
the highfalutin language the rhetoricians teach (M 2.57–9, 74–7).
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INTRODUCTION
³⁵ He does make a contrast of this kind at the start of his treatment of number in PH
(3.151).
³⁶ Corti 2015a, 142–3 argues that practical counterparts are not mentioned in these two
books because of the nature of the entities examined. The abstract points and lines of
geometry “cannot do any appearing”, nor can the numbers that the Pythagoreans take to
govern the universe; hence there cannot be any practical, observation-based activity using
such objects. It is true that geometrical lines and points are not observable, nor are
Pythagorean-style numbers. But I do not see why this should rule out the measurement
of fields, using rough-and-ready devices that in normal language would be called lines and
points, as a practical counterpart of geometry, or the counting of change, using the numbers
we are taught as children, as a practical counterpart of arithmetic. Why should the entities
dealt with be exactly the same in both the theoretical and the practical cases? Arguably, in
fact, they are not exactly the same in the case of astrology and the approved form of
astronomy; the zodiac signs play no role in astronomy. Arguably, too, the numbers we are
taught as children do not “do any appearing” either, any more than the beings in which the
Pythagoreans believed. Or, if the reply is that numbers do “appear”, in the sense that they
mentally occur to us, well, in that same sense the entities posited by the geometer “appear”
to the geometer. Hence I am not convinced that Corti’s appeal to the importance for Sextus of
observation and appearance, valuable as it is in this context, has quite as much explanatory
power as he accords it.
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INTRODUCTION
that in one way or another, and for whatever reason, each of the
two books assimilates the mathematical subject with which it deals to
physical inquiry.
This is perhaps more obvious in the case of Against the Arithmeticians;
the Pythagoreans considered numbers to be in some sense the principles
of the cosmos, and so in addressing their view of numbers, Sextus is
taking on a position that belongs in cosmology as much as in mathematics.
It is no accident that his treatment of number in Against the Physicists
(M 10.248–309) includes quite a few close parallels with passages in
Against the Arithmeticians.³⁷ But the same is true of Against the Physicists’
treatment of body (M 9.366–439) and passages in Against the Geometers.
And although, as I said, the geometry discussed is generally Euclidean in
style, with a number of definitions that closely track those in Euclid, a good
case can be made that the real target of the book is not Euclid or his
followers, but “geometry as a means of modeling the physical world”, and
that Sextus’ goal here was “ruining the support geometry was intended to
bring to the physical part of dogmatic philosophy”.³⁸ Many of the argu-
ments in this book depend on attempts to conceive geometrical objects in
physical terms. Naturally, the attempts fail, but a pure geometer would be
unconcerned by this. If, however, Sextus is going after geometry as used in
physics, these arguments might seem a good deal more troublesome.
I have drawn attention to Sextus’ acceptance of everyday practical
activities corresponding to several of the disciplines that are the subject
of his scrutiny; and this, as I suggested earlier, is of a piece with his more
general tendency to portray himself as being on the side of common
sense, and against the theoretical abstractions of the dogmatists. Yet
Sextus himself was a doctor, which raises the question what kinds of
discipline the skeptical stance of M 1–6 can countenance; presumably the
answer cannot be “none”.³⁹ However, the opening portion of the first book
might seem to suggest that “none” is indeed the answer, and certainly puts
³⁷ For the details, see the list of parallels between this and other works of Sextus at the
end of the volume.
³⁸ The case is well made in Dye and Vitrac 2009; I quote from the opening abstract in
English.
³⁹ This matter is explored in detail in Bullock 2015. Bullock is a little more accommo-
dating to the notion of a “skeptical science” than I would wish to be, for reasons that
perhaps have more to do with the philosophy of science than with the interpretation of
Sextus. But his basic idea that such a science would have to avoid definite beliefs about the
nature of things seems absolutely right.
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the issue in sharp focus. Following the brief introduction to the whole
work, but before the first discipline, grammar, is considered, there is a
series of arguments for the non-existence of teaching and learning in
general (M 1.9–40). Yet in PH (1.23–4) Sextus himself lists “the teaching
of expertises” (didaskalia technôn)—including, we must assume, the teach-
ing of his own expertise, medicine—as one of the four main categories of
appearances on which the skeptic can rely for choice and action. One
might add that teaching and learning, including of forms of expertise, are
surely an important part of ordinary life as well.
Sextus does not address the question explicitly in M 1–6. But an
answer may be constructed on his behalf, as follows. The kind of teaching
that he will not countenance, and that he would assume to be rampant in
the disciplines he attacks, is the imparting of bodies of theoretical
knowledge. The kind of teaching that he will allow is the inculcation of
abilities, or systematic sets of activities, through supervised practice.
