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NIELS HENRIK ABEL by G. MITTAG LEFFLER

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NIELS HENRIK ABEL

PAR
G. MITTAG-LEFFLER




Extrait de la _Revue du Mois_ numéros 19-20, 10 juillet, 10 août 1907, t.
IV, pp. 5-25, 207-229.




NIELS HENRIK ABEL
[Note: _Niels Henrik Abel. En Skildring af hans liv og videnskabelig
virksomhed_, par C. A. Bjerknes. Nordisk Tidskrift, 1880. Traduit en un
vol. in 8°, Paris, Gauthier-Villars, 1855. --_Festskrift ved hundredaars
jubilaeet for Niels Henrik Abels foedsel_, Kristiania, 1902. Traduit par
P. G. la Chesnais, sous le titre: _Mémorial de Niels Henrik Abel, publié à
l'occasion du centenaire de la naissance_, un vol. gr. in-8° chez
Gauthier-Villars. --_Abel, den store matématikers slaegt_, par H. Finne-
Groenn, Kristiania, 1899.]


Où il a été,
On ne pense pas sans lui.
BJOERNSTJERNE BJOERNSON.


La science du nombre, la mathématique, qui est à la fois la plus ancienne
et la plus développée de toutes les sciences, renferme en son histoire
beaucoup de noms, qui sont des pierres miliaires sur le parcours de la
pensée humaine. Les noms d'Archimède, de Galilée, de Descartes, de
Leibnitz et de Newton, d'Euler, de Laplace, de Gauss et de Cauchy, d'Abel,
de Riemann et de Weierstrass, évoquent chacun l'image de toute une époque.
Ceux qui les portèrent, en dehors de la puissance incisive de la pensée,
se sont distingués par d'autres dispositions et particularités
personnelles qui saisissent vivement l'imagination. D'aucun d'eux ceci
n'est plus vrai que de Niels Henrik Abel, l'étudiant norvégien qui jamais
ne prit nul autre titre que celui, fier et modeste à la fois, de
_mathématicien_, et qui, à peu près inconnu dans son propre pays, mourut
dans la misère avant vingt-sept ans accomplis, mais était compté comme un
égal par son grand contemporain, « le maître des nombres », _princeps
mathematicorum_, Carl Friedrich Gauss, et a été reconnu par la science de
la postérité comme l'un des plus grands penseurs qui aient jamais vécu.

La courte vie d'Abel lui a ravi la possibilité de mettre lui-même en
oeuvre bien des idées, qui furent l'origine de développements ultérieurs
de la science mathématique, ou de tenir des promesses, dont
l'accomplissement, dans bien des cas, n'est pas encore réalisé. Et
pourtant nul mathématicien, plus qu'Abel, n'a su composer des édifices de
pensée construits dans toutes leurs parties essentielles, et même
complètement achevés. Les travaux algébriques d'Abel ont amené l'_algèbre
proprement dite_ au point qu'elle occupe encore. Sauf la notion de _genre_
introduite par Weierstrass et Riemann, qui, d'ailleurs, est en germe dans
Abel, nulle notion nouvelle, au sens le plus profond du mot, n'a guère été
ajoutée à son oeuvre.

La théorie des _fonctions elliptiques_ est d'un bout à l'autre la création
d'Abel. Toutes les propositions principales de la théorie se trouvent chez
lui. En même temps son exposition offre l'idéal d'une déduction
mathématique. Elle repose sur le plus petit nombre de principes, et
chacune de ses propositions est liée organiquement à la précédente et à la
suivante.

Le célèbre mémoire d'Abel sur la série du binôme est une des sources les
plus importantes de la théorie moderne des fonctions, et sera toujours
compté parmi les ouvrages classiques de la science: tout se tient, on voit
l'ensemble, et la question est épuisée, c'est l'art d'exposition parfait.

Le _théorème d'Abel_, le « monumentum aere perennius », selon l'expression
enthousiaste du glorieux octogénaire Legendre, est peut-être encore
aujourd'hui, avec sa conclusion rigoureuse et sa grande généralité, ce
qu'il y a de plus élevé et de plus profond dans la mathématique.

