A reconstruction of Melville's original text omits the "Pierre as author" subplot that was later assimilated and is accompanied by thirty full-color pictures by Maurice Sendak.

Herman Melville

BOOK I. PIERRE JUST EMERGING FROM HIS TEENS

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BOOK II. LOVE, DELIGHT, AND ALARM

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VII

BOOK III. THE PRESENTIMENT AND THE VERIFICATION

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BOOK IV. RETROSPECTIVE

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BOOK V. MISGIVINGS AND PREPARATIVES

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VII

BOOK VI. ISABEL, AND THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY OF ISABEL

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BOOK VII. INTERMEDIATE BETWEEN PIERRE'S TWO INTERVIEWS WITH ISABEL AT THE FARM-HOUSE

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VII

VIII

BOOK VIII. THE SECOND INTERVIEW, AND THE SECOND PART OF THE STORY OF ISABEL. THEIR IMMEDIATE IMPULSIVE EFFECT UPON PIERRE

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VII

BOOK IX. MORE LIGHT, AND THE GLOOM OF THAT LIGHT. MORE GLOOM, AND THE LIGHT OF THAT GLOOM

BOOK X. THE UNPRECEDENTED FINAL RESOLUTION OF PIERRE

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BOOK XI. HE CROSSES THE RUBICON

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BOOK XII. ISABEL, MRS. GLENDINNING, THE PORTRAIT, AND LUCY

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BOOK XIII. THEY DEPART THE MEADOWS

BOOK XIV. THE JOURNEY AND THE PAMPHLET

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BOOK XV. THE COUSINS

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BOOK XVI. FIRST NIGHT OF THEIR ARRIVAL IN THE CITY

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BOOK XVII. YOUNG AMERICA IN LITERATURE

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BOOK XVIII. PIERRE, AS A JUVENILE AUTHOR, RECONSIDERED

BOOK XIX. THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES

BOOK XX. CHARLIE MILLTHORPE

BOOK. XXI. PIERRE IMMATURELY ATTEMPTS A MATURE BOOK. TIDINGS FROM THE MEADOWS. PLINLIMMON

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BOOK XXII. THE FLOWER-CURTAIN LIFTED FROM BEFORE A TROPICAL AUTHOR; WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE TRANSCENDENTAL FLESH-BRUSH PHILOSOPHY

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BOOK XXIII. A LETTER FOR PIERRE. ISABEL. ARRIVAL OF LUCY'S EASEL AND TRUNKS AT THE APOSTLES'

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BOOK XXIV. LUCY AT THE APOSTLES'

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BOOK XXV. LUCY, ISABEL, AND PIERRE. PIERRE AT HIS BOOK. ENCELADUS

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BOOK XXVI. A WALK; A FOREIGN PORTRAIT; A SAIL; AND THE END

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VII

Herman Melville Pierre, Or the Ambiguities

BOOK I. PIERRE JUST EMERGING FROM HIS TEENS

I

THERE are some strange summer mornings in the country, when he who is but a sojourner from the city shall early walk forth into the fields, and be wonder-smitten with the trance-like aspect of the green and golden world. Not a flower stirs; the trees forget to wave; the grass itself seems to have ceased to grow; and all Nature, as if suddenly become conscious of her own profound mystery, and feeling no refuge from it but silence, sinks into this wonderful and indescribable repose.

Such was the morning in June, when, issuing from the embowered and high-gabled old home of his fathers, Pierre, dewily refreshed and spiritualized by sleep, gayly entered the long, wide, elm-arched street of the village, and half-unconsciously bent his steps toward a cottage, which peeped into view near the end of the vista.

The verdant trance lay far and wide; and through it nothing came but the brindled kine, dreamily wandering to their pastures, followed, not driven, by ruddy-cheeked, white-footed boys.

As touched and bewitched by the loveliness of this silence, Pierre neared the cottage, and lifted his eyes, he swiftly paused, fixing his glance upon one upper, open casement there. Why now this impassioned, youthful pause? Why this enkindled cheek and eye? Upon the sill of the casement, a snow-white glossy pillow reposes, and a trailing shrub has softly rested a rich, crimson flower against it.

Well mayst thou seek that pillow, thou odoriferous flower, thought Pierre; not an hour ago, her own cheek must have rested there. "Lucy!"

"Pierre!"

As heart rings to heart those voices rang, and for a moment, in the bright hush of the morning, the two stood silently but ardently eying each other, beholding mutual reflections of a boundless admiration and love.

"Nothing but Pierre," laughed the youth, at last; "thou hast forgotten to bid me good morning."

"That would be little. Good mornings, good evenings, good days, weeks, months, and years to thee, Pierre;-bright Pierre! — Pierre!"

Truly, thought the youth, with a still gaze of inexpressible fondness; truly the skies do ope, and this invoking angel looks down. — "I would return thee thy manifold good mornings, Lucy, did not that presume thou hadst lived through a night; and by heaven, thou belong'st to the regions of an infinite day!"

"Fie, now, Pierre; why should ye youths always swear when ye love?"

"Because in us love is profane, since it mortally reaches toward the heaven in ye!"

"There thou fly'st again, Pierre; thou art always circumventing me so. Tell me, why should ye youths ever show so sweet an expertness in turning all trifles of ours into trophies of yours?"

"I know not how that is, but ever was it our fashion to do." And shaking the casement shrub, he dislodged the flower, and conspicuously fastened it in his bosom. — "I must away now, Lucy; see! under these colors I march."

"Bravissimo! oh, my only recruit!"

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