Recall that skepticism itself is called an “ability” in PH 1—that is,
know-how rather than theory or doctrine; and this no doubt affects
how it can or should be taught. Medicine, Sextus’ own expertise, might
seem at least a partial counter-example to this conception of teaching;
surely, one might say, while learning to be a doctor involves acquiring a
great deal of know-how, it also involves coming to understand the inner
workings of the body. But the Empiric school of medicine, to which
Sextus seems to have belonged, rejected precisely this; their form of
medicine was simply a set of routines that have been found effective by
experience—techniques for setting bones, treating wounds, and so on—
with no further account of why those routines worked. And when he
criticizes Empiricism in the puzzling chapter referred to above (PH
1.236–41), it is for negative dogmatism, that is, for asserting that the
inner workings of the body are unknowable; Methodism comes off
better, according to him, because it does confine itself to treatments
guided by appearances and avoids any claims about the underlying
processes, or about whether or not they are knowable. Again, we may
find this conception of medicine hard to accept—or, even if we accept
that Sextus can consistently give this account, we may feel that nothing
like it could be accepted by anyone today. But this is the most natural
way to show how he can both attack the disciplines (and teaching and
learning in general), and also accept the practices of ordinary life and
acquire and pass on his own forms of expertise.
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INTRODUCTION
concerned. Thus most of Against the Geometers argues for the non-
existence of lines, points, bodies, etc.; Against the Arithmeticians argues
for the non-existence of numbers; the second half of Against the Musicians
(the part that, as I said, Sextus seems to claim as his own, M 6.38–68)
argues for the non-existence of sound and time, hence of notes and
rhythms; and a substantial portion of Against the Grammarians raises
difficulties concerning the basic building blocks of grammar: letters, syl-
lables, words, and the discourse composed of them (M 1.97–158). This
focus on principles in Sextus is not limited to the present work. The
same justification for it (with the same appeal to similes involving siege
warfare) appears in both of Sextus’ other works (PH 2.84, M 9.1–3). In PH
this is connected with the “outline” character of the work; Sextus wants to
dispatch the dogmatists as expeditiously as possible. But the appearance of
the same point in Skeptical Treatises, which is much more discursive, as
well as in the present work, shows that his liking for it extends beyond this
question of efficiency. One result of this in the present work is that there
is less concentration than one might have expected on the specifics of
the disciplines under discussion. In Against the Musicians, for example,
the arguments against sound and time have nothing to do with music
per se, but appeal to much more general philosophical considerations—
indeed, they are close to material from Against the Logicians and Against
the Physicists.⁴⁵ Sextus briefly summarizes some elements of musical
theory (M 6.39–51), but these are simply forgotten once the counter-
arguments begin. And one learns virtually nothing about the actual
practice of geometry and arithmetic from the books on these subjects;
arguments against the very existence of lines, points, bodies, and numbers
are not likely to cross paths with anything a practicing mathematician
might say, since (as Plato already made clear in the Republic, 510c) a
mathematician takes these things for granted.
Finally, there is the surprising level of indebtedness in this work to
Epicurean material. I have already mentioned that Sextus accuses the
Epicureans of dogmatism when they claim the disciplines are useless,
and yet at times employs arguments from uselessness himself, sometimes
openly appealing to an Epicurean source.⁴⁶ There are also places where
INTRODUCTION
proceeds to a different line of argument. But the beginning of the passage has no such
qualification; Sextus simply says that having laid out various claims for the usefulness of
grammar, “let us . . . speak against each of them” (M 1.277)—though the Epicurean prov-
enance of what follows is clear. And even at the end, while attributing the arguments to
others, he is no less happy to borrow them for his own purposes; there is none of the stand-
offish attitude that we have seen elsewhere.
⁴⁷ See M 3.98, 100–1, 108 with accompanying notes.
⁴⁸ More extensive documentation (or postulation) of Epicurean sources can be found in
Blank’s commentary for M 1, and the notes of Davidson Greaves and of Pellegrin et al. for
M 6. Davidson Greaves is less useful than it might be because of a peculiar numbering
system, quite different from the usual one for Sextus’ texts. The translator and annotator for
M 6 in Pellegrin et al. is Daniel Delattre, an expert on the fragmentary On Music by the
Epicurean Philodemus; see especially Delattre 2007.
⁴⁹ This is well discussed in Marchand 2013.
⁵⁰ For Epicureanism versus Stoicism, one rough indication of this is a simple page count
of the space given to each in LS. In both volumes, the Stoic portion is about twice as long as
the Epicurean portion.
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The translation follows the text of J. Mau, Sexti Empirici Opera, vol. III
(Leipzig: Teubner, 1961), except where indicated in the notes. When
I follow a different text from Mau, the alternative is generally one
proposed by some other scholar, and this too is detailed in the notes.
Often these textual proposals are given in Mau’s apparatus criticus, but
there are several types of exceptions: I sometimes follow (or consider, but
do not follow) (1) the proposals of other translators, on whom more
below; (2) the proposals of Werner Heintz (cited as “Heintz”—see List of
Abbreviations for bibliographical details); and (3) the proposals of Jerker
Blomqvist and Michelangelo Giusta in articles on the text of Sextus
(Blomqvist 1968 and 1971, Giusta 1962). Diagonal brackets < > inserted
in the translation indicate a lacuna; that is, a gap in the Greek text, where
the sense is incomplete and some words must be missing. If there are no
words within the brackets, this is because, in my judgement, it is too
unclear what is missing; if there are words within them, I have accepted
some scholarly conjecture and translated accordingly. Whether or not a
lacuna is present—and if it is, how to fill it—are of course debatable
questions; sometimes I decline to follow Mau or other scholars who posit
lacunae. All these matters are explained in the notes. I do not mark the
lacunae posited by Mau if his supplements to the Greek seem clearly
acceptable, unless they raise some point worth noting.