Comme tant d'autres parmi les hommes les plus remarquables du nord
scandinave, Abel était fils de prêtre. Son père s'appelait Soeren Georg
Abel, et sa mère Anna Marie Simonsen. Sa famille ne peut pas toutefois,
comme il arrive si souvent en pareil cas, être rattachée par deux ou trois
générations à la classe des paysans-propriétaires. Le grand-père paternel,
Hans Mathias Abel, était aussi prêtre, et descendait d'une famille
considérée de fonctionnaires dano-norvégiens, probablement originaire du
Slesvig danois, dont le premier membre norvégien, Mathias Abel, mourut
comme employé dans l'administration préfectorale à Trondhjem en 1664. La
femme de celui-ci, Karen fille de Rasmus, descendait de vieilles familles
nobles norvégiennes. La mère d'Abel, Anna Marie Simonsen, appartenait à
une famille norvégienne de négociants aisés.

La famille d'Abel compte de nombreux membres qui se sont distingués par
leurs talents et leur intérêt pour les choses d'ordre intellectuel.
L'aspect extérieur d'Abel est un héritage ancien dans la famille Abel, et
ne vient pas du côté maternel, comme le prouve la ressemblance frappante
entre Abel lui-même et le frère cadet de son père, le sous-préfet
(_lensmand_) M. C. Abel. Celui-ci, malgré son intelligence, qui a dû
dépasser de beaucoup, si son apparence ne trompe pas, la mesure ordinaire,
n'a guère acquis de célébrité, sinon que, lorsqu'il passa de la sous-
préfecture d'Onsoe à celle d'Aremark, il reçut un sucrier d'argent et un
pot à crème avec l'inscription: « En reconnaissance de quatorze années de
bons services comme sous-préfet d'Onsoe, de la part d'une partie de la
population », et qu'il épousa une femme très bien douée. Le grand- père
paternel d'Abel était un homme énergique et remarquable, dont l'oeuvre
principale paraît avoir été une action efficace contre le vice de
l'époque, l'ivrognerie. Lui-même, afin de pouvoir poursuivre cette lutte
avec un plus grand succès, devint un abstentionniste absolu, et a sans
doute été un des premiers précurseurs de ce mouvement dans le Nord.

Le père d'Abel, s'il ne possédait pas la force de caractère du grand-père,
a été manifestement un homme très distingué à beaucoup d'égards, ayant du
goût pour l'action et pour les intérêts généraux, et d'une capacité peu
commune. Il fut membre du _Storting_ extraordinaire qui se réunit le 7
octobre 1814, et il y prit place dans _l'odelsting_. [Note: _L'Odelsting_
est formé de membres du _Storting_, élus par leurs collègues. Les lois
sont discutées publiquement, en Norvège, d'abord dans l'_Odelsting_, puis
dans les séances plénières du _Storting_.] Il parla en faveur de l'union
avec la Suède, mais soutint que les Norvégiens étaient encore un peuple
libre et indépendant, et devaient agir comme tel sous tous les rapports:

La Suède n'avait donc aucun droit d'attendre, continuait-il, que nous
adoptions ses principes fondamentaux pour une union éventuelle; c'est
à nous qu'il appartenait de proposer à ce royaume les conditions dans
lesquelles les libres Norvégiens pourraient appeler les Suédois leurs
frères. Lorsque par ces résolutions nous aurons pris les précautions
convenables pour notre honneur national, notre liberté et nos droits
civiques; lorsque nous aurons ainsi pris garde que toute oppression
possible de quelque manière que ce soit, devienne impossible pour
quelque régent que ce soit; alors soyons les premiers à tendre au
peuple suédois une loyale main fraternelle; alors, comme une nation
libre, offrons à Charles XIII le sceptre qui jusqu'alors ne lui était
pas destiné. Oublions tout ce qui s'est passé, et souvenons-nous qu'à
celui qui pardonne il sera pardonné. Si la constitution, pour la
rédaction de laquelle nul n'a qualité, plus que les citoyens du pays
qui doivent lui obéir, est rejetée par un régent en ce cas
manifestement despotique, alors toute la puissance de la Norvège
demeure: avec elle nous pouvons vaincre, avec elle nous pouvons
mourir, et dans les deux cas nous pourrons par elle recouvrer notre
honneur.

Dans le _Storting_ de 1818, il fut un des rares qui luttèrent en faveur de
l'enseignement de la langue maternelle et des sciences naturelles
concurremment avec les langues classiques. Il trouvait « singulier que
l'on voulût indéfiniment exclure la matière d'enseignement qui intéresse
le plus les jeunes gens, les sciences naturelles ou la description de la
nature ».

