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Bernd Kortmann

English Linguistics
Essentials
2nd edition

W i th
l i n e m aterials
o n
Bernd Kortmann

English Linguistics
Essentials

2nd revised, updated and enlarged edition

J. B. Metzler Verlag
The author
Bernd Kortmann is Professor of English Language and Linguistics at the Univer-
sity of Freiburg, Germany, and, since 2013, Executive Director of FRIAS (Freiburg
Institute for Advanced Studies). He has been long-time editor of the two interna-
tional book series Topics in English Linguistics and Dialects of English as well as
journal editor of English Language and Linguistics.

ISBN 978-3-476-05677-1
ISBN 978-3-476-05678-8 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-476-05678-8

Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen

Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über
http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar.

J. B. Metzler
© Springer-Verlag GmbH Deutschland, ein Teil von Springer Nature, 2020

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Contents

Preface ................................................................................ VII

1 Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions ............... 1

1.1 Setting the scene ............................................................ 1
1.2 Central dichotomies ........................................................ 3
1.3 Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics .... 4
1.3.1 Structuralism ........................................................ 5
1.3.2 Formalism / Generative linguistics ............................ 9
1.3.3 Functionalism ....................................................... 11

2 Phonetics and phonology: On sounds and sound systems ....... 27

2.1 Phonetics ...................................................................... 28
2.1.1 Transcription ........................................................ 28
2.1.2 Speech organs ....................................................... 30
2.1.3 Types of sounds .................................................... 32
2.2 Phonology ..................................................................... 37
2.2.1 On determining the phoneme inventory: Segmental
phonology ............................................................ 37
2.2.2 Prosody: Supra-segmental phonology ....................... 40
2.2.3 Phonological processes in connected speech .............. 44

3 Morphology: On the structure and formation of words .......... 51

3.1 Types of morphemes ....................................................... 52
3.2 Morphophonemics: Interface of morphology and phonology .. 55
3.3 Word formation processes ................................................ 60
3.3.1 Derivation ........................................................... 61
3.3.2 Compounding ....................................................... 63
3.3.3 Conversion ........................................................... 67
3.3.4 Shortenings .......................................................... 69

4 Grammar: The ground plan of English ................................. 79

4.1 Inflectional morphology ................................................... 80
4.2 Syntax: Building blocks and sentence patterns .................... 86
4.2.1 Parts of speech ...................................................... 87
4.2.2 Phrases and clauses ............................................... 89
4.2.3 Grammatical relations ............................................ 91
4.3 The English verb phrase .................................................. 96
4.3.1 Verb types ............................................................ 97
4.3.2 Tense ................................................................... 101
4.3.3 Aspect ................................................................. 103

V
 Contents

5 Contrastive Linguistics: English and German ........................ 113

5.1 Contrastive Linguistics .................................................... 113
5.2 The most striking grammatical differences between English
and German .................................................................. 118
5.2.1 Morphology .......................................................... 119
5.2.2 Word order ........................................................... 121
5.2.3 Form-function mappings ......................................... 128
5.2.4 Further differences in the verb phrase ....................... 132
5.3 Phonological differences .................................................. 135

6 Semantics: Word and sentence meaning ............................. 143

6.1 Branches and boundaries of semantics ............................... 143
6.2 Types and facets of meaning ............................................. 145
6.3 Structural semantics: Meaning structures in the vocabulary ... 149
6.3.1 Lexical fields ......................................................... 149
6.3.2 Sense relations ...................................................... 151
6.3.3 Lexical ambiguity: Polysemy and homonymy ............. 155
6.4 Cognitive semantics: Prototypes and metaphors ................... 158
6.4.1 Prototypes ............................................................ 158
6.4.2 Metaphors ............................................................ 161

7 Pragmatics: The study of meaning in context ....................... 173

7.1 Competing definitions: Perspective or component? ............... 173
7.2 Deixis ........................................................................... 175
7.3 Speech acts ................................................................... 179
7.3.1 Classification of illocutionary acts ............................ 180
7.3.2 Felicity conditions .................................................. 182
7.3.3 Indirect speech acts ............................................... 182
7.4 Conversational implicatures ............................................. 183
7.4.1 The original theory by Grice .................................... 183
7.4.2 Post-Gricean models ............................................... 189

8 Sociolinguistics: Regional and social varieties of English ......... 201

8.1 Different types of varieties ............................................... 202
8.2 British and American English: A comparison ....................... 207
8.3 Regional varieties ........................................................... 213
8.3.1 Traditional and modern dialectology ......................... 213
8.3.2 Syntactic variation in the British Isles ........................ 218
8.4 Social varieties ............................................................... 220
8.5 Feminist linguistics ........................................................ 228
8.6 Sociolinguistics and language change ................................. 233

9 Turns and trends in 21st century linguistics ......................... 241

9.1 The quantitative turn ...................................................... 244
9.1.1 Corpus linguistics .................................................. 244

VI
 Contents

9.2 The usage-based turn ...................................................... 250

9.2.1 Usage-based linguistics ........................................... 250
9.2.2 The construction(al)ist turn: Construction Grammar .... 252
9.3 The typological turn in World Englishes research ................. 256
9.3.1 Typological profiles across the anglophone world ........ 259
9.3.2 Angloversals, varioversals, areoversals ...................... 260
9.3.3 Generalizations from a typological perspective ........... 266
9.4 The historical turn .......................................................... 269

10 General reference works .................................................. 287

11 Online resources and appetizers ........................................ 291

12 Index ............................................................................ 295

VII
Preface

New edition: This is the completely revised, updated and enlarged second
edition of English Linguistics: Essentials, first published in 2005 (by a
different publisher) and reprinted many times since then. After 15 years,
such a major overhaul was clearly called for. Major and minor changes
have been made in all chapters, and yet anyone who has worked with the
first version will recognize much that is familiar – simply better! New is
Chapter 9 on turns and trends in 21st century (English) linguistics.
The nature and aims of this book have not changed. Its primary aim
still is to introduce undergraduate and graduate students to the central
branches, core concepts, and current trends in the study of the English
language and linguistics, giving as much guidance as possible (also by
visual devices). The individual chapters have been designed to serve a
dual purpose: on the one hand, as an introduction to a given branch of
linguistics and as a point of departure for more detailed studies on the
basis of, for example, specialized textbooks or handbook articles and, on
the other hand, as a point of reference to return to in order to check the
wealth of knowledge acquired in the meantime against the information
given in the book.
English Linguistics: Essentials has grown out of 35 years of teaching
experience with students of English linguistics at all levels. It has done
quite a number of student generations good service as a companion all
through their academic studies – and I am more than grateful to all
those student readers who got back to me over the years asking questions
or pointing out things that are not sufficiently clear. I’ve enjoyed these
mail exchanges, or conversations at my own institution, and learnt a lot
from these questions and suggestions. In working on this new edition, I
have made every effort to build on them, with the aim of leaving future
generations of readers more enlightened when reading the relevant pas-
sages.
At many English departments in Germany, English Linguistics: Essen-
tials serves as a standard textbook in introductory classes to linguistics.
Advanced undergraduates, too, especially those approaching their exams
in linguistics, and graduates enrolled in Masters programmes in linguis-
tics as well as student tutors and teaching assistants have found (and, I
promise, will continue to find) this book equally helpful.
Why this book has appealed to many readers: The book offers a read-
er-friendly layout with many mnemonic devices in the text, and a large
number of survey figures and tables summarizing and putting in perspec-
tive the most important points. At the end of each chapter the reader will
find checklists with key terms, exercises for revision and questions for
further study, followed by a further reading section. In this new edition,
we have tried to keep all these things and even improve on some of them.
The exercises and study questions, which are extremely useful for self-
study, have largely been replaced with new ones but, most importantly,
exercises and answers for ALL of them (including the advanced exercises)

IX
 Preface

are given on the accompanying website. This website also offers links to
some of the most interesting online resources for anyone interested in
exploring the rich world of the English language and (English) linguistics
(corpora, databases, sound archives, electronic atlases, podcasts, apps,
etc.).
Structure: Given the most encouraging feedback from many colleagues
and student readers over the years, there was no reason to change any-
thing substantial as regards the overall approach (largely theory-neutral,
but functionalist in spirit), the selection of topics addressed in the book,
its overall structure, the structure of the individual chapters, the style, or
the layout. In six chapters, the core branches of linguistics are addres-
sed: phonetics and phonology (chapter 2), morphology (chapter 3),
grammar (chapter 4), semantics (chapter 6), pragmatics (chapter 7), and
sociolinguistics (chapter 8). Chapter 5 is specifically concerned with the
structure of English from a contrastive (English-German) and typologi-
cal perspective. This chapter can be read profitably even by readers
whose knowledge of German is rudimentary or non-existent since it pla-
ces contrastive linguistics in the context of other branches of comparative
linguistics and, adopting a specifically typological perspective, discusses
bundles of distinctive structural properties of English not addressed
elsewhere in the book. The only chapter that has undergone a major
change in this second edition is the shortened chapter 1, which is now
exclusively geared to introducing the reader to the major dichotomies
and research traditions of 20th century linguistics (structuralism, for-
malism, functionalism). New is chapter 9, which simultaneously serves
as an outlook and as an appetizer for the rich world of English linguistics
beyond the essential core of the discipline. It puts the spotlight on turns
and major 21st century trends in the development of novel theories,
methodologies, research questions, and overall research paradigms.
How to read this book: In principle, the individual chapters can be read
independently of each other. Also, it does not matter whether in a given
introductory linguistics class a bottom-up approach is chosen (from
sounds and sound structure to discourse and language variation) or a top-
down approach. However, for the individual structural levels of English it
will be most useful to follow the order of the chapters in the book, i. e.
phonetics (2.1) preceding phonology (2.2), morphology (3) preceding
grammar (4), English grammar (4) preceding English structure from a
comparative and contrastive English-German perspective (5), semantics
(6) preceding pragmatics (7), and the accounts given of the sound struc-
ture and grammar of English (2 and 4) preceding accounts of (especially
non-standard) varieties of English in the chapters on sociolinguistics (8)
and World Englishes research (9.3). This book is concerned with ac-
counts of present-day English, only in chapter 9.4 will we take a look at
modern historical (English) linguistics as developed over the past two or
three decades.
Acknowledgements: The author would like to thank all those many
colleagues, student readers and participants of his own classes for their
feedback over the years on the individual formulations, exercises, and
solutions in the first edition. Many thanks, too, to all those friends and

X
 Preface

former Freiburgers who gave highly useful input in the planning and
writing stage of this edition (including Daniela, Lieselotte, Nuria, Marten,
the two Christians and, with a word of special thanks, Ekkehard)! Most
importantly, however, the present book would not have come about with-
out the support of the members of my fabulous team. Every single para-
graph in this book has been given a close read by several of the brightest
people in English linguistics, and I have profited from every single one of
their questions, critical comments and, generally, extremely helpful sug-
gestions on every chapter in its various stages. Many an argument has
been sharpened, many formulations have been polished several times
over after intensive discussions with one or more of them. They have also
worked hard on individual figures, tables, and the exercises and their
solutions. A thousand heartfelt thanks go to Alice Blumenthal-Dramé,
Beke Hansen, Verena Haser, Anna Rosen, Katharina Ehret, Yinchun Bai
and, especially for the final stylistic editing, Kyla McConnell! Without the
help of this dedicated and highly competent team, completed by Melitta
Cocan, my next-door companion in the secretary’s office for unbelievable
25 years, it would have been simply impossible to keep the deadline for
the submission of the manuscript. It is immensely reassuring to have
such knowledgeable, competent, critical, perceptive, inventive, efficient,
supporting and, not least, always cheerful readers right next door! Every
single one of them and the other people mentioned above has contributed
to making this a better book. For any remaining shortcomings the author
alone takes full responsibility. At the same time, all readers are encour-
aged and warmly invited to contact the author if they have questions,
critical comments, or suggestions.
Dedication: Even 15 years after the first time I formulated this dedica-
tion, I see no reason to change a single word, just one number (guess
which!). In the writing and production stage of this book (and others
before), I have been extremely privileged to have had the support of a
wonderful team consisting of assistant professors, postdoctoral, doctoral
and graduate students – topped by the best secretary of all, Melitta Cocan!
Looking back on a quarter century that I have now held a chair in English
language and linguistics at the University of Freiburg, I can say that I have
been truly blessed in this respect. It is to the current and former members
of this marvellous team that I would like to dedicate this book – they are
the real essentials in my professional life!