Centered headings in bold type in the translation are chapter titles in the
manuscripts, which are generally thought to derive from Sextus himself.¹
¹ These appear only in books 1 and 6. Both in this and in Sextus’ other works, the use
of these titles is somewhat haphazard and inconsistent. For this reason my Outline of
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Argument proceeds independently of them, despite the duplication that this causes in
some places.
² Annas and Barnes 1994/2000.
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alphabet, as well as some other points about the language. I have done
my best to explain the latter in the notes wherever needed, but it must be
admitted that these passages will sometimes be heavy going for non-
classicists. On the other hand, even when linguistic matters are at issue,
I have transliterated if Sextus’ point does not depend on something
specifically to do with the Greek alphabet. The other five books do not
present a similar linguistic problem. But here too, there are often points
about the ancient disciplines Sextus is discussing that contemporary
readers not versed in ancient Greek culture (and even many who are)
could not possibly be expected to know. Again I have used the notes to
make matters as easily intelligible as possible. I must confess that the
number and size of the notes are considerably greater than I anticipated
when I started this project; but if ready comprehension is the goal, I think
their extent is justified.
Another reason for the relatively voluminous notes is that although in
recent decades Sextus Empiricus has attracted considerable scholarly and
philosophical interest, M 1–6 remains far less studied than his other two
works. I think it is worth trying to change this state of affairs, and in the
notes I have both attempted to contribute to the scholarship on it myself
and drawn attention to existing scholarship;³ if this helps to shine a
greater light on Against Those in the Disciplines, I shall be well pleased.
Among the scholars who have not neglected the work are, of course,
its previous translators and commentators. I have learned a lot from
them, and this debt is recorded many times in the notes. The only other
currently available (or, as far as I know, ever completed⁴) full translation
of the work into English is the 1949 translation of R.G. Bury. Like his
other Sextus translations (he did the entire corpus in the Loeb series),
this is both a little archaic to the contemporary ear and sometimes
insensitive to philosophical nuance. Nonetheless, I have often benefited
from it in seeing how to parse a sentence or capture an idiom. In cases
where Sextus’ meaning was either unclear or difficult to reproduce,
³ For those who can read French, J. Delattre 2006 is a useful volume; I have elsewhere
cited a couple of essays from it, but not the volume as a whole. Another volume I have not
found a place to mention in the notes is Magrin 2003 (in Italian), which examines Sextus’
reliance on the appearances, but with a particular focus on Against the Grammarians and
Against the Rhetoricians.
⁴ Floridi 2002, which includes a seemingly exhaustive list of translations of Sextus,
mentions no other English translation of M 1–6.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 26/3/2018, SPi
I have also profited from the complete French translation, under the
general editorship of Pierre Pellegrin but with several translators (cited as
“Pellegrin et al.”); from the complete German translation of Fritz Jürß;
occasionally from the complete 1718 Latin translation of Johann Albert
Fabricius, itself a revised version of the 1569 translation by Gentianus
Hervetus; and from the Italian translation of Against the Astrologers by
Emidio Spinelli, and the English translation of Against the Musicians by
Denise Davidson Greaves.⁵ All these scholars add notes, comments, etc.
in varying amounts to their translations, and I have also made grateful
use of these, both as guides to translation and in my own notes. These
previous translations and commentaries are listed with full bibliograph-
ical details in the List of Abbreviations, and are cited in the notes by
simple last name.
I have left to the end one other translation and commentary (listed
and cited in the same fashion) that deserves special mention: David
Blank’s 1998 translation, with introduction and commentary, of Against
the Grammarians, in the Clarendon Later Ancient Philosophers series.
I was for some time convinced that the presence of this fine translation,
not to mention the very full and authoritative commentary, meant
that there was simply no place for a new English translation of this
book (at least for another generation or two). At one point I was actually
considering doing a translation of just books 2–6, so as not to enter
the territory covered by Blank. But that would have been a ridiculous
undertaking, given that the six books undoubtedly belong together
and that the beginning of book 1 clearly serves as an introduction to
the whole work. And so I was eventually persuaded that a translation of
the whole work (most of which does not have an up-to-date English
translation) was worth embarking on⁶—for an audience that, it might be
hoped, would be less specialized than Blank’s. Nonetheless, I have felt the
shadow of Blank throughout my work on the first book (in a good way,
let me add). The point about learning from other translations applies
especially to his. This may not always be readily apparent, since our
translating styles are not the same; but his pointers to Sextus’ meaning
have served me well in more cases than I could count. At the same time,
my debt to his commentary will be obvious on virtually every page of my
notes on the first book.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 26/3/2018, SPi
Outline of Argument
OUTLINE OF ARGUMENT
OUTLINE OF ARGUMENT
9. The promised focus on “the theories that come after their prin-
ciples” (108–16)
a. Recalling of previously announced plan (108)
b. Problems in bisecting a straight line (109–11)
c. Problems in cutting a circle into equal parts (112–15)
d. Final problems concerning subtraction (116)
Mrs. Baron “took to her room,” as the saying is. For an hour or
more she might have been, to all intents and purposes, in some far
country.