La mère d'Abel était louée pour son exceptionnelle beauté. Elle était née
dans une famille qui menait vie joyeuse et large, et elle se laissa aller,
dès l'âge de quinze ans, à l'abus de l'alcool. La conséquence fut une
grande faiblesse de caractère et une vie de ménage malheureuse. Le père
intelligent lutta longtemps contre l'ivrognerie, mais finit, sous
l'influence de la mère, par en devenir lui-même une victime. Ainsi la
maison du fils devint un foyer de ce vice que le père avait consacré sa
vie à combattre. Ce vice fut transmis aux frères d'Abel, qui semblent tous
avoir succombé à l'ivrognerie. Trois des frères moururent célibataires,
déchus, et l'esprit plus ou moins égaré. Le quatrième frère, qui fut le
camarade d'études d'Abel à l'université, et pour lequel il manifesta
toujours une amitié attentive, devint prêtre comme le père et le grand-
père, et laissa une descendance nombreuse. Lui aussi paraît avoir été, dès
l'enfance, adonné à la boisson. Outre les quatre frères, il y avait encore
une soeur, Elisabeth, tendrement aimée de ce frère illustre, dont
l'affectueuse sollicitude réussit à la sauver de la malheureuse maison
paternelle, et à l'introduire de bonne heure dans un milieu d'une toute
autre tenue morale. On célèbre sa beauté, son intelligence, et la noblesse
de son caractère. Quatre ans après la mort d'Abel elle épousa le directeur
de mines d'argent Boebert; sa fille, Thekla Lange, veuve d'un homme
politique, qui fut ministre, vit encore aujourd'hui. John Aas, successeur
du père d'Abel dans sa paroisse, fit graver sur la croix de sa tombe:

Arrête-toi ici, voyageur, que cette tombe te rappelle
Que parfois le sourire du bonheur finit en larmes.
Bien que la vie se fût levée douce comme le soleil,
Soupirs et pleurs en furent le dernier destin.

Sur ce fond lamentable se dessinent l'enfance et la première jeunesse
d'Abel. Il était le second des six enfants et naquit le 5 août 1802. Il
reçut le premier enseignement de son père, chez lui, mais fut mis en
novembre 1815, à l'âge de treize ans, à l'école cathédrale de Kristiania.
L'école était assez médiocre, et les professeurs en général relâchés et
abrutis par l'alcool. Le professeur de mathématiques alla un jour si loin
en punissant un élève que celui-ci en mourut. Le professeur fut aussitôt
suspendu, et à sa place fut nommé professeur de mathématiques un jeune
homme, Berndt Michael Holmboe, né en 1795, qui n'avait que sept ans de
plus qu'Abel. Sans avoir été lui-même un mathématicien d'un sérieux
mérite, Holmboe s'est acquis à tout jamais une place glorieuse dans les
fastes mathématiques, comme celui qui le premier à découvert le génie
d'Abel, et a été son premier protecteur. Holmboe eut l'honneur
impérissable de savoir attirer l'attention d'Abel sur les auteurs vraiment
classiques, en sorte que, sous son influence, Euler fut le premier maître
d'Abel, comme déjà il avait été celui de Gauss. Abel serait certes parvenu
aussi loin, quel qu'eût été son point de départ, mais sa vie ayant été si
courte, il était de la plus grande importance qu'il entrât de bonne heure
en rapport avec les problèmes de la science, et non des livres
d'enseignement. Les secs procès-verbaux d'examen de l'école cathédrale
donnent la preuve touchante de l'idée qu'Holmboe se faisait de son grand
élève. Ainsi en 1820 il a écrit sur Abel: « Au génie le plus remarquable
il joint un goût et une ardeur insatiables pour les mathématiques, et
certainement il deviendra, s'il vit, un grand mathématicien. » Au lieu des
trois derniers mots, il y avait primitivement « le plus grand
mathématicien du monde », lesquels mots ont été grattés. Les autres
professeurs n'ont pas été aussi enthousiastes, bien que les capacités
d'Abel se fissent sentir dans toutes les branches. Le goût, du moins, n'y
était pas au même degré. Le professeur de latin Riddervold, qui devint
plus tard un homme politique notoire, trouva un jour sur son pupître cette
note: « Riddervold croit que j'ai écrit ma composition latine, il se
trompe pas mal. Abel. »

Lorsqu'en juillet 1821 Abel passa l'examen d'étudiant, il était comme
mathématicien au courant de l'éducation scientifique de son temps. Mais il
était absolument sans ressources. Le père était mort depuis 1820, et la
mère n'avait rien à donner. La réputation d'Abel à l'école l'avait
heureusement précédé à l'université, et dès septembre 1821 il obtint une
place gratuite à la fondation universitaire de Regentsen, mais, est-il dit
dans une note du collège académique, comme ce secours ne pouvait pas être
suffisant pour un jeune homme qui manquait de tout, quelques professeurs
de l'université s'étaient concertés pour lui procurer à leurs frais une
subvention plus complète, et ainsi « conserver à la science ses rares
dispositions pour la science, attention dont son assiduité au travail et
ses bonnes moeurs le rendaient d'autant plus digne ».

