Functional Programming in Scala 1st Edition Paul Chiusano

Functional Programming in Scala 1st Edition Paul
Chiusano pdf download
https://ebookfinal.com/download/functional-programming-in-
scala-1st-edition-paul-chiusano/
Explore and download more ebooks or textbooks
at ebookfinal.com

Here are some recommended products for you. Click the link to
download, or explore more at ebookfinal
Programming in Scala 1st Edition Martin Odersky
https://ebookfinal.com/download/programming-in-scala-1st-edition-
martin-odersky/
Programming in Scala A Comprehensive Step by Step Guide
Third Edition Martin Odersky
https://ebookfinal.com/download/programming-in-scala-a-comprehensive-
step-by-step-guide-third-edition-martin-odersky/
Introducing Elixir Getting Started in Functional
Programming 1st Edition Simon St. Laurent
https://ebookfinal.com/download/introducing-elixir-getting-started-in-
functional-programming-1st-edition-simon-st-laurent/
Functional Programming in C Classic Programming Techniques
for Modern Projects Wrox Programmer to Programmer 1st
Edition Oliver Sturm
https://ebookfinal.com/download/functional-programming-in-c-classic-
programming-techniques-for-modern-projects-wrox-programmer-to-
programmer-1st-edition-oliver-sturm/

Scala in Action Nilanjan Raychaudhuri
https://ebookfinal.com/download/scala-in-action-nilanjan-raychaudhuri/
Programming architecture Paul Coates
https://ebookfinal.com/download/programming-architecture-paul-coates/
Introducing Elixir Getting Started in Functional
Programming 2nd Edition Edition Simon St. Laurent
https://ebookfinal.com/download/introducing-elixir-getting-started-in-
functional-programming-2nd-edition-edition-simon-st-laurent/
Desire in the Canterbury Tales 1st Edition Elizabeth Scala
https://ebookfinal.com/download/desire-in-the-canterbury-tales-1st-
edition-elizabeth-scala/
Scala Design Patterns 1st Edition Nikolov
https://ebookfinal.com/download/scala-design-patterns-1st-edition-
nikolov/

Functional Programming in Scala 1st Edition Paul
Chiusano Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Paul Chiusano, RÃºnar Bjarnason
ISBN(s): 9781617290657, 1617290653
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 12.01 MB
Year: 2014
Language: english

Functional Programming in Scala
Licensed to Emre Sevinc <emre.sevinc@gmail.com>

Functional Programming
in Scala
PAUL CHIUSANO
RÚNAR BJARNASON
M A N N I N G
SHELTER ISLAND

For online information and ordering of this and other Manning books, please visit
www.manning.com. The publisher offers discounts on this book when ordered in quantity.
For more information, please contact
Special Sales Department
Manning Publications Co.
20 Baldwin Road
PO Box 761
Shelter Island, NY 11964
Email: orders@manning.com
©2015 by Manning Publications Co. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without prior written
permission of the publisher.
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are
claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in the book, and Manning
Publications was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial caps
or all caps.
Recognizing the importance of preserving what has been written, it is Manning’s policy to have
the books we publish printed on acid-free paper, and we exert our best efforts to that end.
Recognizing also our responsibility to conserve the resources of our planet, Manning books
are printed on paper that is at least 15 percent recycled and processed without the use of
elemental chlorine.
Development editor: Jeff Bleiel
Manning Publications Co. Copyeditor: Benjamin Berg
20 Baldwin Road Proofreader: Katie Tennant
PO Box 261 Project editor: Janet Vail
Shelter Island, NY 11964 Typesetter: Dottie Marsico
Illustrator: Chuck Larson
Cover designer: Irene Scala
ISBN 9781617290657
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 – EBM – 19 18 17 16 15 14

v
brief contents
PART 1 INTRODUCTION TO FUNCTIONAL PROGRAMMING ...........1
1 ■ What is functional programming? 3
2 ■ Getting started with functional programming in Scala 14
3 ■ Functional data structures 29
4 ■ Handling errors without exceptions 48
5 ■ Strictness and laziness 64
6 ■ Purely functional state 78
PART 2 FUNCTIONAL DESIGN AND COMBINATOR LIBRARIES ......93
7 ■ Purely functional parallelism 95
8 ■ Property-based testing 124
9 ■ Parser combinators 146
PART 3 COMMON STRUCTURES IN FUNCTIONAL DESIGN .........173
10 ■ Monoids 175
11 ■ Monads 187
12 ■ Applicative and traversable functors 205
PART 4 EFFECTS AND I/O .....................................................227
13 ■ External effects and I/O 229
14 ■ Local effects and mutable state 254
15 ■ Stream processing and incremental I/O 268

vii
contents
foreword xiii
preface xv
acknowledgments xvi
about this book xvii
PART 1 INTRODUCTION TO FUNCTIONAL PROGRAMMING .......1
1 What is functional programming? 3
1.1 The benefits of FP: a simple example 4
A program with side effects 4 ■
A functional solution: removing the
side effects 6
1.2 Exactly what is a (pure) function? 9
1.3 Referential transparency, purity, and the
substitution model 10
1.4 Summary 13
2 Getting started with functional programming in Scala 14
2.1 Introducing Scala the language: an example 15
2.2 Running our program 17
2.3 Modules, objects, and namespaces 18
2.4 Higher-order functions: passing functions to
functions 19
A short detour: writing loops functionally 20 ■
Writing our
first higher-order function 21

CONTENTS
viii
2.5 Polymorphic functions: abstracting over types 22
An example of a polymorphic function 23 ■
Calling HOFs with
anonymous functions 24
2.6 Following types to implementations 25
2.7 Summary 28
3 Functional data structures 29
3.1 Defining functional data structures 29
3.2 Pattern matching 32
3.3 Data sharing in functional data structures 35
The efficiency of data sharing 36 ■
Improving type inference
for higher-order functions 37
3.4 Recursion over lists and generalizing to higher-order
functions 38
More functions for working with lists 41 ■
Loss of efficiency
when assembling list functions from simpler components 44
3.5 Trees 44
3.6 Summary 47
4 Handling errors without exceptions 48
4.1 The good and bad aspects of exceptions 48
4.2 Possible alternatives to exceptions 50
4.3 The Option data type 52
Usage patterns for Option 53 ■
Option composition, lifting,
and wrapping exception-oriented APIs 56
4.4 The Either data type 60
4.5 Summary 63
5 Strictness and laziness 64
5.1 Strict and non-strict functions 65
5.2 An extended example: lazy lists 68
Memoizing streams and avoiding recomputation 69 ■
Helper
functions for inspecting streams 69
5.3 Separating program description from evaluation 70
5.4 Infinite streams and corecursion 73
5.5 Summary 77

CONTENTS ix
6 Purely functional state 78
6.1 Generating random numbers using side effects 78
6.2 Purely functional random number generation 80
6.3 Making stateful APIs pure 81
6.4 A better API for state actions 84
Combining state actions 85 ■
Nesting state actions 86
6.5 A general state action data type 87
6.6 Purely functional imperative programming 88
6.7 Summary 91
PART 2 FUNCTIONAL DESIGN AND COMBINATOR LIBRARIES...93
7 Purely functional parallelism 95
7.1 Choosing data types and functions 96
A data type for parallel computations 97 ■
Combining parallel
computations 100 ■
Explicit forking 102
7.2 Picking a representation 104
7.3 Refining the API 105
7.4 The algebra of an API 110
The law of mapping 110 ■
The law of forking 112
Breaking the law: a subtle bug 113 ■
A fully non-blocking
Par implementation using actors 115
7.5 Refining combinators to their most general form 120
7.6 Summary 123
8 Property-based testing 124
8.1 A brief tour of property-based testing 124
8.2 Choosing data types and functions 127
Initial snippets of an API 127 ■
The meaning and API of
properties 128 ■
The meaning and API of generators 130
Generators that depend on generated values 131 ■
Refining the
Prop data type 132
8.3 Test case minimization 134
8.4 Using the library and improving its usability 136
Some simple examples 137 ■
Writing a test suite for parallel
computations 138
8.5 Testing higher-order functions and future directions 142

CONTENTS
x
8.6 The laws of generators 144
8.7 Summary 144
9 Parser combinators 146
9.1 Designing an algebra, first 147
9.2 A possible algebra 152
Slicing and nonempty repetition 154
9.3 Handling context sensitivity 156
9.4 Writing a JSON parser 158
The JSON format 158 ■
A JSON parser 159
9.5 Error reporting 160
A possible design 161 ■
Error nesting 162
Controlling branching and backtracking 163
9.6 Implementing the algebra 165
One possible implementation 166 ■
Sequencing parsers 166
Labeling parsers 167 ■
Failover and backtracking 168
Context-sensitive parsing 169
9.7 Summary 171
PART 3 COMMON STRUCTURES IN FUNCTIONAL DESIGN......173
10 Monoids 175
10.1 What is a monoid? 175
10.2 Folding lists with monoids 178
10.3 Associativity and parallelism 179
10.4 Example: Parallel parsing 181
10.5 Foldable data structures 183
10.6 Composing monoids 184
Assembling more complex monoids 185 ■
Using composed
monoids to fuse traversals 186
10.7 Summary 186
11 Monads 187
11.1 Functors: generalizing the map function 187
Functor laws 189