She left an awed silence behind her.
“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Shepard a while,”
said Bonnie May, not without significance. The atmosphere had
become too rarefied for her. She was turning from an inimical clan.
She was obeying that undying instinct which impelled the cavemen
of old to get their backs toward a wall.
Baron, Sr., prepared to go out. He turned to Victor and Flora as he
took his leave, and his whole being twinkled quietly. He seemed to
be saying: “Don’t ask me!”
Flora stole up to her mother’s room. She tapped at the door
affectionately—if one can tap at a door affectionately.
A voice muffled by pillows was heard. “Making hay,” it seemed to
say. Flora frowned in perplexity. Then her brow cleared and she
smiled wistfully. “Oh!” she interpreted, “‘Go away.’”
She went to Victor again.
“I suppose she’ll have to go,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“Oh, yes, certainly; yes, she’ll have to go,” agreed Victor firmly.
“And yet I can’t say it’s her fault.”
“You might say it’s her misfortune.”
“Yes.... Isn’t she—wonderful!”
“Oh, well, if two people simply can’t understand each other, that’s all
there is to it.”
“But she understands. She just talks too much. She won’t realize that
she’s only a child.”
“Oh, what’s the use!” exclaimed Baron. He thrust his hands into his
pockets and strolled through the house, up into the library.
He took down a copy of “Diana of the Crossways,” and opened it at
random, staring darkly at words which the late Mr. Meredith never
wrote:
“Why couldn’t she have made allowances? Why couldn’t she have
overlooked things which plainly weren’t meant to be the least
offensive?”
Obscurities, perhaps, but what does one expect of Meredith?
He meditated long and dejectedly. And then he heard his mother in
the sitting-room.
He put aside his book and assumed a light, untroubled air. “Better
have it out now,” he reflected, as he opened the door and went into
the sitting-room.
“Where is the Queen of Sheba?” asked Mrs. Baron.
Baron dropped into a chair. “You know I’m awfully sorry, mother,” he
said. There was a singular lack of real repentance in his tone.
“I don’t doubt that. Still, you might have taken me into your
confidence before you brought that little limb of Satan into the house.
I never heard of such a child. Never.”
“But you know what the circumstances were——”
“Don’t go into that again. I know that you brought her here, and that
there wasn’t any excuse for such a foolish action.”
“But, mother!” Baron’s face was heavy with perplexity. “She’s such a
little thing! She hasn’t got anybody to turn to when she’s in trouble.
My goodness! I think she’s done nobly—not whimpering once since
she came into the house. She’s probably—rattled! How would you or
I behave if we were in her shoes?”
Mrs. Baron’s eyebrows steadily mounted. “The point is, we’re not in
the slightest degree responsible for her. I want to know how we’re
going to get rid of her.”
Baron had taken a chair directly in front of his mother. Now he arose
and paced the floor. When he spoke his tone was crisp almost to
sharpness.
“It isn’t any more difficult now than it was yesterday,” he said. “I can
turn her over to the police.”
Something in his manner startled his mother. She flushed quickly.
“That’s just like you,” she protested. “What do you suppose people
would say if we turned a motherless child over to the police? You
ought to see that you’ve forced a responsibility on me!”
“Well, I should think it would be a question of what your own
conscience says. As for ‘people,’ I don’t see why anybody need
know anything about it.”
“And the newspapers and everything? Of course they would—
everything.”
“I could ask Thornburg to take her. He offered to help. I have an idea
he’d be only too glad to have her.”
“The theatre man—yes. And he’d dress her up in a fancy-ball
costume, and encourage her in her brazen ways, and she’d be
utterly shameless by the time she got to be a young woman.”
Baron sat down again with decision. “Mother, don’t!” he exclaimed.
“Thornburg isn’t that kind at all. He’d—he’d probably try to get at her
point of view now and then, and he might allow her to have certain
liberties. I think he’s broad enough to want her to be good without
insisting upon her being miserable!”
“Victor Baron!” warned his mother, and then she added with
decision: “Then you’d better get him to take her—and the sooner the
better.”
“That will be all right. To-morrow. I’ll call on him at his office to-
morrow. I’ve never met his family. I’d consider it an intrusion to go to
his house to-day, whether he did or not.”
This, of course, was spoken disagreeably, and Mrs. Baron resented
it. “You’re very obliging, I’m sure,” she said. “But after what I’ve gone
through I’ve no doubt I can wait until to-morrow.”
“No, it’s not that she has disappointed me,” responded Baron to a
question by Thornburg the next morning.
They were sitting in the manager’s office, and Baron had realized too
late that he should have waited until after luncheon, or for some
other more auspicious occasion, to have a confidential talk with
Thornburg. There were frequent interruptions, and the manager had
his mind upon the complicated business of amusement purveying,
rather than upon the welfare of a waif who, as he conceived it, had
become the hobby of a somewhat eccentric young man. A special
rehearsal was in progress in the theatre, and the voice of the stage-
manager, lifted in anger, occasionally reached them. It was a warm
morning, and many doors were open.