Bien que des paroles de regret aient été prononcées en Norvège sur le peu
d'encouragements qu'Abel aurait reçus de son pays, il me semble que cela
est très exagéré. La Norvège se trouvait à un moment difficile,
particulièrement sous le rapport économique, mais nous verrons combien,
malgré cela, Abel a cependant constamment trouvé, pendant sa courte vie,
des aides qui surent le délivrer des soucis les plus graves. Ce sera
toujours l'honneur de ces aides que, sans comprendre l'oeuvre d'Abel --
car il n'y a guère qu'Holmboe qui l'ait comprise, et même lui, très
incomplètement -- ils comprirent du moins son génie, et firent de leur
mieux pour le conserver à la science et à la patrie.

La subvention qu'Abel reçut au Regentsen devait être toutefois des plus
modestes. Un camarade, Rasch, qui devint professeur, raconte qu'Abel était
tellement dépourvu des choses les plus nécessaires, qu'il possédait, en
commun avec son frère et camarade de lit, une unique paire de draps, en
sorte que les deux frères devaient coucher sans draps lorsqu'elle était au
blanchissage. Niels Henrik, dès février 1822, avait demandé « qu'il me
soit permis d'avoir mon frère avec moi dans ma chambre à la fondation
universitaire ». Cette pièce était occupée déjà, outre Abel, par Jens
Smidt, qui déclara ne s'opposer en rien à ce que le frère d'Abel partageât
leur « chambre commune ». Ce frère était celui qui devint prêtre. Il lui
causa beaucoup de soucis tant qu'ils vécurent ensemble, et aussi plus
tard. Abel put toutefois, dans la pauvre chambre du Regentsen qu'il
partageait avec deux autres jeunes gens, continuer ses études
personnelles. Il ne pouvait guère être question d'aucun enseignement à
recevoir de l'université. En mathématiques elle n'avait rien à lui
apprendre. En d'autres matières il aurait été un auditeur distrait,
absorbé comme il était par ses rêveries mathématiques. On parla longtemps
du scandale qu'il causa un jour en se précipitant hors de la salle de
conférences de Sverdrup en criant: « Je la tiens » (la solution).

En juin 1822 Abel passa l'« examen philosophicum ». En 1823 il se présente
pour la première fois comme écrivain, et le « Magasin des sciences
naturelles » a la gloire d'avoir publié le premier travail du « Studiosus
N. H. Abel ». Il est précédé d'une note de Hansteen, qui s'excuse de
publier des mathématiques dans un recueil de sciences naturelles. L'année
1823 renferme trois mémoires différents. Le jugement de Bjerknes à leur
sujet: « Ils ne le signalent pas encore comme le mathématicien très
remarquable, encore moins comme le grand mathématicien », me paraît une
dépréciation excessive de leur mérite. Tout au moins les deux derniers
mémoires contiennent des aperçus et des dessous extrêmement remarquables,
bien que leur origine exacte n'ait apparu clairement qu'en ces derniers
temps. Plusieurs manuscrits rédigés en norvégien sont considérés comme
datant de la même époque, ils ont été après la mort d'Abel publiés par
Holmboe. Abel s'y tient, de même que dans les mémoires du « Magasin des
sciences naturelles », au point de vue d'Euler et de Lagrange, et il est
clair qu'il n'a pas encore pris une connaissance approfondie de Cauchy.