CONTENTS xi
11.2 Monads: generalizing the flatMap and unit functions 190
The Monad trait 191
11.3 Monadic combinators 193
11.4 Monad laws 194
The associative law 194 ■
Proving the associative law for a specific
monad 196 ■
The identity laws 197
11.5 Just what is a monad? 198
The identity monad 199 ■
The State monad and partial type
application 200
11.6 Summary 204
12 Applicative and traversable functors 205
12.1 Generalizing monads 205
12.2 The Applicative trait 206
12.3 The difference between monads and applicative
functors 208
The Option applicative versus the Option monad 209
The Parser applicative versus the Parser monad 210
12.4 The advantages of applicative functors 211
Not all applicative functors are monads 211
12.5 The applicative laws 214
Left and right identity 214 ■
Associativity 215
Naturality of product 216
12.6 Traversable functors 218
12.7 Uses of Traverse 219
From monoids to applicative functors 220 ■
Traversals with
State 221 ■
Combining traversable structures 223 ■
Traversal
fusion 224 ■
Nested traversals 224 ■
Monad composition 225
12.8 Summary 226
PART 4 EFFECTS AND I/O .................................................227
13 External effects and I/O 229
13.1 Factoring effects 229

CONTENTS
xii
13.2 A simple IO type 231
Handling input effects 232 ■
Benefits and drawbacks of
the simple IO type 235
13.3 Avoiding the StackOverflowError 237
Reifying control flow as data constructors 237
Trampolining: a general solution to stack overflow 239
13.4 A more nuanced IO type 241
Reasonably priced monads 242 ■
A monad that supports only
console I/O 243 ■
Pure interpreters 246
13.5 Non-blocking and asynchronous I/O 247
13.6 A general-purpose IO type 250
The main program at the end of the universe 250
13.7 Why the IO type is insufficient for streaming I/O 251
13.8 Summary 253
14 Local effects and mutable state 254
14.1 Purely functional mutable state 254
14.2 A data type to enforce scoping of side effects 256
A little language for scoped mutation 256 ■
An algebra of
mutable references 258 ■
Running mutable state actions 259
Mutable arrays 262 ■
A purely functional in-place quicksort 263
14.3 Purity is contextual 264
What counts as a side effect? 266
14.4 Summary 267
15 Stream processing and incremental I/O 268
15.1 Problems with imperative I/O: an example 268
15.2 Simple stream transducers 271
Creating processes 272 ■
Composing and appending
processes 275 ■
Processing files 278
15.3 An extensible process type 278
Sources 281 ■
Ensuring resource safety 283 ■
Single-input
processes 285 ■
Multiple input streams 287 ■
Sinks 290
Effectful channels 291 ■
Dynamic resource allocation 291
15.4 Applications 292
15.5 Summary 293
index 295

xiii
foreword
Functional Programming in Scala is an intriguing title. After all, Scala is generally called
a functional programming language and there are dozens of books about Scala on
the market. Are all these other books missing the functional aspects of the language?
To answer the question it’s instructive to dig a bit deeper. What is functional
programming? For me, it’s simply an alias for “programming with functions,” that is, a
programming style that puts the focus on the functions in a program. What are func-
tions? Here, we find a larger spectrum of definitions. While one definition often
admits functions that may have side effects in addition to returning a result, pure
functional programming restricts functions to be as they are in mathematics: binary
relations that map arguments to results.
Scala is an impure functional programming language in that it admits impure as
well as pure functions, and in that it does not try to distinguish between these catego-
ries by using different syntax or giving them different types. It shares this property
with most other functional languages. It would be nice if we could distinguish pure
and impure functions in Scala, but I believe we have not yet found a way to do so that
is lightweight and flexible enough to be added to Scala without hesitation.
To be sure, Scala programmers are generally encouraged to use pure functions.
Side effects such as mutation, I/O, or use of exceptions are not ruled out, and they
can indeed come in quite handy sometimes, be it for reasons of interoperability, effi-
ciency, or convenience. But overusing side effects is generally not considered good
style by experts. Nevertheless, since impure programs are possible and even conve-
nient to write in Scala, there is a temptation for programmers coming from a more
imperative background to keep their style and not make the necessary effort to adapt
to the functional mindset. In fact, it’s quite possible to write Scala as if it were Java
without the semicolons.
So to properly learn functional programming in Scala, should one make a detour
via a pure functional language such as Haskell? Any argument in favor of this

approach has been severely weakened by the appearance of Functional Programming
in Scala.
What Paul and Rúnar do, put simply, is treat Scala as a pure functional program-
ming language. Mutable variables, exceptions, classical input/output, and all other
traces of impurity are eliminated. If you wonder how one can write useful programs
without any of these conveniences, you need to read the book. Building up from first
principles and extending all the way to incremental input and output, they demon-
strate that, indeed, one can express every concept using only pure functions. And they
show that it is not only possible, but that it also leads to beautiful code and deep
insights into the nature of computation.
The book is challenging, both because it demands attention to detail and because
it might challenge the way you think about programming. By reading the book and
doing the recommended exercises, you will develop a better appreciation of what pure
functional programming is, what it can express, and what its benefits are.
What I particularly liked about the book is that it is self-contained. It starts with the
simplest possible expressions and every abstraction is explained in detail before fur-
ther abstractions are built on them in turn. In a sense, the book develops an alterna-
tive Scala universe, where mutable state does not exist and all functions are pure.
Commonly used Scala libraries tend to deviate a bit from this ideal; often they are
based on a partly imperative implementation with a (mostly) functional interface.
That Scala allows the encapsulation of mutable state in a functional interface is, in my
opinion, one of its strengths. But it is a capability that is also often misused. If you find
yourself using it too often, Functional Programming in Scala is a powerful antidote.
MARTIN ODERSKY
CREATOR OF SCALA

xv
preface
Writing good software is hard. After years of struggling with other approaches, both of
us discovered and fell in love with functional programming (FP). Though the FP
approach is different, we came to appreciate how the discipline leads to a coherent,
composable, and beautiful way of writing programs.
Both of us participated in the Boston Area Scala Enthusiasts, a group that met reg-
ularly in Cambridge. When the group first started, it mainly consisted of Java pro-
grammers who were looking for something better. Many expressed frustration that
there wasn’t a clear way to learn how to take advantage of FP in Scala. We could empa-
thize—we had both learned FP somewhat haphazardly, by writing lots of functional
code, talking to and learning from other Scala and Haskell programmers, and reading
a patchwork of different articles, blog posts, and books. It felt like there should be an
easier way. In April 2010 one of the group’s organizers, Nermin Šerifović, suggested
that we write a book specifically on the topic of FP in Scala. Based on our learning
experiences, we had a clear idea of the kind of book we wanted to write, and we
thought it would be quick and easy. More than four years later, we think we have cre-
ated a good book. It’s the book we wish had existed when we were learning functional
programming.
We hope to convey in this book some of the excitement that we felt when we were
first discovering FP.

xvi
acknowledgments
We would like to thank the many people who participated in the creation of this book.
To Nermin Šerifović, our friend from the Boston Scala group, thank you for first
planting the seed of this book in our minds.
To the amazing team at Capital IQ, thank you for your support and for bravely
helping beta test the first version of the book’s curriculum.
We would like to especially acknowledge Tony Morris for embarking on this jour-
ney with us. His work on the early stages of the book remains invaluable, as does his
larger contribution to the practice of functional programming in Scala.
Martin, thank you for your wonderful foreword, and of course for creating this
powerful language that is helping to reshape our industry.
During the book-writing process, we were grateful for the encouragement from
the enthusiastic community of Scala users interested in functional programming. To
our reviewers, MEAP readers, and everyone else who provided feedback or submitted
bug reports and pull requests, thank you! This book would not be what it is today with-
out your help.
Special thanks to our development editor Jeff Bleiel, our graphics editor Ben
Kovitz, our technical proofreader Tom Lockney, and everyone else at Manning who
helped make this a better book, including the following reviewers who read the
manuscript at various stages of its development: Ashton Hepburn, Bennett Andrews,
Chris Marshall, Chris Nauroth, Cody Koeninger, Dave Cleaver, Douglas Alan, Eric
Torreborre, Erich W. Schreiner, Fernando Dobladez, Ionut
, G. Stan, Jeton Bacaj, Kai
Gellien, Luc Duponcheel, Mark Janssen, Michael Smolyak, Ravindra Jaju, Rintcius
Blok, Rod Hilton, Sebastien Nichele, Sukant Hajra, Thad Meyer, Will Hayworth, and
William E. Wheeler.
Lastly, Sunita and Allison, thank you so much for your support throughout our
multi-year odyssey to make this book a reality.