“The fact is,” Baron resumed, “I didn’t foresee the—the
complications. My mother has taken them into account, and it’s her
decision, rather than mine, that we ought to give her up.”
Thornburg turned hurriedly to examine, and then to approve, the
underline for a gorgeous poster of highly impressionistic design,
which one of his employees had placed before him. When he turned
to Baron again he presented the appearance of one who has lost the
thread of a conversation.
“We were saying—oh, yes. You’ve got enough of—of what’s her
name. Well, what’s your impression of her, now that you’ve had time
to look her over?”
“I haven’t changed my mind at all. I like her.”
“The family made a row?”
Baron answered evasively. “It isn’t quite a question of liking. It’s
something like trying to keep a canary in a suitcase, or putting a
lamb or a kitten into harness.”
Thornburg smiled. “Tell me just how she fails to square with the—the
domestic virtues,” he said.
“Her way of saying things—her views—she is so wholly
unconventional,” said Baron haltingly. “She doesn’t stand in awe of
her superiors. She expresses her ideas with—well, with perfect
liberty. You know children aren’t supposed to be like that. At least my
mother takes that view of the case.”
He so plainly had little or no sympathy with the argument he made
that Thornburg looked at him keenly.
“I see. She scratches the paint off!” interpreted the manager. He
smiled upon Baron exultingly.
“You might put it so,” agreed Baron, to whom the words were highly
offensive. What right had Thornburg to speak contemptuously of the
things which his family—and their kind—represented? He proceeded
coldly. “I understood that you felt some measure of responsibility. I
thought perhaps you might be willing to take her, in case we decided
it would be difficult for us to keep her.”
The manager pretended not to note the aloofness of the other’s
tone. “Now, if it were a matter of expense—” he began.
“It isn’t. She doesn’t seem at home with us. I think that states the
whole case.”
“How could she feel at home in the short time she’s been with you?”
“Then I might put it this way: She doesn’t seem congenial.”
“Of course that’s different. That seems to leave me out, as near as I
can see.”
“You mean,” said Baron, “you wouldn’t care to assume the
responsibility for her?”
“Why should I?” demanded Thornburg bluntly. He glared at Baron
resentfully.
“You’re quite right, certainly. I seem to have had the impression——”
“I have an idea she’s doing better with you than she would anywhere
else, anyway,” continued Thornburg in milder tones. “Why not give
her her place and make her stay in it? I can’t understand a family of
grown people throwing up their hands to a baby!”
“I merely wanted to get your views,” said Baron stiffly as he rose to
go. “I didn’t care to send for the police until——”
Thornburg got up, too. “Don’t understand that I wash my hands of
her,” he hastened to say. “It might not hurt me any for the public to
know that I didn’t do anything, under the circumstances, but it would
certainly be a boost for me to have it known that I went out of my
way to do a good deed. Of course if you won’t keep her——”
Baron turned and looked at him and waited.
“Look here, Baron, I’m going to be frank with you. When you took her
home, I was sore at you. Especially after you told me something
about her. I like them—children, I mean. You had taken her off my
premises. I thought about the big house I’ve got, and not a child in it,
and never to be, and I figured I might as well have taken her myself.
But there’s difficulties.” His expression became troubled. “Once
before I tried to take a child into the house and Mrs. Thornburg
objected. It was my own child, too.” He paused. “You know I’ve been
married twice.”
Baron’s thoughts went back a few years to the somewhat unpleasant
story of Thornburg’s divorce from an actress with whom he had
spent only a little more than one troubled year. The facts had been
public property. He made no reply.
Thornburg continued: “I’m in doubt as to how my wife would look at it
if I suggested that I’d like to bring this waif home. Of course, it’s just
possible she might not want to take a child of mine, and still be
willing to take in some outsider. You know what strange creatures
women are.”
Baron waited. Was Thornburg being quite frank with him—at last?
“You see the difficulty. The—the wife is likely to suspect that Bonnie
May is the same little girl I wanted to bring home before—that she’s
mine. She never saw the little daughter. I’d have to be careful not to
make her suspicious.”
“But the circumstances ... I don’t see how she could suspect
anything,” argued Baron.
“Not if I don’t seem too much interested. That’s the point. I’ll tell you,
Baron—you come out and see us. Me and my wife. Come to-night.
State the case to us together. Tell the plain truth. Explain how you
got hold of Bonnie May, and tell my wife your people have changed
their minds. That ought to make the thing clear enough.”
Baron, homeward bound, marvelled at Thornburg. It seemed strange
that a crude, strong man should feel obliged to shape his deeds to
please an ungracious, suspicious wife. He felt sorry for him, too. He
seemed to be one of those blunderers whose dealings with women
are always bewildering, haphazard experiments.
He had promised to call that evening—to lend his aid to the
manager. It was the sensible thing to do, of course. They had to get
rid of Bonnie May. Nothing was to be gained by debating that point
any further. And yet....
When he reached home he was hoping that his mother might, on
some ground or other, have changed her mind.
He speedily learned that she had done nothing of the kind.
Indeed, matters were a little more at cross-purposes than they had
been the night before. Mrs. Baron had tried again to make a dress
for the fastidious guest, accepting certain of Flora’s suggestions, and
the result of the experiment hadn’t been at all gratifying.