XI
 1

1 Linguistics: Major concepts and research

traditions

1.1 Setting the scene

1.2 Central dichotomies
1.3 Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

1.1 | Setting the scene

Linguistics is the scientific discipline concerned with the study of lan- defining language
guage and languages, either by themselves or in comparison. Language and linguistics
(note: without an article preceding it) is to be understood as the vehicle
for the expression or exchange of thoughts, concepts, information, feel-
ings, attitudes, etc., while a language stands for entities like English, Ger-
man, Russian, Spanish, Hindi, or Mandarin Chinese of which some 6,000
are currently said to be spoken around the globe. Note that, upon closer
analysis, the notion of ‘a language’ itself is anything but self-explanatory
and clear-cut: for instance, where is the boundary between a language
and a dialect? However, in order not to complicate things too much too
early, let us simply assume that all readers of this book share an intuitive
understanding of what a language is.
This book aims at offering a state-of-the-art account of linguistics as English linguistics:
applied to the study of the English language. So let us also agree at this appetizers
early point that we all have the same understanding of our key object of
study: English. Only two points may be added by way of setting the scene
for this book. Both are meant to stress the importance of what this book
is about (English linguistics) and, above all, to serve as appetizers. Ever
so briefly, the readers of this book should be made aware of the fascinat-
ing richness the English language offers and of the privilege of entering
the world of linguistics via the study of this particular language.
English as an international language: Let us first of all turn to English.
With currently something like 1.3 billion speakers, English no doubt has
become the most widely spoken language in the world and the most im-
portant one for international communication (especially communication
among non-native speakers of English). It therefore comes closer than
any other language in the history of humanity to the age-old dream of a
universal traffic language (or: lingua franca) allowing communication
across all languages and cultural boundaries. This, in turn, has made
English the most important language in foreign language teaching world-
wide, in the media (including social media), on the internet, in business,
in advertisements, or in academic writing and publishing. Also there is a
large, steadily increasing number of EMI (English as the medium of in-
struction) Bachelor, Master and doctoral programmes around the world.
The global spread and diversity of English: Largely due to the colonial
past of the British Empire, the English language has enormously spread

J.B. Metzler © Springer-Verlag GmbH Deutschland, ein Teil von Springer Nature, 2020
B. Kortmann, English Linguistics, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-476-05678-8_1 1
 1
Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

across the globe in the course of the past 400 years. Currently close to 400
million people speak English as their native language, and there are close
to 60 countries in the world with English as one of their official lan-
guages. In addition, English has been in contact with a vast array of other
languages, so that there are also many varieties of English which may not
have reached an official status in their respective countries, but which are
nevertheless important tools, sometimes the most important ones, for
(oral) communication. Add to this the diversity of English dialects espe-
cially in the British Isles and North America, and the result is a very rich
research arena, consisting of more than 100 varieties of English around
the globe. This offers ample research opportunities for any linguist –
whether beginning, advanced, or experienced – who is fascinated by the
English language, language variation and language contact.
The pioneering role of English linguistics: Ever since the 1940s and
1950s, English linguistics has been the most important laboratory and
hothouse for linguistics in general. This applies both to the development
of theories about and approaches to the study of (individual aspects of)
language and languages, and to the development of novel methodology.
The majority of what will be presented in this book goes back to ideas,
concepts, theories, methods and research traditions established in the
second half of the 20th century in Anglo-American linguistics, largely in
the United States. Much of this theory development, not just in English
linguistics but also in general linguistics, took place with English as the
object of study. As a consequence, there is an enormous amount of re-
search that has been published on English (and largely in English).
Given the importance of English in international communication and
as a foreign language, there are also a very large number of linguists
working on English at universities and research institutions outside na-
tive English-speaking countries (within Europe, notably in Germany,
Switzerland, Belgium, the Netherlands, Sweden, Finland and Spain). Add
to this the fact that there is so much reliable authentic English data avail-
able online and you can see why English is the best researched and argu-
ably the most researchable language in the world.
Unique availability of data and research tools: For beginning students
this may sound more like a threat than an opportunity, but really it is the
latter. There is no language in the world for which such an astoundingly
large and diversified amount of authentic data (ranging from the Middle
Ages until today) is available, along with other research tools which make
English uniquely easy, fascinating and rewarding as the subject of theo-
retically, empirically and methodologically highly advanced research
(thus also consult the website accompanying this book and try to work
on some of the advanced exercises in individual chapters). For many as-
pects of the English language, even beginning students will soon find that
the answer to their research question is just a few clicks away.
advice to the Structure of chapter and book: Central aspects of how to go about the
reader scientific study of language and languages can be made clear with the
help of various pairs of oppositions (or: dichotomies). Anyone planning
to investigate language or individual linguistic phenomena first needs to
take a clear decision on which perspective to adopt, the ultimate goal(s)

2
 1.2
Central dichotomies

of the investigation, and the amount and nature of the data to be analysed
for this purpose. These questions lead to some of the most important di-
chotomies (see section 1.2) and theoretical frameworks (or: research tra-
ditions) in the discipline (see section 1.3). More recent trends in the de-
velopment of new theories, methodologies and research questions will be
presented in chapter 9. Beginners in English linguistics are warmly ad-
vised to hold in check their curiosity and first work through chapters 1 to
8 before tackling the last chapter. They will be rewarded by a glimpse of
the fascinating world of English linguistics lying beyond what will be
presented as the essential core of the discipline in the bulk of this book.

1.2 | Central dichotomies

■ synchronic – diachronic, synchrony – diachrony: Do we want to describe
the state of a language at a particular point or period in time (i. e. take
a snapshot of a language), or do we want to document linguistic change
‘through time’ (Greek dia = through, chronos = time) by comparing
successive (synchronic) language states with one another and explor-
ing the transitions from one language state to the next?
■ descriptive – prescriptive: In a synchronic approach, do we want to
give a neutral description of the actual language use, or do we want to
adopt a normative approach and formulate rules for ‘correct’ language
use?
■ form – function, language system – language use: In a descriptive ap-
proach, do we want to investigate purely formal aspects, thus the
structure (or: the system) of a language on its different levels (sound,
word, sentence structure) in abstraction from language use, or do we
want to investigate which functions linguistic structures fulfil and, de-
pendent on the speaker and the speech situation, for which commu-
nicative purposes they can be used?
■ language-specific – comparative: In a descriptive synchronic approach,
do we want to investigate merely one language, contrast two languages
with each other (e. g. for pedagogical reasons in foreign-language
teaching; contrastive linguistics), or compare a multitude of languages
with one another, with the aim of determining the patterns and limits
of language variation and maybe even language universals (language
typology)?
■ applied – not applied: Do we want to apply the results of our study in,
for example, foreign language teaching, translation, dictionary compi-
lation (lexicography), or police work and law enforcement (forensic
linguistics)? Or are our research results supposed to be of purely aca-
demic relevance? In the latter case, what we want to find out can be
either of descriptive interest (i. e. we want to learn more about a par-
ticular language – either looked at in isolation or in comparison with
other languages), or of theoretical or general interest. For example, we
may want to learn more about language as the most important me-
dium of communication among human beings, about general prin-

3
 1
Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

ciples of language structure, language use, language acquisition, lan-

guage processing, language change, etc., and about the most appropri-
ate theories or theoretical frameworks within which general (especially
grammatical) properties of language can be modelled.
■ empirical – introspective: What should form the basis of our linguistic
analysis? Should it be based on authentic data, for example in large
machine-readable corpora of the English language (the largest corpus
available at present being the Corpus of Global Web-based English with
1.9 billion words)? Should linguistic research thus increasingly work
quantitatively and with statistical methods (corpus linguistics, experi-
mental designs)? Or should it be based on introspection, that is on the
intuitions of linguists concerning what is and what is not possible in
language or a language?

Different approaches: Depending on the answers to these questions, we

are engaged in synchronic or diachronic linguistics, descriptive or pre-
scriptive linguistics, formal or functional linguistics, contrastive linguis-
tics or language typology, applied, theoretical or general linguistics.
Whichever of these approaches (and others not mentioned here) is or are
chosen, it is important to be aware of the fact that the different approaches
often come with particular theories and models of language and linguis-
tics and, as a consequence, with different viewpoints, methods and termi-
nology. For this reason, it is frequently the case that different terms co-
exist for one and the same phenomenon, and that this phenomenon is
judged and interpreted in different ways by different people.
synchronic, Structure of this book: In accordance with the dominant orientation of
descriptive, modern linguistics in general and English linguistics in particular this
empirical book has a strictly synchronic, descriptive, and empirical orientation, fo-
cussing for the most part on the English language system (chapters 2–4
and 6: phonetics, phonology, morphology, grammar, semantics). This in-
cludes a comparison of the most important structures of English and Ger-
man (chapter 5: contrastive linguistics). Language use, especially the use
of English, as dependent on different speakers or groups of speakers and
their communicative goals in varying communicative situations takes
centre stage in chapters 7 (pragmatics) and 8 (sociolinguistics). Chapter
9 will cut across many of the branches of linguistics discussed in the pre-
vious chapters by highlighting some of the most important developments
in English linguistics since the 1990s and early 2000s. Selected aspects of
historical linguistics will be addressed in this chapter, too.

1.3 | Three major research traditions in 20th century

linguistics
19th and 20th century in comparison: The two central dichotomies that
capture best the fundamental changes of direction in the development of
20th century linguistics as opposed to linguistics in the 19th century are
synchrony – diachrony and language system – language use.

4
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

The 19th century was the century of historical linguistics. Linguistic historical-compar-
research was characterized by the search for regularities and laws in lan- ative linguistics
guage change, the search for genetic links between languages (keywords:
family trees, Indo-European), and the reconstruction of older language
periods and languages in historical-comparative linguistics (or: compara-
tive philology) by means of comparing with each other younger language
periods and languages for which written data material was available.
The 20th century, on the other hand, is the century of synchrony. This paradigm shift:
is certainly the most important aspect of the paradigm shift which af- focus on synchrony
fected linguistics in the decade after 1900, a paradigm shift which is in-
separably linked to the name of Ferdinand de Saussure, the famous Swiss
linguist who taught at the University of Geneva a century ago.

1.3.1 | Structuralism

Ferdinand de Saussure is generally considered to be the founder of mod- Cours de linguis-

ern linguistics, more precisely the founder of structuralism, the ‘Bible’ of tique générale
which is the Cours de linguistique générale (1916). The Cours offers an (1916)
introduction to general linguistics based on Saussure’s lecture materials
and the lecture notes taken by his disciples and was not published until
after his death (in 1913). In this book, the reader will find thorough dis-
cussions of numerous ideas concerning a new approach to the study of
language only some of which are found in the works of linguists at the
end of the 19th century (e. g. in the writings of the German Georg von der
Gabelentz and, above all, those of William Dwight Whitney, the eminent
American linguist of the late 19th century).
Primacy of synchrony and the system: Besides the call for a separation value / valeur
of synchrony and diachrony and for the primacy of synchrony, Saussure’s
structuralist approach to linguistics focusses on language as a closed sys-
tem in which all elements are linked to one another, and in which the
value (valeur) of every single element is defined by its place in the system
alone. For example, the Simple Past in English (she worked) has a differ-
ent status than its counterpart in German, the preterite (Präteritum), be-
cause it contrasts both with the Past Progressive (she was working) and
the Present Perfect (she has worked). German grammar does not only lack
a counterpart of the English progressive form; Präteritum (sie arbeitete)
and Perfekt (sie hat gearbeitet) are in most contexts interchangeable with-
out a difference in meaning. The different status of Simple Past and
Präteritum within the grammars of English and German, respectively,
thus partly results from the value of the Present Perfect in the English
tense system in contrast to the value of the Perfekt in the German tense
system. The view that every linguistic sign is part of the system and has
no existence outside of it is an important reason for the structuralist posi-
tion that every language system needs to be considered by itself.
Langue-parole: According to Saussure, linguistics should solely be
concerned with the systematic regularities of the abstract language sys-
tem which is shared by all members of a speech community (langue),
and not with its concrete use by the individual (parole). What stands at

5
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Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

the centre of structuralist linguistics is the determination and description

of the individual elements of this system (on all structural levels: sounds,
words and their components, sentences and their constituents), and the
relations holding between them on each of these levels.
choice vs. chain Paradigmatic vs. syntagmatic relations: Within any system, there are
two basic types of relations between linguistic units which have to be
distinguished: relations of choice or interchangeability on the vertical axis
(paradigmatic relations), and relations of ‘chain’ or combination on the
horizontal axis (syntagmatic relations). A paradigmatic relation holds be-
tween the initial sounds of ban, can, Dan, fan, tan and van, whereas the
relation between any of these sounds and the two following sounds is a
syntagmatic one. (1) illustrates paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations
on the sentence level:

(1) Ï A ¸ Ï man ¸ Ï saw ¸ Ï my ¸ Ï horse ¸

Ì The ˝ Ì girl ˝ Ì loved ˝ Ì your ˝ Ì cat ˝
Ó His ˛ Ó visitor ˛ Ó hit ˛ Ó our ˛ Ó baby ˛

A choice (or paradigmatic) relation holds among the words within any of
the braced brackets, a chain (or syntagmatic) relation between the words
in the immediately neighbouring brackets. These relations are found on
all structural levels of language (see figure 1.1):

branches of linguistics

object of study form function/meaning

sound phonetics phonology

Figure 1.1: word morphology (lexical) semantics

The structural phrase, sentence syntax (sentence) semantics
levels of language

Structural levels and interfaces: As far as these structural levels (sound,

word and sentence structure) and the corresponding branches of linguis-
tics are concerned, it is important to note that it is not always easy to
determine the exact boundaries between them. Often we can observe in-
teraction between the structural levels and, as a consequence, so-called
interfaces between the relevant linguistic subdisciplines. When, for exam-
ple, in the course of the derivation of the noun pronunciation from the
verb pronounce, the sound shape of the root changes from /prə’naʊns/ to
/prəˌnʌns-/, we are not only dealing with a morphological (more pre-
cisely: word formation) process, but also with a phonological one. The
same holds true in the case of the regular English plural formation, where
the plural marker is pronounced /s/ (kits), /z/ (kids), or /ɪz/ (kisses)
depending on the final sound of the singular form of the respective noun.
The interface relevant for these two examples is called morphophonology
or morphophonemics (see chapter 3.2). Other interfaces are, for instance,
those between phonology and syntax, morphology and syntax, or syntax
and semantics.

6
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

Model of the linguistic sign: Saussure’s model of the linguistic sign, comparison with
i. e. his model of what constitutes the nature of words (see figure 1.2), is a sheet of paper
another of his ground-breaking contributions to modern linguistics. The
linguistic sign consists of two parts which are as inseparably linked to
one another like the two sides of a sheet of paper: a sound or, typically,
sound sequence (signifier; signifiant) on the level of expression and a
concept (signified; signifié) on the level of meaning.
signifiant – signifié: Two kinds of relations hold between signifié and reciprocity,
signifiant: on the one hand, a reciprocal relation, which means that the arbitrariness,
sound sequence automatically evokes the concept linked to it and vice conventionality
versa (therefore the arrows in figure 1.2). Importantly, this relationship
is arbitrary and conventional. Which signifiant (‘signifier’) is used for
which signifié (‘signified’) is solely based on an ‘agreement’, a kind of
‘contract’ between the members of a speech community. Neither side of
the linguistic sign has any special feature that would inevitably require
the assignment of a particular signifier to a particular signified, or vice
versa. That is why different languages have completely different expres-
sions – all equally appropriate or inappropriate – for the same concept
(for FLOWER just take /flaʊə(r)/ in English or /bluːmə/ in German),
and why, conversely, the same sound image can refer to completely
different concepts in different languages (consider /gɪft/, which denotes
the concept PRESENT in English as opposed to TOXIC SUBSTANCE in
German).