xvii
about this book
This is not a book about Scala. This book is an introduction to functional programming
(FP), a radical, principled approach to writing software. We use Scala as the vehicle to
get there, but you can apply the lessons herein to programming in any language. As
you work through this book, our goal is for you to gain a firm grasp of functional pro-
gramming concepts, become comfortable writing purely functional programs, and be
able to absorb new material on the subject, beyond what we cover here.
How this book is structured
The book is organized into four parts. In part 1, we talk about exactly what functional
programming is and introduce some core concepts. The chapters in part 1 give an
overview of fundamental techniques like how to organize small functional programs,
define purely functional data structures, handle errors, and deal with state.
Building on this foundation, part 2 is a series of tutorials on functional design. We
work through some examples of practical functional libraries, laying bare the thought
process that goes into designing them.
While working through the libraries in part 2, it will become clear to you that these
libraries follow certain patterns and contain some duplication. This will highlight the
need for new and higher abstractions for writing more generalized libraries, and we
introduce those abstractions in part 3. These are very powerful tools for reasoning
about your code. Once you master them, they hold the promise of making you
extraordinarily productive as a programmer.
Part 4 then bridges the remainder of the gap towards writing real-world applica-
tions that perform I/O (like working with databases, files, or video displays) and make
use of mutable state, all in a purely functional way.
Throughout the book, we rely heavily on programming exercises, carefully
sequenced to help you internalize the material. To understand functional program-
ming, it’s not enough to learn the theory abstractly. You have to fire up your text editor

ABOUT THIS BOOK
xviii
and write some code. You have to take the theory that you have learned and put it into
practice in your work.
We’ve also provided online notes for all the chapters. Each chapter has a section
with discussion related to that chapter, along with links to further material. These
chapter notes are meant to be expanded by the community of readers, and are avail-
able as an editable wiki at https://github.com/fpinscala/fpinscala/wiki.
Audience
This book is intended for readers with at least some programming experience. We
had a particular kind of reader in mind while writing the book—an intermediate-level
Java or C programmer who is curious about functional programming. But we believe
this book is well suited for programmers coming from any language, at any level of
experience.
Prior expertise is not as important as motivation and curiosity. Functional pro-
gramming is a lot of fun, but it’s a challenging topic. It may be especially challenging
for the most experienced programmers, because it requires such a different way of
thinking than they might be used to. No matter how long you have been program-
ming, you must come prepared to be a beginner once again.
This book does not require any prior experience with Scala, but we won’t spend a
lot of time and space discussing Scala’s syntax and language features. Instead we will
introduce them as we go, with minimal ceremony, mostly as a consequence of cover-
ing other material. These introductions to Scala should be enough to get you started
with the exercises. If you have further questions about the Scala language, you should
supplement your reading with another book on Scala (http://scala-lang.org/
documentation/books.html) or look up specific questions in the Scala language doc-
umentation (http://scala-lang.org/documentation/).
How to read this book
Although the book can be read sequentially straight through, the sequencing of the
four parts is designed so that you can comfortably break between them, apply what
you have learned to your own work, and then come back later for the next part. For
example, the material in part 4 will make the most sense after you have a strong famil-
iarity with the functional style of programming developed in parts 1, 2, and 3. After
part 3, it may be a good idea to take a break and try getting more practice writing
functional programs beyond the exercises we work on in the chapters. Of course, this
is ultimately up to you.
Most chapters in this book have a similar structure. We introduce some new idea or
technique, explain it with an example, and then work through a number of exercises.
We strongly suggest that you download the exercise source code and do the exercises as
you go through each chapter. Exercises, hints, and answers are all available at https://
github.com/fpinscala/fpinscla. We also encourage you to visit the scala-functional

ABOUT THIS BOOK xix
Google group (https://groups.google.com/forum/#!topic/scala-functional/) and
the #fp-in-scala IRC channel on irc.freenode.net for questions and discussion.
Exercises are marked for both their difficulty and importance. We will mark exer-
cises that we think are hard or that we consider to be optional to understanding the
material. The hard designation is our effort to give you some idea of what to expect—
it is only our guess and you may find some unmarked questions difficult and some
questions marked hard to be quite easy. The optional designation is for exercises that
are informative but can be skipped without impeding your ability to follow further
material. The exercises have the following icons in front of them to denote whether or
not they are optional:
EXERCISE 1
A filled-in square next to an exercise means the exercise is critical.
EXERCISE 2
An open square means the exercise is optional.
Examples are presented throughout the book, and they are meant to be tried rather
than just read. Before you begin, you should have the Scala interpreter running and
ready. We encourage you to experiment on your own with variations of what you see in
the examples. A good way to understand something is to change it slightly and see
how the change affects the outcome.
Sometimes we will show a Scala interpreter session to demonstrate the result of
running or evaluating some code. This will be marked by lines beginning with the
scala> prompt of the interpreter. Code that follows this prompt is to be typed or
pasted into the interpreter, and the line just below will show the interpreter’s
response, like this:
scala> println("Hello, World!")
Hello, World!
Code conventions and downloads
All source code in listings or in text is in a fixed-width font like this to separate it
from ordinary text. Key words in Scala are set in bold fixed-width font like this.
Code annotations accompany many of the listings, highlighting important concepts.
To download the source code for the examples in the book, the exercise code, and
the chapter notes, please go to https://github.com/fpinscala/fpinscala or to the pub-
lisher’s website at www.manning.com/FunctionalProgramminginScala.

Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents

T
THE FOURTH WAITS
I.
HE click of dominos is an accompaniment scarcely in harmony with a
discussion of psychology and religion. But no subject is too sacred, or
too profane, to be discussed in a café—that neutral ground where all
parties and all sects meet; and it was a serious debate during a game of
dominos that marked the beginning of a course of strange coincidences and
sad occurrences that crowd one chapter in an eventful Bohemian life.
There were four of us art-students in the Academy of Antwerp
assembled, as was our custom after the evening life-class, at a café in a
quiet faubourg of the city. It was a gloomy November evening, cold and
raw in the wind, but not too chill to sit in the open air under the lee of the
wooden shed which enclosed two sides of the café garden. The heavy
atmosphere had not crushed every spark of cheerfulness out of the buoyant
natures of the materialistic Flemings, and the tables were filled with noisy
bourgeois and their families, drinking the mild beer of Louvain or generous
cups of coffee. Their gayety seemed sacrilegious in the solemn presence of
approaching winter—that long, depressing, ghostly season which in the
Low Countries gives warning of its coming with prophetic sobs and
continued tears, and trails the shroud of summer before the eyes of
shrinking mortals for weeks before it buries its victim. In a climate like that
of Flanders, the winter, rarely marked by severe cold, really begins with the
rainy season in early autumn, and it continues in an interminable succession
of dismal days with shrouded skies.
On the evening in question the clouds seemed lower than usual; the wind
was fitful and spasmodic, and came in long, mournful, insinuating sighs
that stole in mockingly between the peals of music and laughter, and
startled every one in his gayest mood. The gas-jets flickered and wavered
weirdly, and the dry leaves danced accompaniment to the movements of the
swift-footed waiters. The clatter of wooden shoes on the pavement without,
and the measureless but not unmusical songs of the jolly workmen on their
way home, filled the score of the medley of sounds that broke the
sepulchral quiet of the evening.

There were four of us, as I have said: old Reiner, Tyck, Henley, and
myself. Each represented a different nationality. Reiner was a Norwegian of
German descent, tall and ungainly, with a large head, a shock of light-
colored, coarse hair, a virgin beard, and a good-humored face focused in a
pair of searching gray eyes that pried their way into everything that came
under their owner’s observation. He was by no means a handsome man,
neither was he unattractive; and his sober habits, cool judgment, and great
stock of general information gained for him the familiar name of old Reiner
among the more thoughtless and more superficial students who were his
friends. He was by nature of a more scientific than artistic turn of mind. He
was conversant with nine languages, including Sanskrit, had received a
thorough university education in Norway and Germany, took delight in
investigating every subject that came in his way—from the habits of an ant
to the movements of the gold market in America—and could talk
intelligently and instructively on every topic proposed to him. Indeed, his
scientific and literary attainments were a wonder to the rest of us, who had
lived quite as long and had accomplished much less. As an artist he had
great talents as well; but here also his love of investigation constantly
directed his efforts. In his academic course he had less success than might
have been anticipated, except in the direction of positive rendering of
certain effects. He was not a colorist; such natures rarely are; and it is
probable that he would never have made a brilliant artist in any branch of
the profession, for he was too much of a positivist, and even his historical
pictures would have been little more than marvels of correctness of costume
and accessories. In his association with us, the flow of his abundant good-
humor, which sometimes seemed unlimited, was interrupted by occasional
spells of complete reaction, when he neither spoke to nor even saw any one
else, but made a hermit of himself until the mood had passed.
Tyck at first sight looked like a Spaniard. He was slight in stature, one
short leg causing a stoop which made him appear still smaller than he was.
His skin was of a clear brown, warmed by an abundance of rich blood; a
mass of strong, curling hair, and a black moustache and imperial framed in
a face of peculiar strong beauty. His eyes had something in them too deep to
be altogether pleasing, for they caused one to look at him seriously, yet they
were as full of laughter and good-nature and cheerfulness as dark eyes can
be. His face was one that, notwithstanding its peculiarities, gave a good first
impression; and a long friendship had proved him to be chargeable with