Encore sur les bancs de l'école, Abel s'était attaqué déjà au problème de
la solution, au moyen de radicaux, de l'équation générale du cinquième
degré. La renaissance italienne avait achevé la solution des équations
générales du troisième et du quatrième degré, et la solution de l'équation
du cinquième degré devait tenter l'ambition de tout jeune mathématicien.
Gauss, il est vrai, était déjà parvenu à la conviction que cette solution
est impossible au moyen de radicaux, mais il semble avoir été loin d'en
pouvoir donner une démonstration. Abel, qui ne connaissait pas l'idée de
Gauss, crut avoir trouvé la solution générale cherchée, et un mémoire à ce
sujet fut envoyé par Hansteen à Degen, à Copenhague, avec la prière que
Degen présentât ce travail de l'élève de l'école cathédrale de Kristiania
à la Société danoise des sciences. Degen accepte la commission « avec
plaisir », en considération de ce que le mémoire montre « une capacité
exceptionnelle et des connaissances exceptionnelles », bien qu'il ne se
sente pas assuré que le problème soit réellement résolu. Cette première
connaissance avec Degen amena en l'été de 1823 une visite d'Abel à
Copenhague, pour laquelle 100 speciedaler (environ 560 francs) lui furent
remis par le professeur de mathématiques Rasmussen, nouveau trait de
l'attention magnanime qui lui fut témoignée par les professeurs. A combien
de professeurs d'université dans le Nord est-il arrivé de prendre
l'initiative d'envoyer leur meilleur élève à un collègue de la même
branche dans une autre université scandinave? A Copenhague, Abel ne trouva
pas que les mathématiques fussent précisément « florissantes », et il ne
réussit pas à « découvrir un seul étudiant qui soit un peu solide ». Degen
lui-même était pourtant digne du plus grand respect: « C'est un diable
d'homme, il m'a montré plusieurs de ses petits mémoires, et ils témoignent
d'une grande finesse. »

Les dames de Copenhague -- Abel est jeune et s'intéresse toujours aux
dames, de même sans doute qu'elles s'intéressent à lui -- n'obtinrent
qu'un éloge limité: « Les dames de la ville sont horriblement laides, et
gentilles tout de même. »

Ce fut alors, à Copenhague, qu'Abel fit connaissance avec Christine Kemp,
plus tard sa fiancée. Ils se rencontrèrent à un bal. Abel, qui
probablement la trouva « gentille », l'invita à danser, mais au moment de
commencer, il se trouva qu'aucun des deux ne savait. Ils se mirent à
causer, et de cette conversation devait résulter par la suite l'intimité
cordiale, qui est un des points lumineux de la courte vie d'Abel.

Degen avait une importante bibliothèque mathématique, et Abel la mit
assidûment à profit. Abel, différant en cela de beaucoup d'autres
mathématiciens, était un lecteur assidu des travaux des autres. Ceci
s'applique particulièrement aux premières années, avant qu'il ne commençât
véritablement à produire. Il eut de bonne heure un sentiment assez juste
de sa propre importance pour vouloir, armé d'abord du meilleur savoir de
l'époque, se présenter lui-même comme auteur. Ainsi s'explique la haute
éducation universelle, la large vue sur tout le terrain parcouru, que nous
trouvons chez lui dès les premiers débuts. Les registres des prêts,
d'abord de l'école cathédrale, et ensuite de la bibliothèque de
l'université de Kristiania, montrent l'étendue de ses lectures
mathématiques, et aussi avec quelle sûreté de jugement il s'adressait
toujours aux vieux auteurs classiques.