᬴ᭀᬿ᬴ᬶᭁ᭄
;ƐŝŐŶŝĨŝ
ŝ ĠͿ Figure 1.2:
ᭃᭀᭉᭁ ᬺᬾᬱŐᬶ Saussure’s model
᭙ᬷᬽᬱ᭪᭧;ᭂͿ᭚
;ƐŝŐŶŝĨŝĂ
Ĩ ŶƚͿ of the linguistic
sign

Linguistic sign = symbol: The crucial point about the linguistic sign is its Peirce’s typology
arbitrariness, i. e. the lack of a motivated link between signified and sig- of signs
nifier. According to the theory of signs by Charles Sanders Peirce (pro-
nounced /pɜːs/), the linguistic sign therefore qualifies as a symbol, in
contrast to the two other major types of signs he distinguishes, namely
indices and icons.
Indices: The characteristic feature of indices is an existential or physi-
cal effect-cause or effect-reason relationship between the sign and what it
stands for. Tears, for instance, are a sign of emotional turmoil (sorrow,
disappointment, joy), smoke is a sign of fire, and slurred speech is a sign
of drunkenness.
Icons and iconicity: The defining feature of icons is that there is a rela- imagic iconicity
tionship of similarity between the sign and what it stands for. The nature
of this similarity can be physical or imagic, i. e. consist in visual similarity
(e. g. the pictogram of a telephone indicating a public telephone, or the
pictogram of a running person indicating an emergency exit) or in pho-
netic similarity (e. g. bow-wow for barking, or cuckoo for the bird). diagrammatic
However, icons can also display a rather abstract relationship of simi- iconicity

7
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Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

larity. This kind of (so-called diagrammatic) iconicity holds, for example,

between maps and the regions of the earth they represent, or between the
order in which, on a list of topics for presentations and term papers, the
topics are listed and the chronological sequence in which they are to be
presented in the seminar. Iconicity thus is a special kind of motivation.
Although in human language symbols are by far the most important and
best researched type of signs, it should not be overlooked that there are
definitely also words which, besides qualifying as symbols, are partly
iconic (e. g. so-called onomatopoetic expressions like bow-wow, moo,
cuckoo) or partly indexical (e. g. here and today, part of whose meaning
refers to the here and now of the speaker; cf. chapter 7.2).
linguistics = part Semiotics is the science of linguistic and non-linguistic signalling sys-
of semiotics tems and signing processes. From the perspective of the theory of signs,
human language is a (rather complex) sign system and, as
semiotics
a consequence, linguistics a semiotic science. Tradition-
ally, it considers its object of study from three angles: (a)
syntax semantics pragmatics the relation(s) between signs (syntax); (b) the relation(s)
Figure 1.3: between signs and their meaning(s) (semantics); (c) the
Branches relation(s) between signs and their users (pragmatics). The subdisci-
of semiotics plines exploring these three kinds of relations in the scientific study of
signs therefore also belong to the central areas of linguistics.
Leonard Bloom- Structuralism until the 1950s: The importance of structuralist thinking
field, Prague as we find it in Saussure’s Cours and, in general, from the 1920s until the
School 1950s is largely undisputed in present-day linguistics. The two most im-
portant cases in point are American structuralism à la Leonard Bloomfield
which was even more rigidly empirical and form-orientated than Saus-
sure’s vision of structuralism, and the Prague School of functionalism,
which was primarily interested in the function(s) of language and linguis-
tic elements (cf. also 1.3.3).
critical reflection Development of linguistics from the 1960s until today: The crucial dif-
of Saussurean ference, however, is that ever since the 1960s (starting, above all, in soci-
dichotomies olinguistics) and especially since the 1970s (with the advent of pragmat-
ics) and 1980s (especially due to cognitive linguistics; cf. chapters 6.4 and
9.2), linguistics has significantly gone beyond the description of a linguis-
tic system and the search for purely system-inherent explanations for lin-
guistic phenomena. Rather, as will be detailed in section 1.3.3, it has
given priority to social, functional, and cognitive aspects, as well as as-
pects of language (use) grounded in communicative behaviour. Typically,
these new approaches do not compete, but rather complement each other
very well. What all these ‘post-structuralist’ approaches have in common
is that the most important Saussurean dichotomies are increasingly criti-
cally reflected, and that linguists start to emancipate, or already have
emancipated, themselves from these dichotomies.
4 directions of Emancipation from Saussure: In the course of the renewed interest in
emancipation processes of language change, for example, the strict separation between
synchrony and diachrony has largely been abandoned (which makes
sense especially if we consider, for example, the immediate link between
language variation and language change; cf. chapters 8.6 and 9.4). It is
furthermore no longer important to give priority to the system and to re-

8
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

duce linguistics to the study of the formal aspects, i. e. the structure, of

language, which was typical of 20th century linguistics until the 1960s.
Since then, research into language use (i. e. parole or performance) in the
context of an individual speaker, their social and communicative situa-
tion, and their communicative goal(s) has gained significantly in impor-
tance. Therefore, at the latest since the 1980s, sociolinguistics and prag-
matics also need to be counted among the disciplines constituting the
core of linguistics. A third example of the emancipation from Saussure
concerns his sign model, more precisely the central role he attributes to
arbitrariness. Especially since the 1980s, it has increasingly been ac-
knowledged that, both on the level of words and grammar, iconicity plays
a bigger role than is traditionally assumed in Saussurean structuralism.
Fourth, there is a general tendency in current linguistics that the idea of
dichotomies (e. g. synchrony – diachrony, language system – language
use, vocabulary – grammar, written – spoken language) and sharp cate-
gory boundaries (e. g. main verb versus auxiliary) can be accepted only
as idealizations which are pedagogically useful, but which, apart from
that, should better be given up in favour of interfaces and fuzzy bounda-
ries (thus the growing importance of so-called gradients, clines, or con-
tinua).

1.3.2 | Formalism / Generative linguistics

Noam Chomsky: Both the emancipation of linguistics from traditional

structuralist ideas and the central status which especially pragmatics and
sociolinguistics have developed since the 1960s and 1970s can also be
seen as reactions to probably the most influential school of thought in the
second half of the 20th century, namely generative linguistics. Noam
Chomsky initiated this approach to the study of language at the end of the
1950s and has remained the key intellectual and major shaping force of
generative linguistics during its various phases and its various guises un-
til the present day.
Generative (Latin generare = generate) refers to the generation of lan- definition
guage, more exactly to the full and precise description of syntactic struc-
tures by means of a limited (or: finite) inventory of rules. On the one
hand, this inventory of rules allows linguists to make explicit statements
concerning the grammatical well-formedness of a given phrase or sen-
tence. On the other hand, it provides the theoretical and descriptive appa-
ratus for predictions concerning the grammaticality (in the sense of gram-
matical well-formedness) of all possible grammatical sentences (and
smaller syntactic units) in a language, or at least in its core grammar.
The beginnings of generative linguistics mark the second fundamental 2nd paradigm shift
paradigm shift in 20th century linguistics. Within a few years, it came to in 20th century
be one of the most influential schools in linguistics; in the US (unlike in linguistics
Europe) it is even the predominant approach, both in research and teach-
ing. One of the crucial distinctive properties of this approach is a high
standard of explicit and stringent theory-formation and argumentation.
This and other essential features of the generativist (alternatively known

9
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Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

as formalist) paradigm as well as some of its major contributions to lin-

guistic theorizing will be presented in this section.
formalist main- The reader may note right away, though, that generativist positions
stream: focus will not play a role in any of the other chapters of this book. For example,
on syntax semantic and pragmatic issues (especially the study of word and utter-
& phonology ance meaning, and how the latter is negotiated in context) and, in par-
ticular, sociolinguistic and contrastive issues are for the most part ignored
or represent no more than a sideline in mainstream generative linguistics
because, given its overall aims, they are simply of little or no interest.
Mainstream formalist research and theory development has always fo-
cussed on the study of syntax and phonology.
competence vs. Mental grammar: Generative linguistics is probably still best-known as,
performance and equated with, Transformational Grammar, the approach characteristic
of Chomsky’s ‘classical’ period in the 1960s, which has, however, been out
of use for quite some time. It was and still is exclusively concerned with
language as a mental phenomenon, more exactly with competence (as
opposed to language use, performance). What is understood by compe-
tence is the entire (unconscious) mental knowledge an ideal native speaker
(and hearer) has at his or her disposal. This knowledge allows him or her
to be creative in their native language and to constantly (and successfully)
produce and process new sentences according to the rules of that lan-
guage. For Chomsky, a grammar of a given language thus is a theory of
what constitutes the ideal native user’s competence of that language.
method: intro- In Chomsky’s view, this aim can be achieved without analysing large
spection amounts of authentic linguistic data; indeed, given the often fragmented
and/or ungrammatical structure of, for example, utterances in face-to-
face interaction and spontaneous spoken language, the empirical analysis
of natural language data is considered almost detrimental to the goals of
generativist theory-formation. Therefore, generative linguistics still pri-
marily relies on introspection, i. e. the linguist’s intuition.
part of human’s Language acquisition device: The two central questions formalism is
genetic endow- interested in are “How is this linguistic knowledge represented?” and,
ment above all, “How is this linguistic knowledge acquired?”. In other words, a
primary interest for generative linguistics is (child, first) language acqui-
sition. What matters here, however, is not so much the documentation
and detailed empirical study of the concrete processes and phases of lan-
guage acquisition. Key in Chomsky’s paradigm is the question of how it
is possible that, no matter which speech community a child is born into
and which surroundings it grows up in, it develops enormous linguistic
skills in an amazingly short amount of time. Chomsky’s hypothesis is that
humans are genetically predisposed to learn language, just as it is part of
our genetic endowment to grow arms and legs. Indeed, Chomsky postu-
lates the existence of a language acquisition device (LAD).
universals = highly Universal Grammar: This raises the all-important research question
abstract innate what kind of information is contained in this device, which is common to
properties all human beings and thus universal. Or put differently: What constitutes
& principles Universal Grammar (UG)? Thus, when generative linguistics is said to
search for universals, what is meant are not surface features common to
all or at least a great number of languages, but the invariable, highly ab-

10
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

stract innate properties and principles of the postulated language acquisi-

tion device. The reason why these properties and principles must be in-
nate is that they are considered to be too abstract to be discovered, i. e.
picked up or learnt, by the child in the process of language acquisition.
Universals: Two types of UG universals are typically distinguished: substantive vs.
substantive universals and formal universals. Substantive universals are formal universals
the grammatical categories which are universally available and necessary
for analysing a language, e. g. the different word classes (nouns, verbs,
etc.), their phrasal expansions (noun phrase, verb phrase, etc.), and the
relevant grammatical categories which can be marked on them (for in-
stance, case and number on nouns, tense on verbs). Formal universals
concern the form the rules of a grammar can take. Take for example
‘structure-dependency’, which states that knowledge of language relies
on structural relationships in the sentence rather than simply on the se-
quence of words. According to this universal, it is impossible for a lan-
guage to turn a statement (e. g. This is the good friend Alison met at the
airport) into a question by simply using the reverse word order (yielding
an ungrammatical sentence like *airport the at met Alison friend good the
is this?). Consider, by contrast, a language like English in which, for this
purpose, only the order of subject and predicate is changed, as in Is this
the good friend Alison met at the airport?
Other candidates for UG universals include the structural means for
■ referring to real-world entities (reference) and saying something about

them (predication),
■ keeping track of referents and predications which are repeated in a

certain stretch of discourse (reference tracking),

■ quantifying (e. g. via numerals or elements like all, some, few, every,

etc.; quantification), and

■ allowing speaker and hearer to exchange roles easily and rapidly, e. g.

in face-to-face interaction (speaker-hearer symmetry).

In sum: the ultimate goal of linguistic theory from a formalist point of defining a possible
view is to provide a precise formal (and, by necessity, highly abstract) human language
characterization of these and other constitutive elements of Universal
Grammar and thus to define ‘a possible human language’.

1.3.3 | Functionalism
Whereas in formalist research the significance or impact of a linguistic 3 key questions
study is ultimately determined by the extent to which it helps illuminate
the nature of Universal Grammar, the corresponding all-important criterion
in functionalist research is to what extent the relevant study is able to show
■ why, in a particular domain of its structural system, language, a given

language, or a set of languages is the way it is,

■ what, in a particular context, motivates the choice of native users of a

given language between two or more semantically equivalent alterna-

tive constructions, and/or
■ how communicative functions may help shape language structure.

11
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Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

the key notion Function: The key notion in these questions is function, a concept which
oscillates between what may be paraphrased as ‘task, job’, on the one
hand, and ‘meaning’, on the other hand. This key notion will be detailed
below, along with other pillars of functionalism, the second major theo-
retical framework, or research tradition, of late 20th century and current
linguistics. The reader will soon notice that functionalism is incompati-
ble, or at least in conflict, with most of the central assumptions as well as
the ultimate goal of formalist linguistics. A summary of the relevant
points will be provided at the end of the section.
External vs. internal functions: Two broad types of functions can be
distinguished: the overall functions of language in communication (so-
called external functions) and, language-internally, the varied set of com-
municative (so-called internal) functions served by different linguistic
phenomena in individual, or partly even all, languages. Examples of in-
ternal functions include referring to people and entities in the real world,
placing situations on a time line, expressing ongoing as opposed to com-
pleted events, coding known as opposed to new information, or directly
observed information as opposed to information for which no or only
indirect evidence exists.
typologies of ex- Organon model of language: Famous typologies of external functions
ternal functions; were suggested by Karl Bühler and Roman Jakobson. In his organon
Bühler (3) vs. model of language (Greek organon = instrument, tool), Bühler distin-
Jakobson (6) guishes between three functions, or tasks, in the overall communication
process: a referential (or: representational) function (that allows us to
talk about the world), an expressive function (that allows the addresser,
i. e. the speaker or writer, to express his or her beliefs, attitudes, and emo-
tional state), and an appellative function (that allows us to make an ap-
peal to the addressee, i. e. the hearer or reader, such as a request or com-
mand).
Jakobson’s communication model: To these three tasks served by lan-
guage, Roman Jakobson adds another three, one for each of the three new
dimensions he adds to the model of communication: message, code, and
contact. One function of language may lie in the way the message is for-
mulated (poetic function, which is not to be understood as applying ex-
clusively to use in literary texts), a second one in talking about language
(metalingual function, which is the typical function of everything in this
book or, for that matter, in any linguistics publication or discourse in a
linguistics class). A third function relates to establishing contact between
addresser and addressee, be it psychological contact (especially a social
relation of some kind) or physical contact (as when talking on the phone
in a tunnel or on a train, which regularly triggers questions such as “Can
you hear me?” or “Are you still there?”).
Layers of external functions: It is crucial to note that language typically
fulfils several of these tasks simultaneously, but that one of these external
functions tends to predominate, depending on the central communicative
goal in a given communicative situation or piece of discourse. For exam-
ple, a statement like “What lousy weather we’ve had for days now” surely
has a representational function, but in the context of a social get-together
like a cheese and wine party, the primary function of this utterance is a

12
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

WORLD
(referential)

MESSAGE
(poetic)
ADDRESSER ADDRESSEE
(expressive) CONTACT (appellative)
(phatic)
Figure 1.4:
CODE External functions
(metalingual) of language
(Jakobson 1960)

phatic one, i. e. it counts simply as an attempt at establishing social rela-

tions with another person by engaging in small talk (or: social noise).
Similarly, an utterance like “Quite a draft in here, I must say” serves a
representational as well as an expressive function, but its primary func-
tion may well be an appellative one, namely when intended as a request
to do something against the draft, such as closing the door or window
(for further details cf. chapter 7.3 on indirect speech acts).
Correspondingly, text types can be classified according to their pre- classification of
dominant function, e. g. advertisements, cooking recipes or manuals as text types
appellative texts, newspaper reports as representational texts, and private
letters to close friends as expressive texts. More generally, this discussion
of the external functions of language shows that, from a functional point
of view, the entire communication process is relevant for linguistic anal-
ysis.
Focus on language use: Functionalists acknowledge that language is language in com-
not something sterile, not something that takes place in a vacuum. Lan- munication
guage can thus not be investigated independently from the primary func-
tion it serves, namely communication, from the participants involved in
the act of communication, and from the general (e. g. social and cogni-
tive) conditions in which communication takes place. In other words, the
usage component (as opposed to an exclusively system-centred approach
to the study of language as advocated by formalists and structuralists) is
part and parcel of these models of the external functions of language and
of functionalism, in general.
Internal functions: Compared with the external functions of language, enhancing spon-
the range of internal functions is much wider and more varied. But, es- taneous language
sentially, they all boil down to functions which individual linguistic units production & pro-
(down to the sound level), constructions or domains in grammar play in cessing
(spoken or written) discourse and the overall communicative process.
The most important of these functions are those which enhance the ease
and efficiency of what is called online production and processing, i. e. in
oral communication the producing and processing of language while
speaking and listening, for example by guaranteeing that a given utter-
ance is organically embedded into a given piece of discourse.