Baron received the first report of the matter from Bonnie May, who
was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs when he entered the
house.
“You will please make no unkind remarks about my new dress,” she
began, assuming the attitude of a fencer, and slowly turning around.
The subject—and the child’s frivolous manner—irritated Baron.
“Really, I think it’s very pretty and suitable,” he said.
“Not at all. It’s neither pretty nor suitable—though both words mean
about the same thing, when it comes to a dress. But it’s a great
improvement on that first thing. I told your mother that. I told her I’d
wear it until I got something better.”
Baron sighed. “What did she say to that?”
“She was offended, of course. But what was I to do? I can’t see that
I’m to blame.”
“But can’t you see that mother is doing the best she can for you, and
that you ought to be grateful?”
“I see what you mean. But I believe in having an understanding from
the beginning. She’s got her ideas, and I’ve got mine. She believes
you’re Satan’s if you look pretty—or something like that. And I
believe you ought to be Satan’s if you don’t.”
“But you do look—pretty.” Baron spoke the last word ungraciously.
He was trying to believe he would not care much longer what turn
affairs took—that he would have forgotten the whole thing in another
day or two.
He found his mother up-stairs.
“Well—any change for the better?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know. That depends entirely upon what
arrangements you have made.”
“I think Thornburg will take her. He’s got to do a little planning.”
“People sometimes do before they bring strange children into their
houses,” Mrs. Baron retorted.
Baron realized that his mother was becoming more successful with
her sarcasm. He passed into the library. A mischievous impulse
seized him—the fruit of that last fling of his mother’s. He called back
over his shoulder. “If the perverse little thing is quite unendurable,
you might lock her up in the attic and feed her on bread and water
until she leaves.”
Mrs. Baron stared after him, dumfounded. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”
she exclaimed. “She shall not be treated unkindly, as you ought to
know. We owe that much to ourselves.”
CHAPTER XI
HOW A CONVEYANCE CAME FOR BONNIE MAY
—AND HOW IT WENT AWAY
True to his promise, Baron set aside that evening to call on the
Thornburgs.
As he emerged from the vestibule and stood for a moment on the top
step he noted that the familiar conflict between the departing daylight
and the long files of street-lamps up and down the avenue was being
waged. In the country, no doubt, this hour would be regarded as a
part of the day; but in the city it was being drawn ruthlessly into the
maw of night. There was never any twilight on the avenue.
Already countless thousands of people had had dinner, and were
thronging the avenue in that restless march which is called the
pursuit of pleasure.
He slipped into the human current and disappeared just a moment
too soon to observe that an automobile swerved out from its course
and drew up in front of the mansion.
A youthful-looking old lady with snowy hair and with small, neatly
gloved hands, pushed open the door and emerged. With the manner
of one who repeats a request she paused and turned.
“Do come in, Colonel,” she called into the shadowy recesses of the
car.
A gray, imposing-appearing man with a good deal of vitality still
showing in his eyes and complexion smiled back at her inscrutably.
“Go on,” he said, tucking his cigar beneath the grizzled stubble on
his upper lip, and bringing his hand down with a large gesture of
leisurely contentment. “You’ll be all right. I don’t mind waiting.”
And Mrs. Harrod proceeded alone to make her call.
By the most casual chance Mrs. Baron was standing at her sitting-
room window when the car stopped before the house, and when she
perceived that it was Mrs. Harrod—Amelia Harrod, as she thought of
her—who was crossing the sidewalk, she underwent a very
remarkable transformation.
So complete a transformation, indeed, that Bonnie May, who was
somewhat covertly observing her, sprang softly to her feet and
became all attention.
Mrs. Baron’s face flushed—the child could see the heightened color
in one cheek—and her whole attitude expressed an unwonted
eagerness, a childish delight.
The truth was that Mrs. Harrod was one of the old friends who had
seemed to Mrs. Baron to be of the deserters—one whose revised
visiting list did not include the Barons. And they had been girls
together, and intimates throughout their married lives—until the
neighborhood had moved away, so to speak, and the Barons had
remained.
It is true that, despite Mrs. Baron’s fancies, Mrs. Harrod had
remained a fond and loyal friend, though she had reached an age
when social obligations, in their more trivial forms, were not as easily
met as they had been in earlier years. And it may also be true that
something of constraint had arisen between the two during the past
year or so, owing to Mrs. Baron’s belief that she was being
studiously neglected, and to Mrs. Harrod’s fear that her old friend
was growing old ungracefully and unhappily.
Then, too, the Harrods had money. Colonel Harrod had never
permitted his family’s social standing to interfere with his money-
making. On the contrary. The Barons were unable to say of the
Harrods: “Oh, yes, they have money,” as they said of a good many
other families. For the Harrods had everything else, too.
“Oh, it’s Amelia!” exclaimed Mrs. Baron, withdrawing her eyes from
the street. She gave herself a quick, critical survey, and put her
hands to her hair, and hurried toward her room in a state of delighted
agitation.
She had not given a thought to Bonnie May. She did not know that
the child slipped eagerly from the room and hurried down the stairs.
Bonnie May was, indeed, greatly in need of a diversion of some sort.