Les premiers mémoires d'Abel sont écrits en norvégien, mais il commença
peu après son retour du voyage de Copenhague à écrire en français, même
lorsqu'il ne rédigeait que pour lui-même. Les notes d'études montrent qu'à
l'école il était un élève médiocre en français. Il comprit que, en
possession de tout l'essentiel des connaissances mathématiques de son
temps, il était appelé à devenir le grand mathématicien deviné par
Holmboe, mais qu'il avait besoin pour cela d'une autre langue que la
langue maternelle, et il apprit le français vite et bien. Qu'il choisît le
français et non le latin, dont la situation comme langue de la science,
bien que les principaux chefs-d'oeuvre de Gauss fussent encore écrits en
latin, déjà touchait à sa fin, est une preuve de plus de la sûreté de son
jugement. C'est aussi en français qu'il rédigea le mémoire disparu
« Intégration de différentielles », qui doit renfermer les premiers traits
de ses plus grandes découvertes analytiques. Ce mémoire excita
l'admiration des professeurs de Kristiania, et fut envoyé par le collège
académique au ministère de l'Instruction publique, avec cette indication,
qu'un séjour à l'étranger pourrait être utile pour l'avenir d'Abel, et le
désir qu'une bourse convenable lui fût accordée. Le ministère de
l'Instruction publique, sans exprimer d'opinion propre, demanda l'avis du
ministère des Finances. Le ministère des Finances, où devait régner cette
conception, si répandue chez les hommes d'argent, que le rôle d'un
financier est de donner de bons conseils plutôt que de l'argent, ne se
contente pas de donner un avis financier, mais répond qu'il trouve Abel
beaucoup trop jeune pour être déjà envoyé à l'étranger, et qu'il serait
meilleur pour lui de recevoir une bourse d'une année afin de pouvoir se
développer à l'université nationale dans les langues et autres sciences
accessoires. Le ministère était en état de fournir les moyens. Le
ministère de l'Instruction publique demande alors au collège académique
son opinion sur la proposition du ministère des Finances. Le collège
académique se rend, et explique qu'Abel est certainement déjà assez avancé
en humanités, et que toutefois peut-être il pourrait être utile pour lui
de rester encore quelques années à l'université, et de consacrer ces
années « à une étude plus approfondie des langues savantes ».
Naturellement, le temps des langues savantes comme langues de la science
était passé, Abel le savait, mais comment un pareil fait aurait-il pu être
connu du collège académique? Les collèges académiques en sont restés au
même point beaucoup plus tard. M. Stoermer a eu le mérite de mettre au
jour cet échange de notes, empreintes de ridicule et lamentables: il
suffit de songer que ceci avait lieu en l'an de grâce 1824, l'année même
ou Abel, âgé de vingt-deux ans, est devenu d'un coup le plus grand penseur
que le Nord eût produit jusqu'alors, le plus grand fils de sa patrie, et
l'un des premiers mathématiciens de tous les temps et de tous les pays:
ceci apparaissait probablement déjà dans le mémoire sur les
différentielles, mais de façon certaine dans son mémoire, composé la même
année: « Mémoire sur les équations algébriques où on démontre
l'impossibilité de la résolution de l'équation générale du cinquième
degré. »

Il est hors de doute qu'Abel avait trouvé bien vite la faute qui se
trouvait dans son travail d'écolier, cette solution de l'équation du
cinquième degré, qui avait tant intéressé Degen; mais au lieu d'abandonner
le problème comme désespéré, il s'attaqua, avec l'intrépidité
imperturbable de la jeunesse, à la tâche que les forces d'un Gauss
n'avaient pu maîtriser, à celle de trancher si le problème était
décidément soluble, s'il est décidément possible de résoudre l'équation du
cinquième degré au moyen de radicaux. La réponse fut négative, et la
démonstration d'Abel pourrait être considérée comme le fondement même de
l'algèbre après lui. Le mémoire parut en tirages à part d'une demi-
feuille, et, pour économiser sur la dépense d'impression, couverte par
Abel lui-même, avec la rédaction la plus concise et sous la forme la plus
pauvre. Il fut publié par la même maison qui plus tard donna les deux
magnifiques éditions des oeuvres complètes d'Abel.

Les années 1824 et 1825 furent consacrées à un travail sans répit. Les
manuscrits qui datent de cette époque, et qui furent publiés plus tard,
sont tous de la plus haute importance, et contiennent la preuve suffisante
que les grandes lignes d'à peu près toutes les plus grandes découvertes
d'Abel étaient alors déjà établies. Il raisonnait sans doute à ce moment
comme sur les bancs de l'école, lorsqu'il s'agissait de la composition
latine de Riddervold, et, parmi les « sciences accessoires », il n'y avait
guère que le français auquel il accordât quelque attention. Vers l'automne
de 1825, le désir de voyager le reprit fortement, et il demanda lui-même
alors une bourse de voyage de deux ans. Il dit dans sa pétition:

Dès mes premières années d'école j'ai étudié les mathématiques avec
grand plaisir, et j'ai continué cette étude pendant les deux premières
années que j'ai passées à l'Université. Mes progrès non sans succès
ont amené le conseil académique à me recommander pour la subvention
qu'il a plu gracieusement à Votre Majesté de m'accorder sur le Trésor,
pour que je puisse continuer mes études à l'Université norvégienne, et
en même temps cultiver davantage les langues savantes. Depuis lors
j'ai, du mieux que j'ai pu, conjointement aux sciences mathématiques,
étudié les langues anciennes et modernes, parmi ces dernières
particulièrement le français. Après m'être ainsi efforcé grâce aux
ressources actuelles dans le pays, de me rapprocher du but assigné, il
me serait extrêmement utile, par un séjour à l'étranger près de
plusieurs universités, surtout à Paris, où il se trouve aujourd'hui
tant de mathématiciens éminents, d'apprendre à connaître les
productions les plus récentes de la science, et de profiter des
indications des hommes qui l'ont portée de notre temps à une si grande
hauteur. J'ose donc, en raison de ce qui précède, et des attestations
ci-jointes de mes supérieurs, prier très humblement Votre Majesté
qu'il me soit accordé gracieusement une bourse de voyage de 600
species (3.360 francs) d'argent par an, pour continuer pendant deux
ans, à Paris et à Göttingen, à cultiver les sciences mathématiques.