13
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Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

‘Organic embedding’: What is meant by ‘organic embedding’ here is

that any sentence or utterance is typically part of a text or conversation.
As a consequence, the way we formulate a sentence or utterance, the
choice we make between structural options which English, for example,
offers us is at least partially determined by the information which has
been established earlier in the text/conversation and may also be deter-
mined by what we intend to write or say in its later parts. Relevant
choices include the use of pronouns as opposed to common or proper
nouns, the use of the indefinite article (a, an) as opposed to the definite
article (the), active vs. passive, or the choice between It was Alison who
bought the book and What Alison did was buy the book.
coherent Pronouns as cohesive devices: A crucial function of pronouns, for ex-
discourse, infor- ample, is to help create a coherent text (which is why, from a functional
mation flow point of view, they qualify as important cohesive devices): a pronoun
indicates that it refers to the same person or entity as some noun phrase
introduced in the prior discourse (cross-reference). Pronouns thus typi-
cally are an instruction to the reader or hearer to search for the referent
in the previous discourse; at the same time, pronouns signal that the
speaker/writer takes the information they provide for granted, that it
qualifies as old, known, or given information. The same applies to defi-
nite articles. Besides creating a coherent discourse, smooth integration
into the information flow of a given piece of discourse (in the sense of
given and new information) is a second central aspect of what was loosely
called ‘organic embedding’ above.
Contrasting the three research traditions: Examples (2) to (5) will
make clear what the difference in outlook is between a functionalist, a
formalist, and a structuralist when confronted with the following con-
structions in English grammar. The major contrast between the first two
examples is one of active (2) vs. passive voice (3). The constructions in
(4) and (5) are so-called cleft constructions. Those in (4) are called it-clefts
and those in (5) wh-clefts or pseudo-clefts (cf. also chapter 5.2.2):

(2) John smashed the bottle with a hammer.

(3) a. The bottle was smashed by John with a hammer.
b. The bottle was smashed.
(4) a. It was John who smashed the bottle with a hammer.
b. It was the bottle which John smashed with a hammer.
c. It was with a hammer that John smashed the bottle.
(5) a. What John did was smash the bottle with a hammer.
b. What John did with the hammer was smash the bottle.
c. What John smashed was the bottle (not the glass).

formulating rules Functionalism – appropriateness – communicative competence: Structur-

vs. motivating alists will largely content themselves with describing each of these con-
choices structions of English grammar. Formalists will concentrate on formulating
the rules for the syntactic operations generating the constructions in (3)
to (5) from an underlying structure which most likely closely resembles
the active sentence in (2). Functionalists or, in this case, functional gram-
marians will go one step further and ask in which contexts the individual

14
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

structural options would be used, thus trying to motivate their choice.

They include the use(r) perspective and are not simply interested in mak-
ing statements on the grammaticality or well-formedness of a given sen-
tence. They are primarily interested in the appropriateness of the individ-
ual constructions in (2) to (5) given the communicative situation (partic-
ipants, setting, topic, its predominant communicative purpose). Thus in
functionalist accounts communicative competence, a notion developed
by Dell Hymes (1966) in his ethnography of speaking as a counter-con-
cept to Chomsky’s definition of competence, clearly takes priority over
the grammatical competence formalists are solely interested in.
Information flow/packaging: Relevant in this respect is, for example, given vs. new
information packaging, i. e. the distribution of information in terms of
given and new information (or: information recoverable or non-recovera-
ble from the prior discourse). Example (2) can be a neutral description of
a situation (given a neutral intonation contour), but could also be used in
a context where John was the topic of the previous discourse. (3a) would
rather be preferred when the bottle was the topic, for example when an-
swering the question What happened to the bottle?. An additional advan-
tage the passive voice offers is that, as in (3b), we need not specify who
was responsible for the relevant situation (i. e. the doer or agent). Com-
pared with the neutral description in (2), the it-clefts in (4) all have in
common that the highlighted, new information is given in the first part (it
was ...), whereas the relative clause which follows contains the given
information (e. g. (4a) could be an answer to the question Who smashed
the bottle with a hammer?). In the pseudo-clefts in (5), on the other hand,
it is the old information which comes first (what John did/smashed) and
the new information which follows (e. g. (5a) could be an answer to the
question What did John do with the hammer?).
Motivation: In other words, it is a hallmark of functionalist thinking another function-
that, in a given context, the choice between competing, semantically alist key notion
equivalent constructions is not random. Rather, this choice can be func-
tionally motivated and this knowledge also forms part of the native
speaker’s communicative competence. Motivation is indeed a key notion
in functionalism since, ultimately, discourse functions cannot only be ar-
gued to determine the choice between alternative ways of coding a cer-
tain piece of information, but also the shape of language structure itself,
i. e. of individual constructions. The assumption that the link between the
form and meaning/function of grammatical constructions may be moti-
vated goes against the basic structuralist (and also formalist) assumption
of the arbitrariness of language (see section 1.2.1 above).
Iconicity: Functionalists do not shy away from operating with the no- 2 iconic principles
tion of iconicity (i. e. some sort of, typically highly abstract, resemblance
between form and meaning). They hypothesize, for example, iconic rela-
tionships between cognitive and structural complexity, or between cogni-
tive relevance and structural distance. In the former case, iconicity lies in
the fact that the more cognitively complex a given state-of-affairs is, the
more structurally complex and often explicit (in the sense of more or
more transparent coding material) the construction will be that is used to
code it (the so-called complexity principle). Iconicity in the second case

15
 1
Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

looks as follows: the more tightly two states-of-affairs are cognitively or

semantically related to each other, the more tightly will the constructions
coding these two states-of-affairs be interwoven (the so-called iconic dis-
tance principle). Let us look at these two principles in turn.
Complexity principle: The former type of iconic relationship, i. e. the
complexity principle, can be illustrated with the help of adverbial (or:
interclausal semantic) relations like simultaneity (‘when’, ‘while’), ante-
riority (‘after’, ‘since’), cause (‘because’), condition (‘if’), or concession
(‘although’) and how they are explicitly signalled by adverbial subordina-
tors (e. g. when, after, if, because, although) in English and many other
languages. Adverbial relations can clearly be shown to differ according to
the degree of world knowledge or context-substantiated evidence that is
necessary before a given relation can plausibly be said to hold between
two states of affairs (or: propositions). Establishing a causal link between
two propositions, for example, requires more such knowledge or evidence
than establishing an anterior link (‘after’, ‘since’). A similar situation
holds for concessive links (‘although’) compared with temporal links of
simultaneity (‘when’, ‘while’). Cause and, especially, concession thus
have a considerably higher degree of cognitive complexity than temporal
relations like anteriority or simultaneity.
cross-linguistic It is thus interesting to see that there is a pronounced tendency across
evidence many different and unrelated languages for adverbial subordinators (and
other types of connectives) marking concession to be morphologically
considerably more complex (consisting of two or more morphemes or
even words) and transparent than, say, temporal markers, which typically
consist of a single morpheme. Transparency means that the morphologi-
cal structure of these concessive markers can easily be identified and in
many cases still reflects their origin (e. g. English all-though, never-the-
less, German ob-wohl ‘whether/if-even’, ob-gleich ‘whether/if-even’,
Dutch of-schoon ‘whether/if-already’, Italian sebbene < se-bene ‘if-well’,
or Spanish aun cuando ‘even when’).
Another, clearly related cross-linguistic tendency is that, of all major
adverbial relations, concession is that relation which needs to be explic-
itly coded by some lexical marker, be it, in the case of English, by an ad-
verbial subordinator like although or by a concessive marker in the main
clause like nevertheless. Given its cognitive complexity, concession is
hardest to infer and thus requires explicit lexical support.
Iconic distance principle: The examples in (6) illustrate the iconic dis-
tance principle, i. e. the iconic relationship between cognitive relevance
and structural distance. In these examples, the cause-effect relation is
most immediately or tightly coded in (6a), due to the use of the verb sit
in a special, namely causative, meaning; the speaker (I) can almost be
pictured as he or she physically puts a person in an armchair. In (6b) this
relationship is less tightly, and in (6c) least tightly coded. Whereas the
direct (in 6a even physical) responsibility for the caused action clearly lies
with the speaker in both (6a) and (6b), this responsibility is less direct or
loosened in (6c).

16
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

(6) a. I sat him in the armchair near the window.

b. I made him sit in the armchair near the window.
c. I caused him to sit in the armchair near the window.

Differences between functionalism and formalism: Two other major dif- autonomy in
ferences between functionalism and formalism concern the notion of au- formalism:
tonomy and how to approach the study of (first, child) language acquisi- three facets
tion. Within formalism, autonomy is broken down into three facets. There
is, first of all, the autonomy of competence, as opposed to performance,
which was mentioned already and which is rejected by functionalists.
The other two types of autonomy concern the nature of linguistic knowl-
edge as opposed to other domains of human cognition: the autonomy of
syntax and the autonomy of grammar (or rather: language).
On a narrower scale, focussing just on the nature of syntactic knowl- autonomy of
edge, formalists postulate the autonomy of syntax as opposed to the syntax
meaning of language and language use in discourse. More exactly, the set
of elements constituting the syntax component of human language (and
thus UG) is held to be neither derived from nor to interact with the mean-
ing component of language or with the use of language in communica-
tion. This claim does, of course, run counter to the functionalist position
that function shapes form, i. e. that communicative needs may very well
shape the language system.
On a more general scale, the third type of autonomy formalists postu- autonomy
late is the autonomy of grammar or, essentially, of language as an auton- of grammar/
omous cognitive system. This part of the human cognition is thus taken language
to be independent from other cognitive systems of humans, such as the
cognitive system of orientation in space or general principles of process-
ing information (not just linguistic
information, but also visual or au- 3 types of autonomy
ditory information, like the distinc-
tion and perception of foreground knowledge nature of
and background, i. e. so-called fig- of language linguistic knowledge
ure-ground constellations). Again,
just as functionalists believe in the
interaction between syntax and competence syntax grammar/language
other structural levels of language,
they also assume interaction between language and the other systems of Figure 1.5:
human cognition, a point which is particularly forcefully made within Types of autonomy
cognitive linguistics (see, for example, chapter 6.4).
First language acquisition: nature vs. nurture: Formalists and function- genetic vs. social
alists also entertain different views on how children acquire a language. conditioning
As a consequence, they pursue different aims and research agendas when
studying first language acquisition. At the centre of what is known as the
‘nature vs. nurture debate’ stands the question of how much weight
should be attributed to genetic conditioning (i. e. preprogramming), on
the one hand, and social conditioning (via communicative interaction
with the child’s social environment), on the other hand. More precisely,
what is at the core of this debate is the following question: is it justified
to make innate genetic structures (i. e., in formalist terms, the language

17
 1
Linguistics: Major concepts and research traditions

acquisition device or Universal Grammar) alone (!) responsible for the

child’s ability to acquire a(ny) first language with ease? This is the nature,
or nativist, position. Or isn’t it more realistic to assume, as functionalists
do, that the child’s ability to successfully acquire a language is to a large
extent a result of the communicative interaction between the child and
his/her family and wider social environment? This is the nurture posi-
tion. Humans are, after all, social beings and the normal situation for
children is to grow up in a social environment, with the family (including
single parent and patchwork families) at its core.
nativist Social conditioning inevitably involves the child’s exposure to perfor-
(= formalist) mance data. Given the formalist assumption of the autonomy of compe-
position tence, i. e. the ideal speaker’s (unconscious) mental knowledge of his/her
native language, social conditioning thus cannot explain how the child
becomes a native speaker that knows how to produce and process all and
only the grammatically well-formed sentences of its first language so effi-
ciently and quickly. This is even more of a puzzle because it is assumed
within the formalist paradigm that much of the linguistic input which
children receive from their social environment is ‘impoverished’, i. e. often
fragmented or even ungrammatical (the poverty of stimulus argument).
nurture Unlike formalists, functionalists are primarily interested in the process
(= functionalist) of language acquisition and the way in which children’s communicative
position interaction with the people around them, the linguistic input they receive,
contributes to them acquiring a language. Recall that within the function-
alist paradigm, language (use) primarily involves communicative compe-
tence, i. e. the ability of human beings to communicate with each other
effectively and appropriately in changing situations and conditions, and
not linguistic competence in the Chomskyan sense as a concept referring
to tacit mental knowledge of a language.
Relevant cognitive abilities: domain-general, not language-specific:
From this perspective, the nature and structure of the genetically prepro-
grammed blueprint for acquiring language is only of minor interest. This
does not mean that such a genetic preprogramming is denied by function-
alists (after all, language makes human beings unique among all species).
In fact, functionalists have formulated a range of hypotheses on which
basic cognitive, domain-general abilities (such as attention, pattern find-
ing, generalization), which also feed into non-linguistic cognitive abilities
such as object perception or motor processing, are responsible for, or
significantly contribute to, the “language-making capacity” (Dabrowska
2015) characteristic of the human species (see also chapter 9.2). How-
ever, most functionalists differ from formalists in NOT considering the
relevant candidates for language-making abilities as language-specific,
i. e. as solely feeding into, let alone constituting, some human language
faculty. At the very least they consider this an empirically open question.
Moreover, functionalists will only take genetic factors into account when
convincing ‘nurture’-based facts, arguments or hypotheses can no longer
be found or developed for explaining the language acquisition process.
The main thrust of functionalist research in first language acquisition
thus is on social conditioning (nurture), whereas the main thrust of the
relevant formalist research is on genetic conditioning (nature).