Not a word had been said to her touching the clash that had
occurred at the table during the Sunday dinner. She did not know
that the machinery necessary to her removal from the mansion had
been set in motion; but she had a vague sense of a sort of rising
inflection in the atmosphere, as if necessary adjustments were in the
making. Perhaps her state of mind was a good deal like that of a
sailor who voyages in waters which are known to be mined.
However, she liked to go to the door to admit visitors, in any case.
There may have been, latent in her nature, a strong housekeeping
instinct. Or, perhaps, there seemed a certain form of drama in
opening the door to persons unknown—in meeting, in this manner,
persons who were for the time being her “opposites.” She assured
herself that she was saving Mrs. Shepard from the trouble of
responding from the kitchen; though she realized clearly enough that
she was actuated partly by a love of excitement, of encounters with
various types of human beings.
On the present occasion she had opened the door and stepped
aside, smiling, before Mrs. Harrod had had time to touch the bell.
“Come in,” she said. And when the visitor had entered she closed
the door softly. “Will you wait until I make a light?” she asked. “I’m
afraid we’ve all forgotten about the light.” The lower rooms had
become quite gloomy.
She had climbed upon a chair in the drawing-room, and touched a
match to the gas-burner before she could be questioned or assisted,
and for the moment the caller was only thinking how peculiar it was
that the Barons went on relying upon gas, when electricity was so
much more convenient.
“Please have a seat,” Bonnie May added, “while I call Mrs. Baron.”
She turned toward the hall. “Shall I say who it is?” she asked.
Mrs. Harrod had not taken a seat. When the light filled the room child
and woman confronted each other, the child deferential, the woman
smiling with an odd sort of tenderness.
“Who are you?” asked the visitor. Her eyes were beaming; the curve
of her lips was like a declaration of love.
“I’m Bonnie May.” The child advanced and held out her hand.
Mrs. Harrod pondered. “You’re not a—relative?”
“Oh, no. A—guest, I think. Nothing more than that.”
Mrs. Harrod drew a chair toward her without removing her eyes from
the child’s face. “Do sit down a minute and talk to me,” she said. “We
can let Mrs. Baron know afterward. A guest? But you don’t visit here
often?”
“This is my first visit. You see, I have so little time for visiting. I
happen not to have any—any other engagement just now. I was very
glad to come here for—for a while.”
“You haven’t known the Barons long, then?”
“In a way, no. But you know you feel you’ve always known really
lovely people. Don’t you feel that way?” She inclined her head a little;
her lips were slightly parted; her color arose. She was trying very
earnestly to meet this impressive person upon an equal footing.
“I think you’re quite right. And—how did you meet them? I hope you
don’t mind my asking questions?”
“Not in the least. I met Mr. Victor at a—a kind of reception he was
attending. He was lovely to me. He asked me to meet his mother.”
“How simple! And so you called?”
“Yes. That is, Mr. Victor came and—and brought me. It was much
pleasanter, his bringing me.”
She had wriggled up into a chair and was keeping clear, earnest
eyes upon the visitor. She was recalling Mrs. Baron’s agitation, and
she was drawing conclusions which were very far from being wholly
wrong.
“I think Victor’s a charming young gentleman,” declared Mrs. Harrod.
“He’s always doing something—nice.”
“Yes,” responded Bonnie May. She had observed that the visitor
paused before she said “nice.” Her eyes were alertly studying Mrs.
Harrod’s face.
“And your name is Bonnie May. Is that the full name, or——”
“Yes, that’s the full name.”
Mrs. Harrod pondered. “You’re not of the Prof. Mays, are you?”
“Why, I’m of—of professional people. I’m not sure I’m of the Mays
you’re thinking about.” She edged herself from her chair uneasily. “I
hope I haven’t forgotten myself,” she added. “I’m sure I should have
let Mrs. Baron know you are here. I think you didn’t say what the
name is?”
“I’m Mrs. Harrod. I hope you’ll remember. I would be glad if you’d be
a friend of mine, too.”
The child’s dilemma, whatever it had been, was past. She smiled
almost radiantly. “I’m very glad to have met you, Mrs. Harrod,” she
said. She advanced and extended her hand again. “I truly hope I’ll
have the pleasure of meeting you again.”
Then she was off up the stairs, walking sedately. It had meant much
to her that this nice woman, who was clearly not of the profession,
had talked to her without patronizing her, without “talking down” to
her.
A strange timidity overwhelmed her when she appeared at Mrs.
Baron’s door. “It’s Mrs. Harrod,” she said, and there was a slight
catch in her voice. “I mean, Mrs. Harrod has called. I let her in.”
Mrs. Baron, standing in her doorway, was fixing an old-fashioned
brooch in place. She flushed and there was swift mistrust in her
eyes. “Oh!” she cried weakly. The sound was almost like a moan. “I
thought Mrs. Shepard——”
“I didn’t tell her I was—I didn’t tell her who I was. I thought you would
rather I didn’t. I was just nice to her, and she was nice to me.”
She hurried away, then, because she wanted to be by herself. For
some reason which she could not understand tears were beginning
to start from her eyes. Mrs. Baron had not been angry, this time. She
had seemed to be ashamed!