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Call off the hounds: the Not the Booker prize vote stands

From Jim Thompson to Daphne du Maurier, the author and comedian singles out stories that live up to their genre and genuinely do give readers sleepless nights

As well as making becoming a household name for his work as a writer and actor in comedy shows such as The Fast Show, Charlie Higson has had a parallel and these days just as stellar career as a writer. After winning acclaim for early, blackly comic crime novels including his debut King of the Ants (1992) and Getting Rid of Mister Kitchen (1996), he moved on to writing for children in 2005 with the Young Bond series. These books have now sold more than 1m copies in the UK alone, and have been translated into 24 different languages.

The Enemy, published last year, marked a new departure for Higson into horror writing for teenagers, with a tale of teenagers defending themselves against a zombified adult world. The first in a series, it was this week shortlisted for the Booktrust teenage prize, with volume two, The Dead, due out next week.

Buy The Dead by Charlie Higson at the Guardian bookshop

"What constitutes a horror book? A black and red cover? A primary objective to scare the shit out of the reader? A plug from Stephen King on the back? Most of the books on my list would probably be categorised in other genres first, but then – is Alien a sci-fi film or a horror film, or both? Is Wuthering Heights a ghost story? Is Jane Eyre the mother of all psycho-in-the-attic stories? And Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca is in many ways a haunted house story. I might well have put it in here if I'd ever actually read it.

"You can have a lot of fun mixing genres up. Personally I'm not the world's biggest fan of pure horror novels – ghosts and demons and man-eating slugs leave me slightly unmoved. With no belief in the supernatural, supernatural stories usually have little effect on me. Of the big horror names only Stephen King, with his concentration on character, really works for me. I've enjoyed other horror writers but wouldn't put them in any top 10 lists. HP Lovecraft, for instance, is fun but his books aren't exactly scary. I'm not going to lose any sleep over the possibility of Cthulhu and the ancient gods crossing over into our domain.

"And there are other glaring omissions from my list. Why no Dracula or Frankenstein or Edgar Allan Poe I hear you cry. It's sacrilege to leave them out of a horror list, I know. But Poe only really wrote a couple of scary horror stories (The Tell Tale Heart is brilliant) and I find Dracula and Frankenstein rather heavy going and 19th century. Of course they're where it all began as far as the undead are concerned and must be read, I'm just not sure that they still have the power to frighten us. And, let's face it, that's what a horror book should do.

"I've always been interested in the mechanics of frightening people. I like the idea of disturbing my readers, giving them sleepless nights and stamping images in their imaginations that will stay there for a very long time. That way they will always remember your book, and after all, us novelists are like Dracula, all we want is immortality. The first two of my adult novels (King Of The Ants and Happy Now) could easily be categorised as horror books and my new series for younger readers, The Enemy, is most definitely horror as it concerns kids vs adult zombies, but it is also an action adventure series, which seems to be my default mode. I'm always open to suggestions, though, so if anyone wants to champion some pure horror books that I absolutely must read, then fire away. I'm all severed ears."

1. The Watcher by Charles Maclean (out of print but Amazon and Abebooks have copies)

An extraordinary book, unlike anything else I've ever read, which had a big effect on me when I first read it. The narrator, Martin Gregory, starts out by telling us that he was perfectly normal and happy and that there was no reason for the terrible thing he has done … The sense of impending horror is enormous, and the book, like the narrator, soon spirals into madness. We have to try and work out what is really going on as we see everything through Gregory's distorted perspective. One thing we can be sure of, though, is that everyone around him is in very great danger.

2. The Shining by Stephen King

You can't have a horror list without having Stephen King in there somewhere. It's the law. But the thing is, when he was at his peak his books were brilliant (he hasn't quite been able to sustain it – you can't help but start repeating yourself if you write as many books as he has). Engrossing, tragic and, yes, frightening, which you can't always say about horror books. He's a great writer and for me the greatest horror writer. If you've only seen the film of The Shining then read the book – it's better (first half of the film amazing, second a bit silly).