fewer blemishes of character than are written down against the most of us.
But his hands were not in his favor. They were long, bony, and cold; the
finger-joints were large and lacked firmness, and the pressure of the hand
was listless or unsympathetic. The lines of life were faint and discouraging,
and there were few prominent marks in the palm. The secret of his
complexion lay in his parentage, for his mother was a native woman of
Java, and his father a Dutch merchant, who settled in that far-off country,
built up a fortune, and raised a small family of boys, who deserted the
paternal nest as soon as they were old enough to flutter alone. Tyck was a
colorist. He seemed to see the tones of nature rich with the warm reflections
of a tropical sun; and his studies from life, while strong and luscious in
tone, were full of fire and subtle gradations—qualities combined rarely
enough in the works of older artists. He was to all appearance in the flush of
health, and, notwithstanding his deformity, was uncommonly active and
fond of exercise. We who knew him intimately, however, always looked
upon him as a marked man. With all his rugged, healthy look, his physique
was not vigorous enough to resist the attacks of the common foe, winter,
and we knew that he occasionally pined mentally and physically for the
luxurious warmth of his native land. He flourished in the raw climate of
Flanders only as a transplanted flower flourishes; still, he was not declining
in health or strength.
It is a long and delicate process to build up an intimate friendship
between men of mercurial temperament and such an impersonation of
coolness and deliberation and studied manners as was Henley, the third
member of our group. From his type of face and his peculiar bearing he was
easily recognizable as an Englishman, and even as a member of the Church
of England. His manner was plainly the result of a severe and formal
training; his whole life, as he told us himself, had been passed under the
careful surveillance of a strict father, who was for a long time the rector of
one of the first churches of London. But Henley, serious, formal, and cool,
was not uncompanionable; and I am not quite sure whether it was not the
bony thinness of his face, his straggling black beard and abundant dead-
colored hair, that predisposed one at first sight to judge him as a sort of
melancholy black sheep among his lighter-hearted companions. So we all
placed him at our first meeting. When once the ice was broken, and we felt
the sympathetic presence that surrounded him in his intercourse with
friends, he became a necessity to complete the current of our little circle,

and his English steadiness often served a good purpose in many wordy
tempests.
In religious opinions we four were as divided as we were distinct in
nationality. Henley, as I have said, was a member of the Church of England.
Tyck was a Jew and a Freemason. Reiner entirely disbelieved in everything
that was not plain to him intellectually. Our discussions on religious
subjects were long and warm, for the theories of the fourth member of the
circle piled new fuel upon the flames that sprang up under the friction of the
ideas of the other three, and on these topics alone we were seriously at
variance. Rarely were our disputes carried to that point where either of us
felt wounded after the discussion was ended, but on more than one occasion
they were violent enough to have ruptured our little bond if it had not been
strengthened by ties of more than ordinary friendship.
This friendship was of the unselfish order, too. We were in the habit of
living on the share-and-share-alike principle. Henley was the only one who
had any allowance, and he always felt that his regular remittance was rather
a bar to his complete and unqualified admission to our little ring. The joint
capital among us was always kept in circulation. When one had money and
the others had none, and it suited our inclinations or the purposes of our
study to visit the Dutch cities, or even to cross the Channel, we travelled on
the common purse. Share-and-share-alike in cases less pressing than
sickness or actual want may not be a sound mercantile principle; but where
the freemasonry of mutual tastes, united purposes, and common hardships
binds friend to friend, the spirit of communism is half the charm of
existence. Especially is this true of Bohemian life.
In introducing the characters a little time has been taken, partly in order
to give us a chance to move our table into a more sheltered corner, and to
allow us to get well started in another game of dominos. As I remember that
evening, Reiner, who had not entirely recovered from an attack of one of his
peculiar moods, had been discussing miracles and mysteries with more than
his accustomed warmth, and the rest of us had been cornered and driven off
the field in turn; even to Henley, who was not, with all his study, quite as
well up on the subject of the Jewish priests and the Druids as old Reiner,
whom no topic seemed to find unprepared. When the discussion was at its
height I observed in Reiner certain uneasy movements, and I instinctively
looked behind him to see if any one was watching him, as his actions
resembled those of a person under the mesmerism of an unseen eye. I saw

no one, and concluded that my imagination had deceived me. But Reiner
became suddenly grave and even solemn, and the debate stopped entirely.
At last, after a long silence, Reiner proposed another game of dominos.
When the pieces were distributed he began the moves, saying at the same
time, quite in earnest and as if talking to himself, “This will decide it.”
His voice was so strange and his look so determined that we felt that
something was at stake, and instinctively and in chorus declared that it was
useless to play the game out, and proposed an adjournment to the sketching-
club. Reiner did not object, and we rose to go. As we left the table I saw
behind Reiner’s chair two small, luminous, green balls, set in a black mass,
turned towards us—evidently the eyes of a dog, glistening in the reflection
of the gas like emerald fires. Possibly the others did not notice the animal,
and I was too much startled at the discovery of the unseen eye to speak of it
at that moment. Before I had recovered myself completely we were out of
the gate, followed by the dog. Under the street-lamp, he leaped about and
seemed quite at home. He was seen to be a perfectly black Spitz poodle,
with cropped ears and tail, very lively in his movements, and with a
remarkably intelligent expression. He was a dog of a character not
commonly met, and once observed was not easily mistaken for others of the
same breed. Our walk to the club was dreary enough. The gloomy manner
of old Reiner was contagious, and no one spoke a word. I was too busy
reflecting on the strange manner in which our game had been interrupted to
occupy myself with my companion, remembering the now frequent
recurrence of Reiner’s blue days, and dreading his absence from the class
and the club, which I knew from experience was sure to follow such
symptoms as I had observed in the café. To the sketching-club we brought
an atmosphere so forbidding that it seemed as if we were the heralds of
some misfortune. Scarcely a cheerful word was said after our entrance, and
frequent glasses of Louvain or d’orge, drunk on the production of new
caricatures, failed to raise the barometer of our spirits. The meeting broke
up early, and we four separated. The dog, which had been lying under a
settee near the door, followed Reiner as he turned down the boulevard.
For a week we did not meet again. Reiner kept his room or was out of
town. He made no sign, and without him we frequented neither the café nor
the club. The weather grew cold and rainy; the last evening at the café
proved to have been the final gasp of dying autumn, and winter had fairly
begun. At last Reiner made his appearance at dinner one dark afternoon,

and took his accustomed seat at our table, near the window which opened
out upon the glass-covered court-yard of the small hotel where we used to
dine, a score of us, artists and students all. He looked very weary and
hollow-eyed; said he had been unwell, had taken an overdose of laudanum
for neuralgia, and had been confined to his room for a few days. Expecting
each day to be able to go out the next morning, he had neglected to send us
word, and so the week had passed. As he was speaking I noticed a dog in
the court-yard, the same black poodle that attached himself to us in the café.
Reiner, observing my surprise, explained that the dog had been living with
him at his room in the Steenhouwersvest, and that they were inseparable
companions now. We could all see that old Reiner was not yet himself
again. One of us ventured to suggest that there might be something
Mephistophelian about the animal, and that Reiner was endeavoring, Faust-
like, to get at the kernel of the beast, so as to fathom whatever mystery of
heaven or earth was as yet to him inexplicable. No further remarks were
made, as Reiner arose to go away, leaving his dinner untouched. He shook
hands with us all almost solemnly, and with the poodle went out into the
gloomy street.
Another week passed, and we saw neither Reiner nor the poodle.
December began, and the days were short and dark, the sun scarcely
appearing above the cathedral roof in his course from east to west. The
absence of old Reiner was a constant theme of conversation, and there were
multitudes of conjectures as to whether he were in love, in debt, or really ill.
We had no message from him, not a word, not a written line.
One evening as we sat at dinner—it was Thursday, and a heavy rain was
falling—the black poodle dashed suddenly in, closely followed by Reiner’s
servant-girl, bonnetless and in slippers, and drenched to the skin. Her
message was guessed before she had time to gasp out, “Och, Mynheeren,
uwer vriend Reiner is dood!” Not waiting for explanations, we followed her
as she returned through the slippery streets, scarcely walking or running.
How I got there I never knew; it seemed at the time as if I were carried
along by some superior force. Filled with dread and fear, mingled with hope
that it was an awful mistake and that something might yet be done, I
reached the door of the house. Through the grocery-shop, where was
assembled a crowd of shivering, drenched people who had gathered there
on hearing of the event, conscious that all were watching our entrance with
solemn sympathy, not seeing distinctly any one or anything, forgetting the

