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It seems to me that imagination and reasoning have reached magnificent heights with some writers, especially poets. Among them, I strongly believe, the highest ever was Edgar Allan Poe. With Baudelaire I state that "le poete est souverainement intelligent, qu'il est l'intelligence par excellence, -et que l'imagination est la plus scientifique des facultes, parce que seule elle comprend l'analogie universelle...". One of those poets was Edgar Allan Poe. I reproduce here "The Works of Edgar Allan Poe" as a gesture against what Baudelaire called "la ferocite de l'hypocrisie bourgeoise", and what I personally call mediocrity, imbecility, and comprehensive intellectual dishonesty, all of which is presented as "realistic thinking". And, as we know, contemporary development studies are full of  "realistic thinking". So, let us learn something from Edgar Allan Poe!.  (Róbinson Rojas)
The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Works of Edgar Allan Poe V. 1
Volume 1 of the Raven Edition  #6 in our series by Edgar Allan Poe

Volume III  Contents
Narrative of A. Gordon Pym
A Tale of the Ragged Mountains
The Spectacles
King Pest
Three Sundays in a Week                        BACK TO MAIN INDEX
YOU hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,
fusty, old savage!" said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand
uncle Rumgudgeon -- shaking my fist at him in imagination.
Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy did exist,
just then, between what I said and what I had not the courage to say
-- between what I did and what I had half a mind to do.
The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting with
his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his paw,
making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.
Remplis ton verre vide!
Vide ton verre plein!
"My dear uncle," said I, closing the door gently, and approaching him
with the blandest of smiles, "you are always so very kind and
considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in so many -- so very
many ways -- that -- that I feel I have only to suggest this little
point to you once more to make sure of your full acquiescence."
"Hem!" said he, "good boy! go on!"
"I am sure, my dearest uncle [you confounded old rascal!], that you
have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with Kate. This
is merely a joke of yours, I know -- ha! ha! ha! -- how very pleasant
you are at times."
"Ha! ha! ha!" said he, "curse you! yes!"
"To be sure -- of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all
that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us
with your advice as -- as regards the time -- you know, uncle -- in
short, when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding
shall -- shall come off, you know?"
"Come off, you scoundrel! -- what do you mean by that? -- Better wait
till it goes on."
"Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! he! -- hi! hi! hi! -- ho! ho! ho! -- hu! hu!
hu!- that's good! -- oh that's capital -- such a wit! But all we want
just now, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time
"Ah! -- precisely?"
"Yes, uncle -- that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself."
"Wouldn't it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random -- some
time within a year or so, for example? -- must I say precisely?"
"If you please, uncle -- precisely."
"Well, then, Bobby, my boy -- you're a fine fellow, aren't you? --
since you will have the exact time I'll -- why I'll oblige you for
"Dear uncle!"
"Hush, sir!" [drowning my voice] -- I'll oblige you for once. You
shall have my consent -- and the plum, we mus'n't forget the plum --
let me see! when shall it be? To-day's Sunday -- isn't it? Well,
then, you shall be married precisely -- precisely, now mind! -- when
three Sundays come together in a week! Do you hear me, sir! What are
you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and her plum when three
Sundays come together in a week -- but not till then -- you young
scapegrace -- not till then, if I die for it. You know me -- I'm a
man of my word -- now be off!" Here he swallowed his bumper of port,
while I rushed from the room in despair.
A very "fine old English gentleman," was my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon,
but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points. He was a little,
pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular somebody, with a red nose, a
thick scull, [sic] a long purse, and a strong sense of his own
consequence. With the best heart in the world, he contrived, through
a predominant whim of contradiction, to earn for himself, among those
who only knew him superficially, the character of a curmudgeon. Like
many excellent people, he seemed possessed with a spirit of
tantalization, which might easily, at a casual glance, have been
mistaken for malevolence. To every request, a positive "No!" was his
immediate answer, but in the end -- in the long, long end -- there
were exceedingly few requests which he refused. Against all attacks
upon his purse he made the most sturdy defence; but the amount
extorted from him, at last, was generally in direct ratio with the
length of the siege and the stubbornness of the resistance. In
charity no one gave more liberally or with a worse grace.