18
 1.3
Three major research traditions in 20th century linguistics

Summary of major contrasts: The major contrasts between formalism and

functionalism are summarized in table 1.1:

issues formalism functionalism

autonomy (a) of grammar as a no separation of linguistic knowledge
cognitive system from general cognition; instead lin-
guistic knowledge considered part of
cognition
(b) of syntax syntax cannot be parcelled out from
semantics and pragmatics
(c) of competence language is an instrument of interac-
tion (communicative competence);
language is a tool designed for a cer-
tain key purpose (communication),
and this purpose continuously shapes
the tool
language ‘nature’: genetically ‘nurture’: outcome of communicative
acquisition preprogrammed (in- interaction child – environment (but:
nate language faculty; genetic factors are not excluded)
LAD)
universals properties of Univer- functional typology: focus on search
sal Grammar (formal for universal tendencies rather than
vs. substantive univer- absolute universals and for correla-
sals) tions between properties of languages
explanations of in terms of innateness in terms of the usage-based factors
universals (UG) determining their nature (e. g. online
processing and production, commu-
nicative needs, external functions of
language)
relationship arbitrary motivated (e. g. iconicity, metaphor,
between form metonymy)
and meaning/
function
synchrony – sharp fuzzy or ‘soft’ (panchronic approach)
diachrony division
method deductive inductive Table 1.1:
The major
introspection strongly empirical (authentic data)
contrasts between
reductionist, highly non-reductionist analyses formalism and
formal analyses functionalism

Functionalist schools of linguistics: There is only a handful of truly func- Prague School,
tionalist schools of linguistics that explicitly call themselves functional. Amsterdam
The first of these was founded in the late 1920s and is still highly re- School, System-
spected for its work, which continued until the 1960s and 1970s: this is ic-Functional
the Prague School (of Functionalism; famous members include Vilem Grammar, Func-
Mathesius, Nikolaj Trubetzkoy, Roman Jakobson, Frantisek Danes). All tional Typology
the other relevant schools were founded in the late 1960s or 1970s: the
Amsterdam School of Functional Grammar (founded by Simon Dik),
(Systemic-)Functional Grammar (founded by Michael A. K. Halliday;

19
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
either was too stupid to understand these hints or in his loyalty saw fit to
ignore them.
But when he returned to the flat he did say to Ellen, “I see your friend
Mrs. Callendar’s son is being married. I suppose you’ll be invited to the
wedding.”
Ellen glanced at him sharply and then returned to her work. “No,” she
said calmly. “I don’t think I’ll be invited. Why should I be?”
“I didn’t know,” he replied awkwardly. “I thought they were friends of
yours.”
“No. I worked for them.... A thing like that means nothing.”
After that he was silent and for a time wore an air of disappointment.
She knew, beyond all doubt, that it would have pleased him to know that his
wife had been invited to a fashionable wedding. The old ambitions, less
vigorous now, stirred more and more rarely. To-night, for a moment they
had been kindled, but it was the last time they ever raised their dangerous
heads. Clarence read his newspaper and did not speak again of the event.
On the afternoon of the wedding the temptation was not to be overcome.
For a long time she fought it and at last, putting on a large hat and a veil she
descended from the Babylon Arms and made her way by tram car to the
neighborhood of St. Bart’s. Before the church there was a great crowd (a
fact for which she was doubtless thankful) which pressed close against the
awnings and peered at the carriages that were beginning already to arrive.
There was, she felt, something at once comic and pitiful in the spectacle of
men and women crowding and pushing into the gutters for a glimpse of the
fashionable people who descended and swept across the red carpet into the
church. Among the arrivals there were dowagers who strained through the
doors of tiny cabriolets, cow-eyed young girls, elderly bachelors dressed
with the stiffness of starch, whole armies of relatives and friends, moving
forward with a concentrated air of indifference to the stares, jostled fairly
by men with cameras who climbed about on the steps and even as high as
the façade of the church in order to capture brief glimpses of such people as
the Apostle to the Genteel, Mrs. Champion and her Virgins, the
questionable Mrs. Sigourney (who was always news), and the dewlapped
Mrs. Mallinson.
With the arrival of the bridegroom’s mother the jam became terrifying.
Women fought with one another to catch a glimpse of a fat little woman
clad in purple satin with a bird’s nest on which a few violets had been
carelessly planted, perched high on her head. Ellen, taller than most of the
crowd, was able to see without being seen. She caught a swift glimpse of
Thérèse as she emerged from the door of the cabriolet, only to see her
swallowed up at once in the press of the onlookers. She appeared calm and
had the air of a woman well satisfied. After all, she had succeeded in
uniting two great fortunes. The bride was all that she should have been. The
future was assured.
Of Richard Callendar himself, Ellen caught only a swift glimpse—a
flash, no more, of a dark handsome face paler than she had ever seen it. A
moment later the bride arrived, but of Sabine nothing was visible; her face
was covered by a long veil of lace. The mob of democratic citizens rocked
and quarreled and pushed; dowdy women from the suburbs elbowed their
way through stenographers and errand girls; clerks and fat old men trod on
the toes of angry females; and Sabine was swallowed up.
Ellen leaned against the stone of the church as if she had become
suddenly faint. Here the sounds of the music came to her, distant and
triumphant, now swelling, now diminishing, until at length it died away
altogether to make silence for the ceremony.

It was not until the bridal party, still jostled by the crowd, came out of
the church and descended the steps that she saw them fully. Standing now
on a jutting piece of stone she saw Callendar and Sabine move toward the
waiting carriage. They smiled as if that were what the world expected of
them and once Ellen fancied that the bridegroom looked toward her. Of this
she was not certain and she was sure that he could not have recognized her
through the veil, but she slipped from her eminence and dropped to the
sidewalk where she vanished in the pressing mob. Nevertheless she was
suddenly happy and strong, for in the one swift glimpse of the two faces she
had divined her victory. The face of Callendar, for all its fixed smile, was
pale and a little drawn, and in the eyes of the bride there was a bright fixed
look of unhappiness. Sabine, so intelligent, so grotesquely clever, must have
known what Ellen knew—that although she had married Callendar she was
not the one who possessed him. In the end she might perhaps lose her game
of patience because, after all, it was not a simple game; there were in it
elements beyond the control even of so shrewd a pair as herself and Thérèse
Callendar.

All the way back to the Babylon Arms, Ellen hurried with an hysterical
air of triumph. It may have been that she knew a profound feminine
satisfaction in the sense of vanity gratified. She hurried too because
Clarence would be waiting for her, tired and pathetic and hungry. It would
please him to find her so happy, so excited. In this strange confusion of
moods she passed between the lions of the Babylon Arms and made her
way up to the tiny flat. She was neither happy nor unhappy; it was emotion
beyond either thing, entangled somehow with the old sense of triumph.
The dark hallway with the red walls was the same; the red carpeted
stairway, its splendor gone now and the cordage showing through, was
unchanged, as it had always been. It was only when she ascended the very
last step that she discovered anything unusual. The door of the apartment
stood open a little way so that she was able to look through the room into
the distant stretches that lay beyond the river. For an instant she halted,
looking about her. The key was in the lock. On the smoking table there lay
the remnants of the cigar which Clarence always smoked on his way home
from the office. His coat and waistcoat, which he was accustomed to hang
neatly in the closet, lay on the divan. They had been thrown down
carelessly. The red sunset above the river illuminated the shabby room in a
fiery glow.
Standing quite still in the center of the floor she waited, listening for
some familiar sound; and presently when there was no interruption of the
stillness, she called “Clarence! Clarence!” in a voice that sounded queer and
strange to her. The excitement had gone from her now, drained away by a
curious sense of foreboding. In that narrow life where every day each small
act followed exactly the same plan, the sight of a coat flung down carelessly
terrified her.
She called again presently and, receiving no answer, she opened the door
of their bedroom. It was empty. The room in which Fergus slept was
likewise undisturbed. In the kitchen there was no one. Then slowly she
made her way to the door of the bath-room. It stood open a little way as if
inviting her, maliciously; yet it was not open wide enough for her to see
what lay beyond. Gently she pushed it back until it struck some object that
blocked its motion. Again she pushed, this time more firmly, and the
obstacle gave way, moving a little to one side so that a foot became visible.
It was then in a single, unreal moment, that she divined what had happened.
She pushed harder and the door flew back. Behind it on the rug where he
had done his exercises so patiently lay Clarence, face down, motionless. He
had fallen forward and from beneath him there flowed a thin, dark stream. It
had touched the white of his shirt and discolored it.
There was no doubt that he was dead. There was no doubt as to how he
had died. The pistol, which had always been in the drawer of the bedroom
table, lay beside him on the white floor. In the gathering darkness she knelt
down at his side and began to weep, wildly, hysterically, like a savage. The
darkness and the silence engulfed her.
It was thus that Fergus found her when he came in at last.

A doctor came and after him a policeman, but there was nothing to be
done. The man was dead, and, as they observed to Fergus, you could see
how he came to die. There would have to be the nasty business of an
inquest. The news filtered through the apartment and the elevator man and
the defunct actress with the white poodle in her arms came and stood at the
doorway, whispering together and offering sympathy. It was Fergus who,
with all the efficiency of Hattie Tolliver herself, “took hold” and managed
things.
As for Ellen, she shut herself away, with a knowledge that roused in her
a new agony infinitely more profound and terrible than the first brief
outburst. In the darkness of her room she lay, alone now, on one of the apple
green beds, silent and quite beyond so paltry a manifestation as tears. In one
hand she held a note, crumpled and damp, which had been read again and
again.
It was brief although the dead man, in his agitation, had written some
things over and over again. It was simple, humble, inarticulate, more real,
more vivid than he had ever been in all his mild existence. It was as if all
the mysterious substance that was his soul had been poured out in that last
moment upon the crumpled bit of paper. He had written it in a great speed;
it seemed that, under the stress of fate, he had suddenly gone mad, flamed
for an instant into a pitiful kind of heroism and then gone out forever. He
had been almost poetic.
 “Forgive me, beloved, for what I am doing. It was all that remained. It is
better ... everything is better now, and you will be free again as you once
were.
“I must tell you what you will soon learn. No one can keep it from you. I
am a thief. I have stolen money and now there is no way to escape. If I ran
away, it would be the same as what I am doing.... It would be the end. I
would never dare ask to see you again. I would never tell you where I had
gone. What I am doing is the only way out.”
(Here he had, in his agitation, written the same sentence twice as if he
begged her not to hate him because he had been the cause of so much
trouble. He had almost said, “Forgive me for being a bother to you.”)
Then it continued, “It was wrong from the beginning. I should never
have asked you to run away with me, because I was not good enough. I
tried to be and failed. I was a poor thing. So now, after I am gone again,
there will be nothing to hold you ... not even from the man you really loved
... if it is not too late. You see, I know the truth! I know the truth! I
discovered it in time. Forgive me, dearest. I love you always.”

Slowly during the long hours of the interminable night, the whole
tragedy assumed a clarity of form. While she lay on the green bed, in a
silence penetrated only by the faint nocturnal sounds that rose from the
distant street, the little pieces fitted together ... bits of the past and the
present, sudden stabbing memories and poignant flashes of intuition, odd
scraps of old emotions vanished now forever ... the little pieces fitted
together until, like a picture puzzle, they assumed a swift and startling
completeness. She saw the answer in a quick bright flash; it was that she
had destroyed him; she it was who had driven him into the abyss. The
bitterness lay in the fact that all the while she had tried to save him, to make
him happy.
If he had stolen money it could have been for one purpose alone—to
give her more than he had been able to give her, to make her believe that he
was far greater than he could ever have been. She understood that he had
fought for her sake to create an illusion of grandeur, to raise before her eyes
the figure of a man, successful and clever, who was not Clarence at all but a
creature who existed only in the troubled flights of his ambition. And it was
this very figure which, toppling from its pedestal, had destroyed him. She
had known all along that there was no such creature. She could have told
him....
His humbleness pained her. Even in the end he had chosen to destroy
himself in a corner where it would make the least trouble.
There was, too, the vague confused affair of Callendar. The note said so
little; it left the fear so incomplete. There will be nothing to hold you, not
even from the man whom you really loved. He must have known that he had
not freed her, even by his death, for he knew that in almost the same hour
Callendar had himself ceased to be free. All that was gone now, lost forever,
and a little time before it had been so near, quite within her grasp. In trying
to have everything she had lost all save her soul and the fire which burned
there.... If it is not too late....
But the thing which hurt her most was the memory of two words which
he had used. They were, strangely enough, words of endearment, of
affection, even perhaps of something so strong as passion. He had dared in
his note to say “dearest” and “beloved.” He was gone now; he would not
have to face her, knowing that because his love had fallen upon barren
ground he was ridiculous. In life these were two words which he had never
dared to use. They burned now like scars that would never heal.
She could not talk to him now; she could no longer still his uneasiness
with empty words and a kiss which cost her nothing. He lay near her, just
beyond her door, upon the shabby divan, but she could not reach him. To
the dead there was nothing she could say, nothing which she could explain.
In death he had come to possess her, for it was she who was humbled now.