narrow, dark, and winding wooden stair, I was at the door of Reiner’s room
in an instant. The tall figure of a gendarme was silhouetted against the
window; a few women stood by the table whispering together, awe-stricken
at the sight of something that was before them, to the left, and still hidden
from me as I took in the scene on entering the door.
Another step brought me to the bedside. There in the dim light lay old
Reiner, not as if asleep, for the awful pallor of death was on his face, but
with an expression as calm and peaceful as if he were soon to awake from
pleasant dreams, as if his soul were still dreaming on. He lay on his right
side, with his head resting on his doubled arm. The bedclothes were
scarcely disturbed, and his left arm lay naturally on the sheet which was
turned over the coverlid. Great, dark stains splashed the wall behind the bed
and the pillow; dark streaks ran along over the linen and made little pools
upon the floor. His shirt-bosom was one broad, irregular blotch of blood,
and in his left hand I could see the carved ivory handle of the little
Scandinavian sheath-knife that he always carried in his belt. Before I had
fully comprehended the awful reality of poor Reiner’s death, the doctor
arrived, lights were brought, and the examination began. Our dead
comrade’s head being raised and his shirt-bosom opened, there were
exposed two great gashes across the left jugular vein and one across the
right, and nine deep wounds in the breast. Few of the cuts would not have
proved mortal, and the ferocity with which the fatal knife had been plunged
again and again into his breast testified to the madness of the determination
to destroy his life. On the dressing-table by the bed we found two small
laudanum vials, both empty, and one over-turned, as if placed hastily beside
its fellow. In all probability poor Reiner took this large dose of laudanum
early in the morning, as it was found that he had been in bed during the
entire day, and was seen by the servant to be sleeping at three o’clock in the
afternoon. His iron constitution and great physical strength overcoming the
effects of the narcotic, he probably awoke to consciousness late in the
afternoon. Finding himself still alive, in the agonies of despair and
disappointment at the unsuccessful attempt to dream over the chasm into
the next world, he seized his knife and madly stabbed himself, doubtless
feeling little pain, and only happily conscious that his long-planned step
was successfully taken at last. The room was unchanged, nothing was
disturbed, and there was no evidence of the premeditation of the suicide,
except an open letter on the table, addressed to us, his friends. It contained a

simple statement of his reasons for leaving the world, saying that he was
discouraged with his progress in art, that he could not establish himself as
an artist without great expense to his family and friends, and that he
believed by committing suicide he simply annihilated himself—nothing
more or less—and so ceased to trouble himself or those interested in him.
He gave no directions as to the disposal of his effects, but enclosed a
written confession of faith, which read:
“Frederik Reiner, athée, ne croyant à rien que ce que l’on peut prouver
par la raison et l’expérience. Croyant tout de même à l’existence d’un
esprit, mais d’un esprit qui dissoud et disparaît avec le corps.
“L'âme c’est la vie, c’est un complexité des forces qui sont inséparables
des atoms ou des molecules dont se compose le corps. L’un comme l’autre a
existé depuis l’éternité. Moi-même, mon âme comme mon corps, un
complexité accidentel, une réunion passagère.
“J’insisterai toujours dans les éléments qui me composent mais
dissoudent en d’autres complexités. Ainsi, moi, ma personnalité, n’existera
plus après ma mort.”
Beside this letter on the table lay Henri Murger’s “Scènes de la Vie de
Bohème,” open, face downward. The pages contained the description of the
death of one of the artists, and the following brief and touching sentence
was underlined: “Il fut enterré quelquepart.” A litter was brought from the
hospital, and four men carried away the body; the dog, which we had come
to look upon almost with horror, closely following the melancholy
procession as it gradually disappeared in the drizzling gloom of the narrow
streets. We three went to our rooms in a strange bewilderment, and huddled
together in speechless grief and horror around the little fireplace. When
bedtime came we separated and tried to sleep, but I doubt if an eye was
closed or the awful vision of poor Reiner, as we last saw him, left either of
us for a moment.
The days that followed were, to me at least, most agonizing. The terrible
death of old Reiner grew less and less repulsive and more horribly
absorbing. I had often read of the influence of such examples on peculiarly
constituted minds, but had never before felt the dread and ghastly
fascination which seemed to grow upon me as the days following the
tragedy drew no veil across the awful spectacle, ever present in my mind’s

eye, but rather added vividness and distinctness to the smallest details of the
scene. My bed, with its white curtains, the conventional pattern of heavy
Flemish furniture found in every room, came to be almost a tomb, in the
morbid state of my imagination. I could never look at its long, spotless
drapery without fancying my own head on the pillow, my own blood on the
wall and staining with splashes of deep red the curtain and sheets. The
number and shape of the spots on old Reiner’s bed seemed photographed on
the retina of my eye, and danced upon the slender, graceful folds of the
curtains as often as I dared look at them. A little nickel-plated derringer,
always lying on my table as a paper-weight, often found its way into my
hands, and I would surprise myself wondering whether death by such a
means were not, after all, preferable to destruction by the knife. A few
cartridges in the corner of my closet, which I had hidden away to keep them
from the meddling hands of the servant, seemed to draw me towards them
with a constant magnetism. I could not forget that shelf and that particular
spot behind a bundle of paint-rags. If there was need of anything on that
particular shelf for months after Reiner’s death, I always took it quickly and
resolutely, shutting the closet door as if I were shutting in all the evil spirits
that could possess me. The tempter was exorcised, but with difficulty, and
to this day, for all I know, the cartridges may still lie hidden there. Then,
too, a quaint Normandy hunting-knife was quite as fiendish in its influence
as the derringer. Its ugly, crooked blade, and strong, sharp point were very
suggestive, and for a time I was almost afraid to touch the handle, lest the
demon of suicide should overcome me. Still, in the climax of this fever,
which might well have resulted in the suicide of another of the four, for it
was evident that Henley and Tyck were also under the same influences that
surrounded me day and night, the thought of burdening our friends with our
dead bodies was the strongest inducement that stayed our hands. It is certain
that if we had been situated where the disposal of our bodies would have
been a matter of little or no difficulty—as, for example, on board ship—one
or perhaps all three of us would have succumbed to the influence of the
mania that possessed us.
It was on the Sunday forenoon—a grim, gray morning threatening a
storm—following the fatal Thursday, that we met in the court-yard of the
city hospital to bury poor Reiner.
The hideous barrenness of a Flemish burial-ground, even in bright,
cheerful weather, is enough to crush the most buoyant spirits; it is

indescribably oppressive and soul-sickening. The awful desolation of the
place in the dreariness of that day will ever remain a horrid souvenir in my
mind. Nature did not seem to weep, but to frown; and in the heavy air one
felt a deep and solemn reproach. The soaked and dull atmosphere was
stifling in its density, like the overloaded breath from some newly opened
tomb. There was an army of felt but unseen spirits lurking in the ghostly
quiet of the place, which the presence of a hundred mortals did not disturb.
There was no breath of wind, and the settling of the snow and a faint, faint
moan of the distant rushing tide made the silence more oppressive. The drip
of the water from the drenched mosses on the brick walls; the faintest rustle
of the wreaths of immortelles hung on every hideous black cross; the fall of
one withered flower from the forgotten offerings of some friend of the
buried dead—every sound at other times and in other places quite inaudible,
broke upon that unearthly quiet with startling distinctness. The sound of our
footsteps, as we followed the winding path to the fresh heap of earth in a
remote corner, fell heavily on the thick air, and the high brick walls, mouldy
and rotting in the sunless angles, gave a deep and unwilling echo. It was
like treading the dark and skull-walled passages of the Catacombs without
the grateful veil of a partial darkness. All that was mortal and subject to
decay, all that was to our poor human understanding immortal and
indestructible, seemed buried alike in this rigid, barren enclosure. Beyond?
There was no beyond; the straight, barren walls on all sides, and the
impenetrable murkiness of the gray vault that covered us, barred out the
material and the spiritual world. Here was the end, here all was certain and
defined—a narrow ditch, a few shovelfuls of earth, and nothing more that
needed or invited explanation. There was no future, no waking from that
sleep: all exit from that narrow and pitiless graveyard seemed forever
closed. Such thoughts as these were, until then, strangers to us. Could it be
the unextinguishable influence of that nerveless body that filled the place
with the dread and uncongenial presence that urged us to accept for the
time, then and there, the theories and convictions of the mind which once
animated that cold and motionless mass?
The fresh, moist earth was piled on one side of the grave, and the
workmen with their shovels stood near the heap as we filed up, and at a sign
lowered the coffin into the grave. A Norwegian minister approached to
conduct the services. He took his place apart from all, at the head of the
grave, and began with the customary prayer in the Norwegian language. He

was dressed in harmony with the day and scene. A long, black gown fell to
the feet and was joined by a single row of thickly sewn buttons; a white
band hung from his neck low down in front, and white wristbands half
covered his gloved hands; a silk hat completed the costume. His face was of
the peculiar, emotionless Northern type, perfectly regular in feature, with
well-trimmed reddish-brown beard and hair, and small, unsympathetic gray
eyes, and it bore an expression of congealed conviction in the severity of
divine judgment. His prayer was long and earnest, and the discourse which
followed was full of honest regret for the loss of our friend, but mainly
charged with severe reproach against the wickedness of the suicide, the
burden of the sermon being, “The wages of sin is death.” We stood there,
shivering with the penetrating chill of the damp atmosphere, filled with the
horrors of this acre of the dead, and listened patiently to the long discourse.
In the very middle of the argument there was a sudden rustle near the head
of the grave, a momentary confusion among those standing near the
minister, and, to the great amazement and horror of Tyck, Henley, and
myself, that black poodle, draggled but dignified, walked quietly to the
edge of the pit as if he had been bidden to the funeral, and sat down there,
midway between the minister and the little knot of mourners, eying first the
living and then the dead with calm and portentous gravity. He seemed to
pay the closest attention to the words of the discourse, and with an
expression of intelligent triumph, rather than grief, cocked his wise little
head to one side and eyed the minister as he dilated on the sin of suicide,
and then looked solemnly down into the grave. His actions were so human
and his expression so fiendishly exultant that to the three of us, who had
previously made his acquaintance, his presence was an additional horror;
among the rest it merely excited comment on the sagacity of the beast.
There he sat through the whole of the services, and nothing could move him
from his post.
At the close of the sermon, and after a short eulogy in Flemish delivered
by one of us, the minister gave out the Norwegian hymn with this refrain:
“Min Gud! gjör dog for Christi Blod
Min sidste Afskedstime god!”
The first part of the air is weird and Northern, and the last strain is familiar
to us by the name of “Hebron.” The Norwegian words were significant and