For the fine arts, and especially for the belles-lettres, he
entertained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired by
Casimir Perier, whose pert little query "A quoi un poete est il bon?"
he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll pronunciation, as
the ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my own inkling for the Muses
had excited his entire displeasure. He assured me one day, when I
asked him for a new copy of Horace, that the translation of "Poeta
nascitur non fit" was "a nasty poet for nothing fit" -- a remark
which I took in high dudgeon. His repugnance to "the humanities" had,
also, much increased of late, by an accidental bias in favor of what
he supposed to be natural science. Somebody had accosted him in the
street, mistaking him for no less a personage than Doctor Dubble L.
Dee, the lecturer upon quack physics. This set him off at a tangent;
and just at the epoch of this story -- for story it is getting to be
after all -- my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon was accessible and pacific
only upon points which happened to chime in with the caprioles of the
hobby he was riding. For the rest, he laughed with his arms and legs,
and his politics were stubborn and easily understood. He thought,
with Horsley, that "the people have nothing to do with the laws but
to obey them."
I had lived with the old gentleman all my life. My parents, in dying,
had bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. I believe the old villain
loved me as his own child -- nearly if not quite as well as he loved
Kate -- but it was a dog's existence that he led me, after all. From
my first year until my fifth, he obliged me with very regular
floggings. From five to fifteen, he threatened me, hourly, with the
House of Correction. From fifteen to twenty, not a day passed in
which he did not promise to cut me off with a shilling. I was a sad
dog, it is true -- but then it was a part of my nature -- a point of
my faith. In Kate, however, I had a firm friend, and I knew it. She
was a good girl, and told me very sweetly that I might have her (plum
and all) whenever I could badger my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon, into the
necessary consent. Poor girl! -- she was barely fifteen, and without
this consent, her little amount in the funds was not come-at-able
until five immeasurable summers had "dragged their slow length
along." What, then, to do? At fifteen, or even at twenty-one [for I
had now passed my fifth olympiad] five years in prospect are very
much the same as five hundred. In vain we besieged the old gentleman
with importunities. Here was a piece de resistance (as Messieurs Ude
and Careme would say) which suited his perverse fancy to a T. It
would have stiffed the indignation of Job himself, to see how much
like an old mouser he behaved to us two poor wretched little mice. In
his heart he wished for nothing more ardently than our union. He had
made up his mind to this all along. In fact, he would have given ten
thousand pounds from his own pocket (Kate's plum was her own) if he
could have invented any thing like an excuse for complying with our
very natural wishes. But then we had been so imprudent as to broach
the subject ourselves. Not to oppose it under such circumstances, I
sincerely believe, was not in his power.
I have said already that he had his weak points; but in speaking of
these, I must not be understood as referring to his obstinacy: which
was one of his strong points -- "assurement ce n' etait pas sa
foible." When I mention his weakness I have allusion to a bizarre
old-womanish superstition which beset him. He was great in dreams,
portents, et id genus omne of rigmarole. He was excessively
punctilious, too, upon small points of honor, and, after his own
fashion, was a man of his word, beyond doubt. This was, in fact, one
of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows he made no scruple of setting
at naught, but the letter was a bond inviolable. Now it was this
latter peculiarity in his disposition, of which Kates ingenuity
enabled us one fine day, not long after our interview in the
dining-room, to take a very unexpected advantage, and, having thus,
in the fashion of all modern bards and orators, exhausted in
prolegomena, all the time at my command, and nearly all the room at
my disposal, I will sum up in a few words what constitutes the whole
pith of the story.
It happened then -- so the Fates ordered it -- that among the naval
acquaintances of my betrothed, were two gentlemen who had just set
foot upon the shores of England, after a year's absence, each, in
foreign travel. In company with these gentlemen, my cousin and I,
preconcertedly paid uncle Rumgudgeon a visit on the afternoon of
Sunday, October the tenth, -- just three weeks after the memorable
decision which had so cruelly defeated our hopes. For about half an
hour the conversation ran upon ordinary topics, but at last, we
contrived, quite naturally, to give it the following turn:
CAPT. PRATT. "Well I have been absent just one year. -- Just one year
to-day, as I live -- let me see! yes! -- this is October the tenth.
You remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day year to bid you
good-bye. And by the way, it does seem something like a coincidence,
does it not -- that our friend, Captain Smitherton, here, has been
absent exactly a year also -- a year to-day!"
SMITHERTON. "Yes! just one year to a fraction. You will remember, Mr.
Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. Pratol on this very day, last
year, to pay my parting respects."
UNCLE. "Yes, yes, yes -- I remember it very well -- very queer
indeed! Both of you gone just one year. A very strange coincidence,
indeed! Just what Doctor Dubble L. Dee would denominate an
extraordinary concurrence of events. Doctor Dub-"
KATE. [Interrupting.] "To be sure, papa, it is something strange; but
then Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton didn't go altogether the
same route, and that makes a difference, you know."
UNCLE. "I don't know any such thing, you huzzy! How should I? I think
it only makes the matter more remarkable, Doctor Dubble L. Dee-
KATE. Why, papa, Captain Pratt went round Cape Horn, and Captain
Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope."
UNCLE. "Precisely! -- the one went east and the other went west, you
jade, and they both have gone quite round the world. By the by,
Doctor Dubble L. Dee-
MYSELF. [Hurriedly.] "Captain Pratt, you must come and spend the
evening with us to-morrow -- you and Smitherton -- you can tell us
all about your voyage, and well have a game of whist and-
PRATT. "Wist, my dear fellow -- you forget. To-morrow will be Sunday.
Some other evening-
KATE. "Oh, no. fie! -- Robert's not quite so bad as that. To-day's
PRATT. "I beg both your pardons -- but I can't be so much mistaken. I
know to-morrow's Sunday, because-"
SMITHERTON. [Much surprised.] "What are you all thinking about?
Wasn't yesterday, Sunday, I should like to know?"
ALL. "Yesterday indeed! you are out!"
UNCLE. "To-days Sunday, I say -- don't I know?"
PRATT. "Oh no! -- to-morrow's Sunday."
SMITHERTON. "You are all mad -- every one of you. I am as positive
that yesterday was Sunday as I am that I sit upon this chair."
KATE. [jumping up eagerly.] "I see it -- I see it all. Papa, this is
a judgment upon you, about -- about you know what. Let me alone, and
I'll explain it all in a minute. It's a very simple thing, indeed.
Captain Smitherton says that yesterday was Sunday: so it was; he is
right. Cousin Bobby, and uncle and I say that to-day is Sunday: so it
is; we are right. Captain Pratt maintains that to-morrow will be
Sunday: so it will; he is right, too. The fact is, we are all right,
and thus three Sundays have come together in a week."
SMITHERTON. [After a pause.] "By the by, Pratt, Kate has us
completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the matter stands
thus: the earth, you know, is twenty-four thousand miles in
circumference. Now this globe of the earth turns upon its own axis-
revolves -- spins round -- these twenty-four thousand miles of
extent, going from west to east, in precisely twenty-four hours. Do
you understand Mr. Rumgudgeon?-"
UNCLE. "To be sure -- to be sure -- Doctor Dub-"
SMITHERTON. [Drowning his voice.] "Well, sir; that is at the rate of
one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from this
position a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the rising of
the sun here at London by just one hour. I see the sun rise one hour
before you do. Proceeding, in the same direction, yet another
thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two hours -- another
thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and so on, until I go
entirely round the globe, and back to this spot, when, having gone
twenty-four thousand miles east, I anticipate the rising of the
London sun by no less than twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a
day in advance of your time. Understand, eh?"
UNCLE. "But Double L. Dee-"
SMITHERTON. [Speaking very loud.] "Captain Pratt, on the contrary,
when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this position, was an
hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four thousand miles west, was
twenty-four hours, or one day, behind the time at London. Thus, with
me, yesterday was Sunday -- thus, with you, to-day is Sunday -- and
thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will be Sunday. And what is more, Mr.
Rumgudgeon, it is positively clear that we are all right; for there
can be no philosophical reason assigned why the idea of one of us
should have preference over that of the other."
UNCLE. "My eyes! -- well, Kate -- well, Bobby! -- this is a judgment
upon me, as you say. But I am a man of my word -- mark that! you
shall have her, boy, (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by
Jove! Three Sundays all in a row! I'll go, and take Dubble L. Dee's
opinion upon that."

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Works of Edgar Allan Poe V. 3