She did not hide herself away. When morning came she appeared, calm
and cold, to aid a strangely subdued Fergus in all the bitter tasks of caring
for the dead. She arranged the telegrams and even chose the wording for the
one that went to his sister in Ogdensburg. In all of them she said merely that
Clarence had died suddenly. The truth she withheld. (There was always his
weak heart to lend credence to such a tale.) In the newspapers there
appeared only a brief line or two recording the fact of one more suicide in a
great city and this, of course, was never read in the Town or by the people
who had known Clarence as a boy. So in the end, his mother was the only
one who knew the truth and even of the truth there was a portion which she
never learned; it was that her son was a thief.
 Out of all the tragic confusion only one thing remained to puzzle her; it
was how Clarence had come to know of Richard Callendar. The answer,
never entirely clear, came to her from a source she had never considered,
from a man whom she treated, when she bothered to think of him at all, as
beneath her contempt.
In the midst of that first gray morning the door opened and Mr. Wyck
came in, shabby and downcast, to pay his condolences. He returned to the
flat where he had known the only happiness which had ever come his way,
but he returned, clearly, under circumstances he had never foreseen in the
most gloomy and portentous of his bitter imaginings. At the sight of Ellen,
cold and capable, in the midst of her grief (for she did grieve in a fashion
she would not have done for a man whom she had loved), his green eyes
turned toward the tips of his boots and he murmured, “Ah, this is terrible ...
terrible,” in the professional manner of an undertaker.
In his heart, he may have thought, “It was you who ruined him, you, who
came here into this very flat, a nobody, to use him for what he was worth ...
to turn me out into the streets.” But he kept silent, perhaps because she had
always terrified him, filling him with a sense of one standing upon the rim
of a volcano. He was afraid of scenes, Mr. Wyck, and so his hate found its
way into the open through devious, hidden channels. He had not the
courage, it seemed, even to look at her now.
They stood for a time in silence by the divan, symbols of that queer,
distorted figure of which the dead Clarence formed the third angle—a
figure all awry, perverted out of all drawing—Clarence, so white and still,
gone now beyond the reach of either of them.
Mr. Wyck muttered oily and incoherent consolations.... “It is a bitter
blow.... One must be brave.... He was a good man....” All the old banalities
which somehow took on a bitter, ironical ring. And presently he snuffled
and wiped his eyes, as much in pity for himself who had lost the one thing
for which he had gambled, as for the man who lay quiet and still upon the
divan.
Ellen, watching him, was filled with a slow, burning anger. She wanted
suddenly to crush him as she had once wanted to crush poor May Seton,
because he was sentimental, and silly and without strength. And suddenly it
occurred to her to say abruptly, “It was not a case of suicide. It was not
Clarence who killed himself.... It was others who killed him.”
 She had spoken in a sudden moment of humility, acknowledging her
own guilt, and the speech, so abrupt, so unexpected, produced upon Mr.
Wyck the strangest effect. He looked at her sharply, for the first time, and
then averted his eyes; but in the brief glance she discovered the answer to
the mystery. It was Mr. Wyck who had betrayed her secret. It was Mr. Wyck
who had told the story of Callendar, distended no doubt, and perverted by
his malice. She knew it by the look of terror in the shifty eyes. He had used
this secret as his last stake.... And he had lost, forever, beyond all hope.
Almost at once he turned away from the morbid fascination of the divan,
bade her good-by and hurried out of the door; and Ellen, watching his
narrow back with the weak, sloping shoulders, knew that she would never
see him again. She was sure now that it was this poor, furtive creature, with
his strange, perverted love, who had given the dead man his final push over
the abyss into eternity. For even the theft would not have driven Clarence
from her; it could have been only the knowledge that she was lost to him
forever.
So it was a man whom she had scorned, a creature whom she ignored
and who hated her, who in his poor fumbling way had set her free.
 36

S HE went to his own town for the funeral and there met for the first time
his mother, a grim, tragic sort of woman with sharp, searching eyes and
straight black hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her neck. It was
this woman with whom she shared the secret; none of the others knew, not
even his sister (the one he had said played the piano), a mild, weary woman
rather like Clarence, who was the mother of five children and went about
throughout the visit weak and red-eyed with weeping. The neighbors
flocked into the house, mostly middle-aged women and spinsters, black and
crow-like, moving about in melancholy clusters with the air of vultures.
They came and went, speaking always in whispers, saying the same things,
wearing the same mournful countenances, talking always of their own
losses and calamities, speculating always upon the deaths of certain well-
established invalids in the community. Always they reached in time the
same refrain. It was this—“If he’d been an old man it would have been
different, but he was so young and so clever. He was such a brilliant fellow
and doing so well in the city. He’d have been a big man some day. We were
all proud of him here in Ogdensburg.”
And Ellen, handsome and pale in her mourning, sat by quietly, listening
while they surveyed her with a distant air of disapproval. She kept silent.
Perhaps to these crow-like women, Clarence had been a brilliant and
powerful figure.

In the Babylon Arms there was little to be done. Ellen paid a visit for the
first time to the offices of the Superba Electrical Company and there learned
that Clarence had stolen money which he collected and failed to deliver.
The amount was something over fifteen hundred dollars. When she heard it
she murmured, “It was so little too! Why, I could have paid it if he had told
me. To have killed himself for so little!”
But she knew, of course, that if he had confessed he would have
destroyed that splendid creature which he fancied he had created in her
eyes. He had preferred himself to be destroyed. In death it would not matter
that she discovered the fraud: he would not have to face her.
 She paid the money, out of her savings and out of the amount brought by
the sale of the furniture. She sold even the piano he had bought her as a
wedding gift. And when she had finished there remained but little more than
a hundred dollars.
On the very day the furniture was being taken from the flat she told
Fergus the whole truth concerning her plans. They sat together amid the
wreckage, brother and sister, both understanding for perhaps the first time
that they were faced by the new problem of Hattie Tolliver. Both knew that
she had set her mind upon coming to them, and having tasted freedom,
neither was willing now to turn back.
“There is Ma,” said Ellen. “I don’t know what’s to be done about her.
She’ll be coming here to live before long and I won’t be here. She’s worked
all these years to come where she can be near us and now I’ve got to go
away. I’m going to Paris.... It’s the only thing left.”
Fergus looked at her. “But you don’t know French,” he said, “and you
haven’t any money.”
“I can’t turn back now. If I went back to Ma, it would be the end of me. I
know that. I couldn’t.... I couldn’t ever begin again. I’ve enough money to
take me there.... I’ll manage after that.... Besides, there is Lily.... She
promised to help me when the time came.... The time has come.... I can’t
turn back.”
Fergus listened in silence, moved perhaps by the new dignity that had
come to her, a dignity touched with bitterness. She was beautiful too in a
new fashion, more placid, more serene.
“You must be good to Ma,” she continued. “She’ll hate my running
away, but I’ve got to go. She’s a wonderful woman. She’s the one who has
sacrificed everything. She’s always done it ... for all of us. I couldn’t go if I
didn’t know that you’re the one she loves best of all. You’re the one she
worships. She loved you enough to let you go. I had to run away. You know
it, Fergus, as well as I. You must be good to her. If anything happened to
you, it would kill her. You mustn’t disappoint her. One day we must all
make her proud of us. I mean to do it, and then when I’m rich, when I’m
successful, I can reward her.” She paused for a moment and then added.
“You see, she loves you best because you’re so like Pa. You’re the way he
used to be when she fell in love with him.”
 The boy’s face took on an unaccustomed gravity. He rose and looked out
of the window over the beloved and magical city. “I’ll do my best,” he said
presently. “I’ll do my best.... She’s a wonderful woman.” (Yet neither of
them would turn back now.)
In the room there was no sound for a long time save the ticking of the
clock, wrapped now in paper to be carted away. At last he turned and said,
“But you’re going to Lily.... Ma will hate that.”
“I know she will.... She’s always been afraid of Lily. She needn’t worry
though. I can take care of myself. I imagine nothing very serious can ever
happen to me again.”
It was Lily again, always Lily who was concerned in the whole course of
Ellen’s destiny. Yet Ellen never knew how great a part she had played for
she never knew, of course, that if chance had not thrown her glamorous
cousin into the path of Clarence on a wintry night years before, he might
have been alive and happy now, the husband of a stupid woman who would
have thought him as wonderful as the figure he had given his life to create.
He had looked for an instant at the sun and been blinded.
So perhaps, in the end, Skinflint Seton had been right. Women like that
can ruin men ... just by talking to them.
 37

T HE world of Lily had its center in a house which stood in that part of
Paris beyond the Trocadero in the direction of Auteuil and the Bois.
Here she had lived for years, since the moment when she had found it
agreeably necessary to live abroad. For her purposes the house possessed
every advantage; it resembled, after a curious fashion, those convents of the
eighteenth century to which ladies of fashion retired at the moments when
they desired solitude and rest and yet wished not to be cut off entirely from
the gaiety of the world. As the Baron had once observed, Lily herself
belonged to the eighteenth century; there was about her always so much of
luxury and indolence, so much of charm and unmorality.
The house stood in the Rue Raynouard a short distance from the place
where it rushes down a slope to join a half dozen other streets in a whirlpool
known as the Place Passy surrounded by magasins, cafés, and tobacconists’
shops. It was, in all truth, an eighteenth century house, built in the
beginning as a château in the open country on the outskirts of Paris between
the city and the Grand Trianon of Versailles. Here in the open fields the
Marquise de Sevillac, an ugly, clever and eccentric woman, held a court of
her own, a court indeed which in some respects outshone the splendor of
Versailles. In her house were to be found the poets, the wits and the
philosophers of the day. She corresponded with Voltaire, and the
Encyclopedists came frequently to work in the rooms which overlooked the
little park and the sheep pastures beyond. Indeed the Sage of Ferney on his
triumphant return to Paris had planned a visit to the Marquise and was only
prevented by the fatal illness which overtook so swiftly his skinny old body.
The Marquise had been the last of her family. There is a Marquis de
Sevillac living to-day but the title is Bonapartist and has nothing to do with
the ancient splendor of the true family. As an old woman, the Marquise
clung to her house even with the approach of the revolution. During that
cataclysm, which she faced in a bold and cynical fashion, she was allowed
to survive because the people remembered her as the friend of the radicals
and the philosophers who plagued their stupid King. She allied herself with
the Girondists and took Madame Roland perilously to her bosom, and when
the débâcle came at length her bony old body would have been dragged off
to the guillotine along with the others save that she was so old and that
Danton and Terezia Tallien intervened. So she died at last in her bed and the
château became the property of the Directory.
Since her death it has known many occupants. For a time it served as a
museum; it housed the American ambassador Benjamin Franklin, who gave
his name to a street nearby; it passed through a period of neglect and
emptiness and at last fell into the possession of a wealthy manufacturer of
soap and chocolate. It was during his day and the day of his son that the
château came to be pressed upon by other houses and by apartments in the
florid German style, until there was left at length only the house itself and
the little park designed by Le Nôtre which still remained the largest private
garden in all the city of Paris.
The house turns to the world a deceptive face, for on the side facing the
Rue Raynouard it is but one story high with a commonplace door and a
single row of shuttered windows. It is this side which in the days of the
Marquise faced the stables and dovecote; so the house now turns its back
upon the world and preserves for its friends the glory of its three story
façade of Caen stone. The façade, broken by rows of tall windows, looks
upon a high terrace lined with crumbling urns carved in the classic Greek
manner and a garden with a reticulation of paths laid out by Le Nôtre to
center upon the pastry-cake pavilion erected to the God of Love. Inside the
high wall which shuts out the noise and dust of the Rue de Passy there are
great plane trees with trunks mottled like the backs of salamanders, and
laburnums that cluster close about the Temple of Eros.
One could live forever within the boundaries of the ancient house and
garden, surrounded by luxury and beauty, receiving one’s friends, seldom
going into the world. It was an admirable house in which to live discreetly,
almost secretly, and it was an admirable house for one of so indolent a
nature as Lily’s. For Lily had succeeded the chocolate manufacturer, and the
château of the Marquise de Sevillac with its ghosts of Voltaire and the
Encyclopedists, the wanton Terezia Tallien and the clever Madame Roland,
was tenanted now by a rich American out of a country which in the days of
the Marquise had been no more than a howling wilderness—a woman the
world knew as a widow, beautiful, charming, discreet and indolent, living
under the guardianship of the most respectable and stuffy of Bonapartists,
the ancient Madame Gigon.
 On a dripping morning of December, of the sort which makes Paris a
wretched city in midwinter, a carriage drew up before the door of this house
and out of it stepped Ellen Tolliver, pale from traveling but unusually
handsome in the black of her widowhood. There was with her a small thin
young woman, trimly dressed rather in the practical style of a professional
traveler, with red hair and pretty bright eyes which had a way of observing
the slightest things which occurred in her vicinity. The stranger (after
haggling with the driver over the fare) paid him and then, changing her
mind, bade him wait for her. She pulled the bell with a swift, energetic jerk.
“It is a modest house,” she observed to Ellen in short, ironic syllables
colored by an accent that was indefinable. “A modest house for a rich
American. Usually they are more flamboyant.”
Impatiently she pulled the bell a second time and presently the
commonplace door was opened by a Breton maid in a white cap who bade
them enter. Inside, away from the dripping cobblestones of the Rue
Raynouard, it was clear that the stranger succumbed to the magic of the
house. For an instant, she remained silent, staring in astonishment at the
long sweep of stairs and the array of glittering crystal. Then she made a
grunting noise and addressed the maid in French.
“Madame Shane.... Is she in?”
“No,” replied the girl. “She is at Nice.... She has been gone since two
weeks.”
The stranger translated the speech and for a moment there was a silence
in which the face of Ellen, pale and handsome in her mourning, was
shadowed by a sudden look of terror. It vanished quickly and she said to her
companion, “Ask for Madame Gigon.”
Madame Gigon was in. She never went out any more. At the moment she
was in the drawing room. Should she ask if Madame Gigon would see
them?
“This,” observed the bright ferret, to the maid, “is Madame Shane’s
cousin. She has come to pay her a visit.”
The stairway before them led downwards in the most unexpected
fashion. Between panels of satinwood adorned with plaques of gilt and rock
crystal and filled with candles, it swept down for the depth of two stories,
past a gallery which led away on both sides, into a dim vista of polished
floor at the end of which there was a high window with small panes of glass
that gave out upon a garden. At the sight, a faint touch of color appeared on
the cheeks of Ellen and her eyes grew bright with interest. It was all far
grander than she had ever imagined, more magnificent than she had hoped.
In such a house she might stay quietly, interfering with no one. It was
possible to remain hidden in its depths for weeks at a time.
“Shall I stay?” asked her companion.
“I can manage.... It’s my affair. There’s no use troubling you any further.
It was good of you to have bothered.”
“But what about speaking French?”
“Madame Gigon speaks English. She once had a school for English and
American girls.... My great-aunt went to it.”
Up the long stairs, remotely, the maid was returning now.
“Bien,” she said. “Madame Gigon will see you.”
“Au revoir,” murmured the stranger. “If you want me, I shall be at the
Ritz until the end of the month.... Miss Rebecca Schönberg.... You have my
card....”
And with that she vanished through the rain into the waiting cab.