well-chosen for this occasion, very like the simple stanzas of our “Hebron.”
The hymn is sad enough at all times; when tuned to the mournful drag of
our untrained voices it seemed like the sighing of unshrived spirits.
As the sad measures wailed forth, the day seemed to grow colder and
darker; a dreary wind rustled the dry branches of the stunted trees, and
rattled the yellow wreaths of immortelles and the dry garlands and
bouquets. The dog grew uneasy between the verses, and howled long and
piteously, startling us all in our grief, and causing a dismal echo from the
cold, bare walls that hemmed us in. At last the painfully long hymn was
ended, immortelles were placed upon the coffin-lid, each one threw in a
handful of earth, and we turned our faces towards the gate, away from death
and desolation to dismal and melancholy life and our now distasteful
occupation. With one last look into the enclosure, we passed out of the gate,
closing it behind us. The dog was still at his post.
A rapid drive brought us in fifteen minutes to the Place de Meir, where
we alighted and found to welcome us the same black poodle that we left at
the grave. The cemetery of Kiel is at least two miles from the Place de
Meir; yet the dog left it after we did, and, panting and covered with mud,
was awaiting us at the latter place. He could have made his escape from the
cemetery only by the aid of some one to open the heavy gate for him, and,
considering this necessary delay, his appearance in the city before us was,
to say the least, startling. He welcomed us cheerfully, but we gave him no
encouragement. The inexplicable ubiquity of the beast horrified us too
much to allow any desire for such a companion. As we separated and took
three different roads, to my great relief he followed neither of us, but stood
undecided which way to turn.
The circumstances attending the burial of poor Reiner and the events
which followed tended to increase our disposition to imitate the
questionable action of our friend; but the annual concours of the academy,
which demanded the closest attention and the most severe work for nearly
three months, counteracted all such evil tendencies, and by spring-time we
laughed at the morbid fancies of the previous winter.
The evening after the funeral, on my way to the life class, I met the
poodle again, and, in reply to his recognition, drove him away with my
cane. Both Tyck and Henley related at the class a similar experience with
the dog, which we had now come to look upon as a fiend in disguise. After

this the meetings with the poodle were daily and almost hourly. He would
quietly march into the hotel court-yard as we were at dinner; we would
stumble over him on the stairs; at a café the garçon would hunt him from
the room; at the academy he would startle us, amuse the rest of the students,
and enrage the professor by breaking the guard of the old surveillant, and
rushing into the life class. He seemed to belong to no one and to have no
home, and yet he was an attractive animal with his long, glossy coat, saucy
ears and tail, and bright, intelligent eyes. We often endeavored to rid
ourselves of him. Many times I tried my best to kill him, arming myself
expressly with my heavy stick; but he avoided all my attacks, and always
met me cheerfully at our next interview. At times he was morose and
meditative. It used to be a theory of mine that at these seasons he was
making up his mind which one of us he had better adopt as his master,
declaring—only half in earnest, however—that the one whom the animal
especially favored would be sure to meet poor Reiner’s fate. The months of
January and February passed, and the poodle still haunted us. In the course
of these dark months we repeatedly attempted to make friends with the dog,
finding that we could not make an enemy of him, and hoped thus to
disprove the imagined fatality of the beast or else to break the spell by our
own wills. All efforts at conciliation failed; he would never enter even to
take food the room where we three were alone, and would show signs of
general recognition only, and those but sparingly, when we were together.
He seemed content with simply watching us, and not desirous of further
acquaintance. Yet, in the face of this mysterious behavior, I doubt very
much if any one of us really believed that anything would come of our
forebodings; for we began to speak of the dog at first quite in jest, and grew
more serious only as we were impressed after the death of Reiner by the
consistent impartiality of his fondness for our society, and by the
unequalled persistency with which he haunted us wherever we went abroad.
We made inquiries about the dog at the house where old Reiner used to
live, and diligently searched various localities, but we could not find out
where he passed his nights, and we discovered only that he was known all
about the town simply as Reiner’s dog, the story of his presence at the
funeral having been repeated by some of those who noticed his actions at
the grave. March came and went, and the dog had not yet taken his choice
of us, and we began to be confident that he never would. But in one of the
first warm days of spring we noticed his absence, and for a day or two saw

nothing of him. One Sunday, after a fête-day when we three had not met as
usual at the academy, a pure spring day, I received a short note from
Henley, asking me to come to his room on the Place Verte, as he was
unwell. I went immediately to his lodgings, and found him sitting up, but
quite pale and with a changed expression on his face. I knew he had been
suffering from a severe cold for some time, but we all had colds in the
damp, unhealthful old academy. His noticeably increasing paleness was
due, I had supposed, to the anxious labor and prolonged strain of the
concours. In one instance when we had been for thirty-six hours shut up in
a room with sealed doors and windows, threescore of us, together with as
many large kerosene lamps and nearly the same number of foul pipes, with
three large, red-hot cylinder stoves, and no exit allowed on any excuse, we
were all more or less affected by the poisoned air and the long struggle with
the required production. The idea, then, that there was anything serious the
matter with Henley never entered my head as I saw him sitting there in his
room; but his first words brought me to a realization of the case, and all the
horror of that long winter and its one mournful event came back to me in a
flash. His remark was significant. He simply said, “That dog is here.”
To be sure, the poodle was quietly sleeping near Henley’s easel, in the
sun. After a few general remarks, my friend said to me, quite abruptly, as if
he had made up his mind to come to the point at once:
“I thought I would send for you, old boy, to give you a souvenir or two. I
am more seriously ill than you imagine. My brother will be here to-morrow;
I shall return with him to England, and you and I shall probably meet no
more.”
There was resignation in every word he uttered, and he was evidently
convinced of the hopelessness of attempting to struggle with the disease, his
languid efforts to throw it off not having in the least retarded its advance. I
tried to prove to him the folly of the superstition about the dog, but it was
useless. He quietly said that the doctor had assured him of the necessity of
an immediate return to a warmer climate and to the care of his friends.
Tyck, who had been sent for at the same time, came in shortly after, and
was completely shaken by the strange fulfilment of our mysterious
forebodings. We passed a sad hour in that little room, and took our leave
only when we saw that Henley was fatigued with too much talking, for he
began to cough frightfully, and could hardly speak above a whisper. He
gave to each of us, with touching tenderness, a palette-knife—the best

souvenirs we could have, he said, because they would be in our hands
constantly—and we took our leave, promising to meet him on the boat the
following day. We learned from the servant that the poodle had inhabited
the cellar for several days, and that they had not been able to drive him
away.
Tyck seemed perfectly dazed by the severity of Henley’s malady and the
suddenness of his departure. Both of us avoided speaking of the dog, each
fearing that his own experience with the unlucky acquaintance might follow
that of our two companions. Tyck, I knew, was more subject to colds than
the rest of us, for he had never been completely acclimated in Flanders, and
he doubtless feared that one of the frequent slight attacks that troubled him
might prove at last as serious as the illness that now threatened poor
Henley. With Henley’s departure Antwerp would lose half its attraction for
us, for since the death of old Reiner we three had been even more closely
attached than before. Henley had lost some of his insular coldness and
formality of manner, was daily assuming more and more the appearance
and acquiring the free and easy habits of an art-student, and his unchanging
good-nature, his stability of character, and his entertaining conversation
made him the leader of our trio. During the exhausting months of the
concours, and in face of the discouraging results of weeks of most energetic
and nervous toil, he never lost his patience, but encouraged us by his
superior strength of purpose and scorn of minor disappointments.
The next day we three met on board the Baron Osy just before the cables
were cast off the quay. Henley was one of the last passengers to get aboard,
and fortunately our parting was by necessity short. He was very weak, and
evidently failed from hour to hour, for he could walk only with the support
of his brother’s arm. He said good-by hopelessly but calmly, and we parted
with scarcely another word. We felt that regrets were useless and words of
encouragement vain, and that the only thing that remained to do was to
accept his fate calmly, and as calmly await our own. There was not a
shadow of hope that we would ever meet again, and I can never forget the
far-off look in Henley’s face as he turned his eyes for an instant towards the
swift, yellow current of the Scheldt, with the rich-hued sails, the fleecy
spring clouds, and the gorgeously colored roofs of Saint Anneke reflected in
its eddying surface. The cables were cast off and we hurried ashore. In the
bustle and confusion a black poodle was driven off the plank by one of the
stewards, but the crowd was so great and the noise and the tumult of the