She did not know that the old gentlewoman looked after her with a
startled, almost guilty expression which gave place to swift contrition
and tenderness.
Mrs. Baron did not descend the stairs. She was about to do so when
Mrs. Harrod appeared in the lower hall.
“Don’t come down!” called the latter. “I mean to have my visit with
you in your sitting-room.” She was climbing the stairs. “I don’t intend
to be treated like a stranger, even if I haven’t been able to come for
such a long time.” Shadows and restraints seemed to be vanishing
utterly before that advancing friendly presence. And at the top of the
flight of stairs she drew a deep breath and exclaimed:
“Emily Boone, who is that child?” She took both Mrs. Baron’s hands
and kissed her. “I told the colonel I simply wouldn’t go by without
stopping. He had an idea we ought to go to see—what’s the name of
the play? I can’t remember. It gave me a chance to stop. I seem
never to have the opportunity any more. But do tell me. About the
child, I mean. Do you know, I’ve never seen such a perfect little
human being in my life! She’s so lovely, and so honest, and so
unspoiled. Who is she?”
Mrs. Baron felt many waters lift and pass. Bonnie May hadn’t done
anything scandalous, evidently. And here was her old friend as
expansive, as cheerfully outspoken as in the days of long ago.
She found herself responding happily, lightly.
“A little protégée of Victor’s,” she said. “You know what a discoverer
he is?” They had entered the sitting-room. Mrs. Baron was thinking
again how good it was to have the old bond restored, the old friend’s
voice awaking a thousand pleasant memories.
But as Mrs. Harrod took a seat she leaned forward without a pause.
“Now do tell me about that—that cherub of a child,” she said.
In the meantime, Victor Baron was experiencing something like a
surprise to discover that Thornburg, the manager, seemed a new, a
different, sort of person, now that he was in his own home. He had
quite the air of—well, there was only one word for it, Baron supposed
—a gentleman.
The Thornburg home was quite as nice, even in the indefinable ways
that count most, as any home Baron was acquainted with. There
was an impression of elegance—but not too much elegance—in the
large reception-room. There was a general impression of softly
limited illumination, of fine yet simple furniture. The walls had a kind
of pleasant individuality, by reason of the fact that they were sparsely
—yet attractively—ornamented.
A grandfather’s clock imparted homeliness to one end of the room;
there was a restful suggestion in the broad fireplace in which an
enormous fern had been installed. Baron’s glance also took in a
grand piano of a quietly subdued finish.
Mrs. Thornburg alone seemed in some odd way out of harmony with
the fine, cordial picture in which Baron found her. She was a frail,
wistful woman, and because her body was ailing, her mind, too—as
Baron speedily discovered—was not of the sound, cheerful texture of
her surroundings.
“Ah, Baron!” exclaimed Thornburg, advancing to meet his guest as
the latter was shown into the room. “I’m glad to see you here.”
As he turned to his wife, to introduce the visitor, Baron was struck by
something cautious and alert in his manner—the manner of a man
who must be constantly prepared to make allowances, to take
soundings. He presented an altogether wholesome picture as he
looked alternately at his wife and his guest. His abundant, stubborn
gray hair was in comfortable disorder, to harmonize with the
smoking-jacket he wore, and Baron looked at him more than once
with the uncomfortable sense of never having really known him
before. He thought, too, how this brusque, ruddy man seemed in a
strange fashion imprisoned within the radius of an ailing wife’s
influence.
“Mr. Baron is the man who carried that little girl out of the theatre the
other day,” explained Thornburg. He turned again to Baron with a
casual air: “Do you find that your people still want to let her go?”
He was playing a part, obviously; the part of one who is all but
indifferent. Mrs. Thornburg scrutinized the visitor’s face closely.
“Yes, I believe they do,” replied Baron.
“I’ve been talking to Mrs. Thornburg about the case. She
understands that I feel a sort of responsibility. I think I’ve about
persuaded her to have a look at the little girl.”
Mrs. Thornburg seemed unwilling to look at her husband while he
was speaking. Baron thought she must be concealing something.
She was gazing at him with an expression of reproach, not wholly
free from resentment.
“Hasn’t the child any relatives?” she asked. She seemed to be
making an effort to speak calmly.
“I really can’t answer that,” said Baron. “She seems not to have. She
has told me very little about herself, yet I believe she has told me all
she knows. She has spoken of a young woman—an actress—she
has travelled with. There doesn’t appear to have been any one else.
I believe she never has had a home.”
Mrs. Thornburg withdrew her gaze from him. She concerned herself
with the rings on her thin, white fingers. “How did you happen to be
with her in the theatre?” she asked.
“I was in one of the upper boxes. I don’t know how she came to be
there. I believe she couldn’t find a seat anywhere else.”
“And you’d never seen her before?”
“Never.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Both Thornburg and Baron
were looking interestedly at Mrs. Thornburg, who refused to lift her
eyes. “I wonder how you happened to take her to your home?” she
asked finally.
Baron laughed uneasily. “I’m wondering myself,” he said. “Nobody
seems to approve of what I did. But if you could have seen her!
She’s really quite wonderful. Very pretty, you know, and intelligent.