At the foot of the long stairs Ellen found herself suddenly in the great
drawing-room. Beyond, through the tall window draped in blue brocade,
she had a vista of dripping trees and a wet garden dominated by a white
pavilion that resembled a pastry. The room was long and rectangular, for all
the world like the drawing room at Shane’s Castle, save that it was not,
even on this wet winter day, a gloomy room. There was in it far too much
color. Even the satinwood paneling appeared warm and soft. At the far end
before a neat fire of cannel coal she discerned among the shadows the
figures of a tiny old woman and a small boy, sturdy, handsome and red
haired. He sat at the feet of the crone, reading aloud to her in English and
nearby lay two fat and elderly dogs, an Aberdeen and a West Highland. It
was not until she had come quite close to them that they realized she had
entered the room. The boy stood up and the old woman turned toward her
with a curious dazed look in her eyes.
It was the old woman who spoke first. She peered, apparently without
seeing her, in the general direction of Ellen and asked, “Are you Mees
Tolliver?”
The boy regarded her, frankly, with a pleasant friendliness.
“Yes,” replied Ellen, “I am Madame Shane’s cousin.”
In an instant, as she watched the child and faced the sharp old woman,
she grasped the identity of the boy. It came to her quickly, as a revelation
out of all the mystery of the past. Of course she knew all about Madame
Gigon; it was the boy for whom she was not prepared. About him there
could no longer be any doubt. He was Lily’s child and the old story was
true. It gave her a quick, inexplicable feeling of relief, as if after so many
years she stood in the open, knowing at last the truth. It did not produce any
shock, perhaps because she had been for so long prepared for the
knowledge. So she had said without hesitation Madame Shane, just as a
little while before in order to take no chance in protecting Lily, she had said
Madame Shane to Miss Rebecca Schönberg.
The old woman coughed and said slowly, “I don’t speak English very
well any more. I’m so old.... I almost forget.... Est-ce que vous parlez
français?” And then, “Asseyez vous.”
Ellen simply stared at her, and in the emergency the boy, polite and
eager, said in a piping voice, “She wants to know if you speak French....
She wants you to sit down.” His English was colored by an accent which
struck Ellen with a remote sense of unreality. Lily’s child! Her own cousin!
Speaking English as if it were a foreign tongue!
“I don’t,” said Ellen. “Will you tell her that I know no French?”
It was the old woman who answered in labored English. “Oh, I
understand.... I know what you say.... I can no longer speak English....
Asseyez vous.... Sit down.”
It was only then that Ellen understood the peering look in the eyes of the
old woman. She had been sitting down, all the while. The old woman, who
peered at her so earnestly, was blind.
“Did Madame Shane know you were coming?” asked Madame Gigon.
“No, I had no time.... I left America in haste.” She held back the truth.
She did not say that she had come, deliberately and without warning,
because she could take no chances on being refused. Sitting there, with only
a few francs in the world, she felt secure. She was in Paris now in a house
that was big and beautiful. The rest could be managed.
 “She did not tell me.... She would have been here,” continued Madame
Gigon. Then, as if her brain were fatigued by the strain of speaking English,
the old woman addressed a torrent of French to the little boy. When she had
finished he advanced to Ellen, shyly, and held out his hand.
“She says,” he repeated in the same piping voice, “that I must welcome
you as master of the house. She says you are my cousin.” He smiled
gravely. “I never had a cousin before. And,” he continued, “she says that if
Maman had known she would have been here.”
He stood regarding her with a look of fascination as though so strange
and exotic a thing as a cousin was too thrilling to be passed over lightly.
Touched by the simplicity of the child, Ellen drew him near to her and,
addressing both him and Madame Gigon, said, “You are good to believe
that I am Madame Shane’s cousin. How could you know?”
Madame Gigon smiled shrewdly. She was withered and had a little black
mustache. Again the boy translated her speech. “She says,” he repeated,
“that you have ... une voix honnête.” He hesitated.... “An honest voice ...
and that she knows the voice because she taught my mother in school and
before her my grandmère. She says it is like my grandmère’s voice.”
As he spoke the old woman smiled again and wagged her head with
extraordinary vigor. “Je connais la voix.... Je la connais bien.”
Then she addressed the boy again and he translated her speech. “She
says she is blind and will you come near so that she may touch your face?”
Ellen drew her chair closer so that it disturbed the fatter of the two dogs
and allowed Madam Gigon to pass her thin hands in a fluttering gesture
over her handsome throat and the fine arch of her nose.
“Ah,” said the old woman triumphantly. “Le nez ... the nose.... C’est le
nez de vôtre tante ... le même nez ... précisement. C’est un nez fier ...
distingué.”
“It is a proud nose,” echoed the interpreter gravely.... “A high
distinguished nose.... A nose like your aunt’s.”
And the old woman, wagging her head, fell suddenly into a silent train of
old memories.
“My name is Jean,” said the boy shyly. “I am ten years old. Would you
like to see my book? It is in English. I can read English just as well as
French.” And he brought her Tom Brown’s School Days and showed her the
picture of the boys climbing the tree to rob the rook’s nest. Ellen, leaning
over his shoulder, was softened and showed a warm enthusiasm over the
other illustrations. She even listened while he told the long story of Tom
Brown.
Presently Madame Gigon joined their talk and for a long time they held a
conversation, translated always by the boy, that was animated and illumined
by a warm friendliness. It was this which presently filled Ellen with a
passionate desire to weep. She took off her hat and sat on the floor with
Jean and the dogs, while Madame Gigon and the boy asked questions about
America and old Julia Shane whom Jean called “grandmère” and whom he
had never seen. And presently the Breton maid appeared with tea (for
Madame Gigon, though she was French, had learned the custom of tea
among the English) and over Ellen there swept slowly a strange feeling that,
at last, after having been away a long time, she had come home. It was here
that she belonged, here that she would be happy, in this great, beautiful
house that was so friendly.
Jean was allowed one gâteau and the fat dogs devoured two apiece.
“She says,” translated Jean, “that Maman told her you would come some
day ... just as you have come. She says she is not surprised ... your great-
aunt, my grandmère, would have done the same.”

After tea, she was led away by the Breton maid up the stairs and along a
gallery into which opened an endless procession of doors, until she came, at
length, to the end, where a door was opened which revealed a square room
dominated by a great bed hung with a canopy of brocade. The tall windows
gave out upon the park which, lying now in the fog that succeeded the rain
of an hour or two before, appeared blue and mysterious. In the heart of the
mist the white pavilion showed vaguely, and beyond it, above the top of the
garden wall, yellow globules of light from the lamps in the Rue de Passy
cast the trunks of the old plane trees into sharp black shadows.
When the maid had left, she sat down before the bright small fire and
without moving regarded the room closely, point by point, detail by detail.
It was large and warm and beautiful, but the quality which moved her most
profoundly was its elegance ... the same quality that was so evident in the
great drawing-room belowstairs. She had never dreamed that there could be
such warm, old beauty. There was nothing here of the barren, gas-lit pomp
of Mrs. Callendar’s dining room out of the Second Empire, and nothing of
the vast Callendar drawing-room lined with grim Dutch ancestors and gilt
cabinets of tear bottles and Buddhas. This room ... this lovely house ... had
been there always. It had been like this in the days of the ugly Marquise de
Sevillac. The chaise longue on which she sat, the gilt chair that stood before
the writing desk, the very mirror, with its dim rectangular panes of glass,
had the effect of softening her. Indeed, for a time, these things made her
dimly uneasy; far back in her consciousness there rose a grotesque fear that
if she once succumbed to the splendor of that great bed, she might never
rise from it again, that it might weaken her by its very luxury. She regarded
it almost with suspicion, touched by an actual fear of all that was too
beautiful and too splendid. She might become, like Lily, indolent and idle
and charming. And slowly the realization swept over her that she was
changed. She became aware that she was a woman now; she no longer
wanted to be like Lily. She was strong, as she had never been before, strong
as Lily would never be. Luxury, idleness, charm were not the things she
desired. It must be something stronger than that, more heady, more
challenging.
Dimly she understood the appeal of the room and of the dark misty
garden with its white pavilion. It was insidious and peaceful, like an
enchanted palace that swam mirage-like in the blue fog. And again she was
overcome by a sense of returning home after having been away for a long
time. The white squares of Paris, seen through the rain-spattered cab-
windows on the way from the Gare du Nord, had moved her deeply; they
had given her a wild sense of freedom, of escape. But this was different,
more languorous, more intimate. It was the thing for which she had been
born, the thing which, all her life, she had struggled to attain. It lay on the
opposite side of the earth from the black Mills and the plain houses of the
Town.
And then, pathetically and slowly, there came over her the wish that, as
once she had planned, Clarence might have known this old splendor ... the
splendor he had talked of seeing, “some day when they were rich enough.”
There was that white villa at Nice....

She had understood, well enough, while she sat on the deck of the City
of Paris, damp and chilled by the fog, that Clarence was not gone forever,
simply because he was dead. She understood (indeed she thought of it
constantly, even in the hours when she had listened in fascination to the talk
of Rebecca Schönberg) that since his death he was more real to her than he
had ever been in life. While he had lived there had never been time to
consider him. There was only time, now, when he was gone. The very
affection she had for him in life was nothing to the affection she now
experienced, and in this new emotion there was no pity, because pity had
been effaced by self-reproach. The one desire which obsessed her was a
desire to see him, to explain, to justify herself.... Ellen, who had never
bothered to justify her faintest whim. The power of the weak over the strong
was still stirring. It had not altogether died.
Mingled with these very thoughts was the knowledge that somewhere in
this strange city that was so familiar, Callendar and Sabine were living.
They must be there quite near her; she was sure of it. They were moving
about, dining, going to the theater and the opera, all the while in ignorance
of what had happened to her, knowing nothing of her presence. For them,
her reason told her, she was forgotten; yet something stronger than reason, a
belief which beyond all doubt had its roots in the memory of Callendar’s
face upon his wedding day, told her that she was not forgotten. She had
been there, with them, all the while, ... perhaps, she thought triumphantly,
even upon their wedding night. It was a thought utterly free from any desire
to hurt Sabine; indeed, toward Sabine she had no feeling at all. Callendar
was the one who roused her malice; she wanted to torment him, to be
herself the one who dominated. The thought would have appeased her
vanity save for the fact that she could never capture the whole truth; it was
impossible because, in the months that had separated them, she had returned
again to the old feeling that she did not know Callendar at all, that there was
a part of him beyond her understanding, which escaped her always. She was
afraid of him.

She dressed to the accompaniment of water dripping from the high roof
on to the white terrace of the garden and, under the stimulus of physical
activity, she came presently to forget both Clarence and Richard Callendar.
Her thoughts turned to Miss Schönberg, that small, good-natured, ferrety
creature who was so kind to her. The encounter had occurred, by chance, on
the City of Paris when the stranger, watching Ellen as she paced in her
tireless way round and round the deck through the fog and the blowing rain,
finally offered her a book to read. Ellen did not, as a rule, read anything, but
she accepted the book, gratefully enough, more as a symbol of the
stranger’s friendliness than for its own qualities. She could not, now, even
remember what it was, nor anything about it save that it was bound in green
and was written by a man called de Morgan. She was, at that time, engaged
in thinking of her own story, which was indeed quite as good as anything
concocted by a novelist. For the sense of rôle, the awareness of herself as a
dramatic figure “living by her wits,” had grown upon her steadily, until in
her mind there had been born a suspicion that such a rôle possessed a value.
She was not, after all, commonplace. Already, though she was but twenty-
four, tremendous things had happened to her ... things which were romantic
and even tragic, but things in which she found satisfaction. She had wished,
as far back as she could remember, to have a life that was eventful. She
wanted not to die until she had known her share of life, and in life she did
not seek, like Lily, simple happiness and contentment. She desired
experience, and so she resembled greatly old man Tolliver.
It may have been a sense of all this which attracted the stranger, for Miss
Schönberg despite all her fine clothes and her habit of wandering from one
spot to another, lived vicariously. She searched breathlessly for excitement.
At thirty she was a confirmed and passionless virgin who lived on the
fringes of life, perpetually stimulated by her sense of the spectacle. She had
no real home nor any real nationality, unless one might identify as a nation
that army of restless wanderers which moved from hotel to hotel across the
face of Europe. Her best friends, or at least those who knew her most
intimately, were the proprietors of such establishments as the Hotel
Negresco and the Beau Rivage, the Royal Splendide, Claridge’s, the
Cavendish, the Adlon, the Ritz and sometimes, for the sake of atmosphere,
such a place as the France et Choiseul. She was an orphan and rich. In
Vienna she had an aunt; in Trieste a handful of cousins; in New York an
uncle who traded in diamonds. She was a Jewess and an emancipated
woman, regarded with suspicion by the orthodox members of her tribe. And
her emancipation had the fierce quality which envelops Jewish virgins who
have determined at all costs to be free. It was a sort of aggressive freedom.
She had never succumbed to or even understood love and it was extremely
unlikely that her bright, shiny mind would ever be weakened by an emotion
so sentimental.
 All this Ellen had learned from her, either by intuition or by her own
confession, for Miss Schönberg was much given to conversation, especially
of the self-revelatory variety. From Ellen, in turn, she had learned what the
girl chose to tell her, fragments of the truth strung together in such a fashion
that the whole seemed an honest but rather dull and erratic tale. Yet she
knew more of Ellen than the young widow ever guessed, for if Ellen had
been as dull and uninteresting as the story she told, Miss Schönberg would
never have bothered to address her a second time.