wharf-men so distracting, that it was impossible to see whether the dog
remained on the boat or was put ashore. However, we saw him no more,
and did not doubt that he went with Henley to London. In less than two
weeks a letter from Henley’s brother announced the death of our friend
from quick consumption. Nothing was said of the dog.
From that time Tyck was preoccupied; he was much alone, ceased to
frequent the academy, and neither worked nor diverted himself: it was plain
that he needed change. Antwerp, at the best a cheerless town, gay on the
surface, perhaps, because its people are as thoughtless and improvident as
children, but full of misery and well-concealed wretchedness, grew hateful
to us both.
Suddenly Tyck announced his purpose of going to Italy, and I resolved to
break my camp as well, make an artistic tour of the East, and meet my
friend in Rome in the autumn. We divided our canvases and easels among
the rest of the fellows, rolled up our studies, and with the color-box,
knapsack, and travelling-rug were prepared in a day to leave the scene of
our sad experiences. It was with feelings of great relief and satisfaction that
we saw the red roofs of Antwerp disappear behind the fortifications as the
train carried us southward.
II.
Eight months after Tyck and I parted at Brussels, I arrived in Rome.
Sharing, as I did, the general ignorance in regard to the severity of the
Italian winters, I was surprised to find the weather bitterly cold. It was the
day before Christmas, and a breeze that would chill the bones swept the
deserted streets. After three months’ idling in the East, paddling in the
Golden Horn, dreamily watching from the hills of Smyrna the far-off
islands of the Grecian Archipelago, and sleeping in the sun on the rocks at
Piræus, Italy seemed as cold and barren as the shores of Scandinavia. It is a
popular mistake to winter in Italy. The West of England, the South of
France, and many sections of our own country are far preferable. It is not to
be denied that Italy can be thoroughly enjoyed only in the warm months.
Even in the hottest season, Americans find Naples, Rome, and Florence less
uncomfortable than Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Immediately on
my arrival Tyck came to meet me at the hotel, and we spent a happy
Christmas Eve, discussing the thousand topics that arise when two intimate

friends meet after a separation like our own. Tyck was in better health and
spirits than I had ever known him to be in before, and to all appearances
Italian air agreed with him. In the course of the evening he gave me an
invitation to make one of a breakfast-party that was to celebrate Christmas
in his studio the next day, and the invitation was accompanied with the
request to bring eatables and liquids enough to satisfy my own appetite on
that occasion—a Bohemian fashion of giving dinner-parties to which we
were no strangers. Accordingly, the next morning at eleven o’clock we were
to meet again in Tyck’s quarters.
The studio was in the fifth story of a large block not far from the Porta
del Popolo, and looked out upon a large portion of the city, the view
embracing the Pincio and St. Peter’s, Monte Mario, and the Quirinal. The
entrance on the street was dismal and prison-like. A long, dark corridor led
back to a small court at the bottom of a great pit formed by the walls of the
crowded houses, and the stones of the pavement were flooded with the
drippings from the buckets of all the neighborhood, as they slid up and
down the wire guys leading into the antique well in one corner, and rattled
and splashed until they were drawn up by an unseen hand far above in the
maze of windows and balconies—an ingenious and simple way of drawing
water, quite common in Rome. From this sunless court-yard a broad, musty
staircase twisted and turned capriciously up past narrow, gloomy passages
to the upper floors of the house. At the fourth story began a narrow wooden
staircase, always perfumed with the odors of the adjacent kitchens; and it
grew narrower and steeper and more crooked until it met a little dark door
at the very top, bearing the name of Tyck. The suite of rooms which Tyck
occupied made up one of those mushroom-like wooden stories that are
lightly stuck on the top of substantial stone or brick buildings. They add to
the beauty of the silhouette, but detract from the dignity of the architectural
effect, and look like the cabin of a wrecked ship flung upon the rocks. From
the outside, quaint little windows, pretty hanging gardens, or an airy loggia
make the place look cheerful and cosy. Within, one feels quite away from
the world; far up beyond neighbors and enclosing walls, tossed on a sea of
roofs, and with a broad sweep of the horizon on every side. Such a perch is
as attractive as it is difficult to reach, and offers to the artist the advantages
of light, quiet, and perfect freedom. Tyck’s rooms were three in number. A
narrow corridor led past the door of the store-room to the studio—a large,
square room with a great window on the north side and smaller ones with

shutters on the east and west. From the studio a door opened into the
chamber, in turn connected with the store-room. Thus there was a public
and a private entrance to the studio.
The Christmas breakfast had more than ordinary significance: it was to
be the occasion of the presentation of Tyck’s household to his artist friends.
This, perhaps, needs explanation. At the time of our departure from
Antwerp, Tyck was engaged to be married to a young lady, the daughter of
a Flemish merchant, and there was every prospect of a wedding within a
year. After he had been absent two or three months her letters ceased to
come, and Tyck learned from a friend that the thrifty father of the girl had
found a match more desirable from a mercenary point of view, and had
obliged his daughter to break engagement number one in order to enter into
a new relation. Tyck, after some months of despondency, at last made an
alliance with a Jewish girl of the working class, and it was at the Christmas
breakfast that Lisa was to be presented for the first time to the rest of the
circle. When I entered the studio there were already a good many fellows
present. The apartment was a picture in itself; and a long dining-table
placed diagonally across the room, bearing piles of crockery and a great
pièce montée of evergreen and oranges, and surrounded by a unique and
motley assemblage of chairs, did not detract from the picturesqueness of the
interior.
As studios go, this would not, perhaps, have been considered luxurious
or of extraordinary interest, but it had a character of its own. Two sides of
the room were hung with odd bits of old tapestry and stray squares of
stamped leather, matched together to make an irregular patchwork
harmonious in tone and beautifully rich in color. In the corner were bows
and arrows, spears, and other weapons, brought from Java, a branch or two
of palm, and great reeds from the Campagna with twisted and shrivelled
leaves, yellow and covered with dust. Studies of heads and small sketches
were tucked away between the bits of tapestry and leather, and thus every
inch of these walls was covered. On another wall was a book-shelf with a
confused pile of pamphlets and paper-covered books, and under this hung a
number of silk and satin dresses, various bits of rich drapery, a coat or two,
and a Turkish fez. The remaining wall, and the two narrow panels on either
side of the great window, were completely covered with studies of torsos,
drawings from the nude, academy heads, sketches of animals and
landscapes, together with a shelf of trinkets, a skeleton, and a plaster death-

mask of a friend hung with a withered laurel-wreath. Quaint old chairs, bits
of gilded stage furniture, racks of portfolios, a small table or two covered
with the odds and ends of draperies, papers, sketches, the accumulation of
months, filled the corners and spread confusion into the middle of the room.
Three or four easels huddled together under the light, holding stray panels
and canvases and half-finished pictures, a lay-figure—that stiff and angular
caricature of the human form—and a chair or two loaded with brushes,
color-box, and palettes, witnessed that tools were laid aside to give room for
the table that filled every inch of vacant space. In one corner was an air-
tight stove, and this was piled up with dishes and surrounded by great tin
boxes, whence an appetizing steam issued forth, giving a hint of the good
things awaiting us. The bottles were beginning to form a noble array on the
table, and as often as a new guest appeared, a servant with a porte-manger
and a couple of bottles would contribute to the army of black necks and add
to the breastwork of loaded dishes that flanked the stove. Tyck was in his
element, welcoming heartily and with boyish enthusiasm every arrival, and
leading the shout of joy at the sight of a fat bundle or a heavy weight of full
bottles. By eleven o’clock every one was on hand, and there was an
embarrassment of riches in the eating and drinking line. Before sitting down
at the table—there were eighteen of us—we made a rule that each one
should in turn act as waiter and serve with his own hand the dishes he had
brought, the intention being to divide the accumulated stock of dishes into a
great many different courses. French was chosen as the language of the day.
While we were discussing the question of language, Lisa came in and
was presented to us all in turn, impressing us very favorably. She was
slight, but not thin, with dark hair, large brown eyes, and a transparent pink-
and-white complexion—a fine type of a Jewess. She took the place of honor
at Tyck’s right hand, and we sat down in a very jolly mood.
The menu of that breakfast would craze a French cook, and the
arrangement of the courses was a work of great difficulty, involving much
general discussion. The trattorie of Rome had been ransacked for curious
and characteristic national dishes; every combination of goodies that
ingenious minds could suggest was brought, and plain substantials by no
means failed. In the hors d'œuvre, we had excellent fresh caviare, the
contribution of a Russian; Bologna sausage and nibbles of radish; and, to
finish, pâté de foie gras. Soup à la jardinière was announced, and was
almost a failure at the start-off, because one very important aid to the