And now Ellen, as she dressed to dine alone with the blind old woman
belowstairs, wondered why Rebecca Schönberg had been at all interested in
her. She had, it was true, faith in her own star; she knew that she would one
day be famous. That any one beside herself could have any intimation of
this appeared on the surface preposterous.
When she descended, she found that Jean had gone to bed and before the
fire there was only Madame Gigon with Criquette and Michou, the dogs,
who had not stirred from their places but lay fat and lazy, basking in the
warmth of the blaze. With the eager interpreter gone, Madame Gigon, under
the stress of necessity, cudgeled her old brain into speaking a very passable
sort of English. At dinner, she told Ellen that Lily was stopping in the white
villa at Nice. (It was not in Nice proper but Cimiez, high up on the hill
beside the ruined Roman arena with a magnificent view overlooking
Villefranche and the Bay of Angels. It lay just above the statue of Queen
Victoria carven with a very realistic reticule and an umbrella.) She had
telegraphed Lily to come home and greet her cousin properly.
After dinner they went, followed by the dogs, back again into the
drawing-room to the luxurious chairs by the fire, and after a time Ellen rose
and played at the request of the old woman some Brahms, an air from La
Belle Hélène and finally a waltz or two of Chopin. It was a beautiful piano,
for Lily respected music, and the sound of its low, mellow beauty led Ellen
into playing more and more passionately. When at last her hands dropped
into her lap and she sat listening to the distant sound of the boat whistles
along the Seine, Madame Gigon began to talk.
She had seen George Sand once a long time ago when, as a bride, her
husband, M. Gigon (who had been a curator at the Musée Cluny and had
been dead now for more than half a century) had taken her one night to dine
at Magny’s where he might show her the celebrities of the town. She had
seen George Sand, she repeated, come in with no less persons than Flaubert,
yellow and bent, and the exquisite Théophile Gautier, to dine in a private
room before the répétition generale of her play Le Batard, at the Odéon.
The writer was an old woman then, come up from her farm, and bedizened
with cheap jewelry, but every one noticed her. She had vitality. She was a
sensation....
And she could remember too the funeral of Jules de Goncourt and how
they stood in the rain quite near to this same Flaubert....
But Ellen had never heard of George Sand and knew, beyond his music,
very little of Chopin, so it merely confused her to hear Madame Gigon call
a man “she.” Lest she betray her ignorance she kept silent, and sometimes
she did not listen at all, because this ancient talk did not interest her, though
it seemed to be the very core of all the life that remained in the blind old
woman.
Madame Gigon talked far into the night, with the air of one who had
long been shut in solitude, and as she talked her English became more and
more clear. She spoke almost as easily as she had spoken in the days, half a
century earlier, when she had taken Lily’s mother and the other girls of the
school on pique-niques in the woods along the Seine at Sèvres. And after a
time as the dull glow of her memories took fire, she fell to talking of old
Julia Shane herself. But she talked of a Julia Shane who was still a young
girl and not the sick old woman who, lying ill in her house among the black
mills, was the last link in the chain that held Hattie Tolliver from her
children.
And as Madame Gigon talked on and on to the accompaniment of the
distant sounds from the misty river, there swept over Ellen a consciousness,
new but unmistakable, of a delicate unity running through all of life. It was
bound together, somehow, in an intricate web composed of such things as
love and memories, hopes and sorrows and sentiment, but it was a web
without pattern, without design, a senseless, crazy and beautiful thing. She
saw then that she could never exist apart, in isolation, from all these others;
there were filaments which bound her even to so remote and insubstantial a
creature as this blind old woman. It was the web which made her uneasy.
She must be free of it, somewhere, sometime....
 Criquette began to wheeze and Madame Gigon prodding him with her
toe said, “Heigh-ho!... We must go to bed.... Even the dogs have begun to
snore.”
 38

A T the end of the week Lily returned from the south, wrapped in furs and
shivering in the damp of Paris. She was a warm, sensuous creature who
loved the sun and traveled north or south according to the variations in
temperature. Even on the Riviera she was not content and, on the occasion
of a mistral, she had been known to pack her bag and embark into Italy for
Capri or Taormina where the sun was brighter and the flowers more
fragrant.
She arrived early in the morning in company with the Baron, Madame
Gigon’s nephew, and together they came upon Ellen, not yet fallen into the
luxurious habits of the French, having breakfast alone in the dining room
with Jean, who sat across the table from her plying her all the while with
questions about his grandmère and about America and the Town where his
mother was born. She was describing it to him....
“It is not a nice Town.... It is full of big Mills and furnaces and the soot
blackens everything.... There’s nothing pretty in the Town ... nothing in the
whole place half as pretty as your garden.... Your grandmother had a garden
once that was as pretty as this one but it’s all dead now. The smoke killed
it....”
Here Jean interrupted her to say, “I know!... I know!... Maman has a
friend ... a Monsieur Schneidermann who owns Mills like that. Once when
we were up north, we stopped at a town called Saarbrücken and saw the
furnaces.... It was a long time ago when I was only seven ... but I
remember....” He became silent and thoughtful for a time and then, looking
at her wistfully, he added, “I’d like to go to that Town ... I’d like to see my
grandmère.... But Maman says I can’t go ... at least until I’m grown up.... I
suppose grandmère will be dead by then.... She’s an old, old woman....”
“But she’s not so old as Madame Gigon.... Think of it, Madame Gigon
taught your grandmother in school when she was a young girl....”
She wanted by some means to escape from the subject of the Town. She
could not, of course, tell the boy why he could never visit the Town; she
could not tell him there were scores of old women who had been waiting
for years just to know for certain that he existed at all. She could tell him
about the smoke and filth, but she could not explain to him the nasty
character of those women.
“I’m going to England to school in the autumn,” the boy said. “Maman
has arranged everything.... I’ll like that better than going to school here....
Perhaps grandmère might come to visit us some time.”
“She might ...” replied Ellen, “but she’s very ill.... My mother is taking
care of her now. You see, my mother lives in the Town. She’s your mother’s
cousin ... her real first cousin. That’s how it comes that I’m your cousin.”
“And your mother? What is she like?” asked the boy.
For an instant Ellen observed him thoughtfully. “She’s not a bit like your
mother ... and yet she’s like her too in some ways.”

She did not finish the description, for at that moment, through the long
vista of the rooms, she saw moving toward her Lily and a man who carried
a handbag and across his arm a steamer rug. As they came in, Jean sprang
from his chair and ran toward them, clasping his mother about the waist and
kissing her as she leaned toward him.
“Maman has come back! Maman has come back!” he cried over and
over again, and then, “I have a new cousin! I have a new cousin!”
The man laughed and Lily, smiling, bade the boy be quiet, turning at the
same time to Ellen, whom she embraced, to say, “So you’ve come at last! I
hope you’re going to stay a long time.”
It was the same Lily, a shade older, a shade less slender, but still warm,
lovable, disarming. As they embraced, the faint scent of mimosa drifted
toward Ellen and the odor raised a swift, clear picture of the drawing-room
at Shane’s Castle with all the family assembled on Christmas day ... the last
Christmas day they ever came together there. Old Jacob Barr was dead now.
Ellen and Lily were in Paris, Fergus in New York. The drawing room was
shut up and abovestairs in her vast bedroom Julia Shane herself, cared for
by the capable Hattie, lay dying. In a few more years there would be none
of the family left in the Town. They would be scattered over the world. It
remained only for grandmère to die.
All this passed through Ellen’s mind as she spoke, “Yes, I shall stay a
long time ... if you will have me.” She turned away. “I had to come,” she
said. “There was nothing left to do.... But I’m sorry I brought you back
from the south.”
“And this,” said Lily, “is Monsieur Carrière ... César. He is the nephew
of Madame Gigon and a great friend of Jean and me.”
The stranger bowed and murmured, “Enchanté,” adding in English, “You
are the musician.... Madame Shane expects you one day to be great.”
He was a swarthy man, rather handsome with sharply cut features and
fierce mustachios, a Colonel of the Cuirassiers who had most of his time
free. He smiled pleasantly, yet underneath the smile there was a hint of
hostility, a mere spark which, however, struck a response in the breast of
Ellen. It was on her side, perhaps, a resentment of his arrogance, of the very
assurance with which he conducted himself. It was as if he welcomed her to
his own house. And it may have been that for reasons of his own he
resented her presence. She too, was arrogant and assured, even though she
said pleasantly enough, “If you will have me.” Underneath all that false
humility, there ran a vein of domination, a strength which one less good-
natured and indolent than Lily could discern at once. Still Lily had told him,
long ago, that he would not like her cousin....
They were a handsome pair, Lily and the Baron, the one so blonde and
voluptuous, the other so dark, so brusque, so like a bit of fine steel. There
was about him a sense of something familiar, which tormented the dim
recesses of Ellen’s memory.
“Well! Well!” he said, throwing down the coats and bags. “Let’s have
some breakfast.” And with the same proprietary air he moved across and
rang for the maid and ordered chocolate and rolls for himself and Lily.
When they had gone at last into the drawing-room and Madame Gigon,
groping her way down the long stairs, and followed by the two fat dogs, had
come in, Ellen understood what it was she had recognized at once in the
swarthy Monsieur Carrière. It was nothing that had to do with his
appearance; it was far more subtle and complicated than that. It was his
manner, the very intonation of his voice when he spoke either to Ellen or
Lily herself. He approached them, for all his smooth politeness, as if they
were, in the final analysis, creatures inferior to himself, creatures who
should be delighted to grant his every whim. With Lily, so good-natured, so
generous, he may have been right: with her cousin it was as Mrs. Callendar
used to say, “autres choses.” The girl bristled with subdued anger. As they
sat there, the three of them, smoking before the bright fire, she knew they
were destined to hate each other.
Yet it was this very quality, so hauntingly familiar, that reminded her of
Richard Callendar. He had not asked her if she loved him; he had taken it
simply for granted that she should do as he wished. The memory, in spite of
everything, made her miserable. She heard his voice again, more gentle and
soft than the voice of the Baron, and saw his hands, fascinating and
persuasive.
He was somewhere in this same damp white city on his wedding journey
with Sabine.

Presently the Baron observed with a brusque, important air that he must
be off: Madame Gigon summoned Jean to the school-room for his lesson,
and the two cousins were left alone. Before the others they had carried on a
sort of made-up conversation, suitable for the ears of strangers, and neither
had spoken honestly nor fully. As Madame Gigon, guided by Jean and
followed by the waddling dogs, disappeared round the corner of the stairs,
Lily took off her hat and observed, “Well, now I suppose we can have a
long ... long talk. Come up to my room where we’ll be alone.”
The family, again after so long a time, asserted itself.
It was a large room, closely resembling the one in which Madame Gigon
had placed Ellen, save that it was even more luxurious and smelled faintly
of scents and powders. There was a canopied bed and on the wall hung
reproductions of four drawings by Watteau. It was not until Lily had
removed her corsets and, clad in a peignoir of lace, had flung herself down
on the bed that the sense of strain disappeared utterly.
“Sit there on the chaise longue,” she said to Ellen, “and let’s have a good
talk. There’s so much to say.”
Ellen, stiff and severe in her mourning, sat down by the side of her
glowing cousin and Lily, lying back among the pillows, appeared by
contrast more lovely, more opulent than she had seemed an hour earlier. To
her cousin, so changed since they had last met, so much more indifferent to
such matters, there was an air of immorality and sensuousness in the room.
Beside Lily she felt as lean, as spirited as a young greyhound.
“You know about Jean,” Lily observed casually. “You understand then
why I did not insist on your coming to live with me. I was foolish perhaps
... but when the moment came there was always something which wouldn’t
let me betray the secret....” She lighted a cigarette and lay back once more
among the pillows. “I suppose it was a secret,” she added, complacently.
“People talked, but no one knew anything.”
“No one knows anything here.... No one save Madame Gigon. They
know less here because they haven’t so much time to think of other people’s
affairs.” Slowly a smile crept over her face, from the rosy mouth up to the
violet eyes. “Ah, wouldn’t they like to know in the Town?” But her voice
was bitter.
Ellen smiled again. “It makes no difference. They say what they want to
believe anyway.... They said that I ran away with Clarence because I was
going to have a baby ... and I’ve never had it yet. It’s been a long while
coming.”
“I wanted you to come ... always, but I was too lazy ever to come to the
point. You can stay as long as you like and do as you please. This is a big
house.... You need never see the rest of us if you don’t care to.” She spoke
with the carelessness of one who was fabulously rich; there was a certain
medieval splendor in her generosity. Ellen smiled again.
“Why do you smile?” her cousin asked.
“I was thinking that all this money comes out of the Town ... the same
dirty old Town.”
“There’s satisfaction in that ... to think that people like Judge Weissmann
are paying us rent.”
It was extraordinary how clearly the Town rose up before them. The
thousands of miles which lay between made no difference. They belonged
to the Town still, by a thousand ties. They were, each in her own way,
American. All the years that Lily had lived in Paris could not alter the fact.
She was extravagant as Americans are extravagant, content to live abroad
forever as Americans are content to do. Yet all her wealth came out of
America, out of the very factories in the dirty Town which they both
despised. It was perhaps the Scotch blood in them that made them content
wherever they saw fit to settle. In a strange country they would not, as the
English do, strive to bring their native land with them; they would simply
create a new world of their own. Their people have done it everywhere ... in
St. Petersburg, in Constantinople, in Paris, in the Argentine and on the
frontiers of Africa.
 “And your husband,” began Lily. “Tell me about him.... I met him once,
you know, coming out on the train to the West. He was going then to see a
girl called....” She frowned slightly. “I’ve forgotten her name....”
“Seton,” murmured Ellen. “May Seton.” Lily was rousing memories
now, which seemed far away and yet were faintly painful.
“Seton! That was it!... I’d never heard of them and it seemed to hurt him.
I wrote you when I heard of his death. The letter must have passed you.”
“I never got it ... perhaps it’ll be forwarded.”
“Had he been ill long?” She must have wondered at the look in Ellen’s
eyes. It was not a look of sorrow or desolation; rather it was a look of numb
pain.
“He hadn’t been ill at all.” The girl frowned suddenly and looked out of
the window. “All the same,” she continued, “you might have said he had
been ill for a long time.” Then she rose and stood before the small panes
looking out into the wet garden. “I’ve got to tell some one,” she said with
an air of desperation. “You see....” And her voice became barely audible.
“You see.... He killed himself.”

The veil was torn away now. Between them there remained no barrier.
Each had made her confession, Lily concerning the child, Ellen concerning
her husband, and in the torrent of emotion which engulfed them Lily sat up
and drew her cousin down to the bed beside her. They both wept and each
(with as little real cause) pitied herself.
Ellen told her story, punctuated by sobs, from the beginning. She
confessed that she had never had any love for Clarence. She spoke of many
things which, at the time of the tragedy, were not clear to her and which she
had come to understand later during the hours of solitude on windswept
decks. In the emotion of the moment she understood the whole affair even
more clearly. She told Lily that she had tried, valiantly, to make Clarence
happy. She had done her best to preserve his happiness and her own at the
same time. There had come a time when this was no longer possible.
“Perhaps,” she said, when her sobbing had quieted a little, “it is not
possible for two people to be completely happy together.”
If she had spoken all that was in her mind, she would have added,
“When one of them is ambitious and a genius.” But this would have been
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