enjoyment of soup, the spoons, had been forgotten by the contributor. A
long discussion as to the practicability of leaving the soup to the end of the
meal, meanwhile ordering spoons to be brought, terminated in the
employment of extra glasses in place of spoons and soup-plates. Then all
varieties of fish followed in a rapid succession of small courses. Tiny
minnows fried in delicious olive-oil; crabs and crawfish cooked in various
ways; Italian oysters, small, thin, and coppery in flavor; canned salmon
from the Columbia River; baccalà and herrings from the North Sea; broad,
gristly flaps from the body of the devil-fish, the warty feelers purple and
suggestive of the stain of sepia and of Victor Hugo—all these, and an
abundance of each, were passed around. An immense joint of roast beef,
with potatoes, contributed by an Englishman; a leg of mutton, by a
Scotchman; a roast pig, from a Hungarian; the potted meat of Australia, and
the tasteless manzo of Italy, formed the solid course. Next we devoured a
whole flock of juicy larks with crisp skins, pigeons in pairs, ducks from the
delta of the Tiber, a turkey brought by an American, pheasants from a
Milanese, squash stuffed with meat and spices, and a globe of polenta from
a Venetian. At this point in the feast there were cries of quarter, but none
was given. An English plum-pudding of the unhealthiest species, with
flaming sauce; a pie or two strangely warped and burned in places, from the
ignorance of the Italian cook or the bad oven; pots of jelly and marmalade,
fruit mustard, stewed pears, and roasted chestnuts, ekmekataïf and havláh
from a Greek, a profusion of fruits of all kinds, were offered, and at last
coffee was served to put in a paragraph. The delicate wines of Frascati and
Marino, the light and dark Falernian, a bottle of Tokay, one of Vöslau, thick
red wine of Corfu, and flasks of the ordinary Roman mixture—a little more
than water, a little less than wine—Capri rosso and bianco, Bordeaux and
Burgundy, good English ale and porter, Vienna beer, American whiskey, and
Dutch gin, Alkermes, Chartreuse, and Greek mastic, made, all told, a wine-
list for a king, and presented a rank of arguments to convert a prohibitionist.
This was no orgy that I am describing, simply a jolly breakfast for eighteen
Bohemians of all nationalities—a complex, irregular affair, but for that
reason all the more delightful.
When we were well along in the bill of fare, a little incident occurred
which put me out of the mood for further enjoyment of the breakfast, and
for the rest of the day my position was that of silent spectator, watching the
amusements with an expression not calculated to encourage sport. To begin

with, I was unusually sensitive to nervous shocks, from the fact that my first
impression of Rome had been intensely disagreeable. I found myself in a
strangely exciting atmosphere, and subject to unpleasant influences. The
first night passed in Rome was crowded with visions, and I cannot recall a
period of twenty-four hours during my residence in that city that has not its
unpleasant souvenir of strange hallucinations, wonderful dreams, or some
shock to my nerves. The meeting with Tyck was doubtless the occasion of
my visions and restlessness on the night before the Bohemian breakfast.
The events of the previous winter in Antwerp came freshly to my mind; I
lived over again that dark season of horrors, and the atmosphere of Rome
nourished the growth of similar strange fancies. There was, however, in my
train of thoughts on Christmas Eve no foreboding that I can recall, no
prophetic fear of a continuance of the strange relations with that black
poodle which had already taken away the best half of our circle. It needed
little, nevertheless, to put me in a state of mind very similar to that which
tortured me for months in Antwerp.
But to return to the breakfast. While we were at the table a hired singer
and guitar-player, a young girl of sixteen or seventeen years, sang Italian
popular songs and performed instrumental pieces. She had nearly exhausted
her list when she began to sing the weird, mournful song of Naples,
“Palomella,” at that time quite the rage, but since worn threadbare, and its
naïve angles and depressions polished down to the meaningless monotony
of a popular ditty. We heard a dog howl in the sleeping-room as the singer
finished the ballad, and Lisa rose to open the door. My seat on Tyck’s left
brought me quite near the door, and I turned on my chair to watch the
entrance of the animal. A black poodle, as near as I could judge the exact
counterpart of the Flemish dog, quietly walked into the room, evidently
perfectly at home. My first calm reflection was that it was an hallucination,
a mental reproduction of one of the grim pictures of the past winter; I could
not believe my own vision, and it was some time before I came to realize
the fact that my senses were not deceived. I was about to ask Tyck if he had
noticed in the dog any curious resemblance to our self-appointed
companion in Antwerp, when he turned, and, as I thought then, with a
lingering touch of the old superstitious fear in his voice, said: “You’ve
noticed the dog; he belongs to Lisa. When he first came here, a month ago, I
was horrified to find in him the image of our Flemish friend. Lisa laughed
me out of my fears, saying that the animal had been in the family for six

months or more, and at last I began to look upon him as a harmless pup, and
to wonder only at the strange coincidence.” But I could not turn the affair
into a joke or forget for a moment past events, now recalled so vividly to
my mind. This was the third time that a black poodle had taken a liking to
one of us, and two out of the three attachments had already proved fatal to
the human partner. It was not by any means clear that the same dog played
these different renderings of one part, but to all appearance it was the
identical poodle. If in two cases this friendship of the dog for his self-
chosen master had proved fatal, it was but a natural inference that the third
attachment would terminate in a similar manner. But Tyck was in better
health than ever before, notwithstanding the companionship of the dog. Was
not this a proof of the folly of my superstition? I asked myself. Reasons
were not wanting to disprove the soundness of my logic. It was undoubtedly
true that stranger and more wonderful coincidences had happened, and
nothing had come of them, and it was undeniable that the imagination might
distort facts to such a degree that coincidences would be suspected where
none existed. If it were only a coincidence, fears were childish. And the dog
manifested no particular friendship for Tyck; he belonged to Lisa, and
seemed to take no special notice of any one else.
The déjeuner went on without further interruption, and the guitar girl
drummed away until the table was cleared. We were not at a loss for
entertainments after the feast was ended. Tyck’s costumes were drawn
upon, and a Flemish musician sang a costume duet with a Walloon sculptor,
one being laced up in a blue satin ball-dress, and the other staggering under
the weight of a janissary’s uniform. Later on there was a dancing concours,
in which the Indian war-dance, the English jig, the negro walk-around, the
tarantella, the Flemish reuske, and the Hungarian csárdás each had its
nimble-footed performers. The scene was worth putting upon canvas. The
confusion of quaint and rare trinkets, the abundance of color-bits, and the
picturesque groups of figures in all the costumes that could be improvised
for the dance or the song—a museum of bric-à-brac and a carnival of
characters—all this made a tableau vivant of great richness and interest.
About the middle of the afternoon the entertainment began to flag a
little, and the moment there was a lull in the sport some one proposed a trip
to Ponte Molle. The vote was immediately taken and carried, and we
marched out to the Piazza del Popolo and engaged an omnibus for the rest
of the day.

The straggling suburb outside the Porta del Popolo was lively with
pleasure-seeking Romans. The wine-shops were full of sad-eyed peasants
and weary, careworn laborers; all the mournful character of a Roman merry-
making was unusually prominent on this cheerless holiday, and the cloaked
natives chatted as solemnly as if they were mourners at a funeral. Roman
festivities are, in general, not calculated to divert the participants to a
dangerous extent. Wine-drinking is the chief amusement; and even under
the enlivening influences of his potations the Roman rarely loses his
habitual seriousness of manner, but bears himself to the end of the orgy as if
he expected every moment to be called upon to answer for the sins of his
ancestors. As we drove along the straight, broad road that raw afternoon, we
met numberless carts and omnibuses filled with laborers returning from the
wine-shops in the Campagna; the sidewalks were crowded with people on
their way to and from the trattorie near the Tiber; and scarcely a song was
heard, rarely a laugh sounded above the rattle of the wheels. The natives
were making a business of amusement, and formed a staid and sober
procession, on an occasion when in Germany or Belgium the frolics and
noisy merriment of the people would have known no bounds short of the
limit of physical endurance. We were probably regarded as escaped maniacs
because we persisted in breaking the voiceless confusion by our hearty
Flemish songs. We left the omnibus in the yard of a trattoria at some
distance out in the Campagna, and strolled over the hills for an hour,
watching the dark, cold mountains and the broad, sad-tinted waste spread
out before us. The solemn beauty of the Campagna is always impressive;
under a gray sky it assumes a sombre and mournful aspect. To the north of
the city, the low, flat-topped hills combine in a peculiar way to form
silhouettes of great nobleness of character and simplicity of line. They are
the changeless forms that endure like the granite cliffs, monumental in their
grandeur. When moving shadows of the clouds form purple patches across
these hills, and the dull gray of the turf comes into occasional relief in a
spot of strong sunlight, the scene is one of unique and matchless beauty—a
heroic landscape, with wonderful vigor and dignity of line and
extraordinary delicacy of tone. That afternoon the dog, which had
accompanied Tyck on the excursion, furnished us our chief amusement. We
tossed sticks down the steep gravel banks, to watch his lithe black form
struggle through the brambles, seize the bit, and return it to us. He, poor
animal, had probably been shut up within the walls of Rome longer than the

Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade
Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.
Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and
personal growth!
ebookfinal.com

Functional Programming in Scala 1st Edition Paul Chiusano

More Related Content

Similar to Functional Programming in Scala 1st Edition Paul Chiusano (20)

Recently uploaded (20)

Functional Programming in Scala 1st Edition Paul Chiusano