3. The Drive-In by Joe R Lansdale

The Drive In, by Texan titan Joe R Lansdale is a great, knowingly trashy nod to the 50s and 60s craze for teen drive-in schlock sci-fi/horror flicks. A bunch of kids at an all-night horror showing at their local drive-in get mysteriously trapped there by some malign force and begin to behave like ants under a glass. Surviving on junk food and fizzy drinks they go crazy and set up a savage and weird alterative society full of great characters like the Popcorn King. Book Two spins off into yet wilder shores.

4. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

A hugely influential horror book, written in 1957. The last human survivor in a Californian suburb ventures forth every day with a supply of stakes to try and wipe out the vampires that have taken over. Matheson was great at mixing horror and science fiction, and rooting the fantastical in everyday reality. This book is a brilliant study in loneliness and obsession, and when the story twists towards the end Matheson very cleverly makes us question all that has gone before.

5. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

There has been a lot of fuss recently about the film of this book. But the book – which is every bit as extreme and upsetting as the film – has been around since as long ago as 1952. Amazing how you can get away with so much more in books without people really noticing. "Oh, it's a book, it must be good for you." Well, this book is certainly not good for you. I remember reading it and thinking – should I be reading this, should anyone read this? It is a horrific trip inside the mind of a cold-blooded psychopathic sadist, who is nevertheless good company and at times unnervingly funny. Not in a flip, post-Tarantino way; this is very disturbing and upsetting stuff. There is never any question as to where Thompson stands – the narrator is a monster. We watch his destructive relations unfold and discover the reasons for his condition from the reading equivalent of "behind the sofa". Unlike a lot of modern writers who go into this area in a sort of gleefully voyeuristic adolescent way that is entirely fake (stand up Brett Easton Ellis). Jim Thompson lived the life. He understood these people and fought many demons of his own. He is my favourite author by a long chalk, and this is an extraordinary book, but it's also certainly one of the most extreme (and extremely upsetting) things I've ever read.

6. Pan Books Of Horror

If any horror collections can be described as seminal it is these. When I was a teenager they were everywhere. Passed around from hand to hand, they had a forbidden, naughty allure, like video nasties. With their classy but trashy covers the stories they contained were gory, nasty, sometimes sexy, often badly written, sometimes brilliant. The collections were a mix of old classics and more modern material, increasingly the latter as the supply of classics ran dry. You'd find Stephen King alongside Algernon Blackwood and some blood-soaked fillers from writers you'd never heard of before and never hear would again. A superfan is currently working with Pan to get the series relaunched, starting with a facsimile reprint of volume one later in the year. Look out for it. And check out his website.

7. Uncle Montague's Tales Of Terror by Chris Priestley

This one's for the kids. Written in an accessible, cod Victorian style it has a neat framing device. Edgar goes to stay with his uncle in the woods who proceeds to tell him a series of terrifying stories – all the while hinting at some dark secrets of his own. Rest assured, the stories, which all feature a child in some way, are genuinely scary and unsettling and really do get under your skin. They certainly frightened my 10-year-old when I read them to him.

8. The Silence Of The Lambs by Thomas Harris

Is this crime or horror? It certainly has a classic horror set up – basically it's Beauty And The Beast. A naïve and innocent, yet ultimately resilient, young girl enters the monster's lair and he falls in love with her. Then together they sort put each other's problems. The secondary villain – Buffalo Bill - is certainly a monster from a horror story, making clothes out if his victims' skin and keeping his latest victim in a pit. The film played like a horror film, and Anthony Hopkins certainly seemed to think he was in one. The book, as usual, is even better than the film. It's weird and engrossing and seductive and scary with some nice gothic touches. A great, great read.

9. Ghost stories by MR James

Apologies to Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley and Edgar Allen Poe, but of the old classics I've gone for James. And not really for the original stories but just so I can bang on about Jonathan Miller's extraordinary BBC film of "Whistle And I'll Come To You". MR James was the king of the unsettling ghost story where not very much happens and it's all about atmosphere and dread. Miller's film still has the power to be very, very disturbing. Give yourself a treat and buy it. There are other James BBC adaptations you should look out for as well (A Warning to the Curious is another favourite), they used to show them at Christmas in the good old days, and all still work.

10. Don't Look Now/The Birds by Daphne du Maurier

All right, I'll admit it, I'm cheating a bit here. I don't think these 2 stories actually appear together in a Du Maurier collection except on audiobook. And like MR James, my interest in du Maurier is primarily in the films made of her stories (nearly all of her output was filmed – she was the Stephen King of her day). I couldn't leave her out because to have come up with the story for not one but two all-time classic horror films is a feat to be applauded. And as Don't Look Now is my favourite horror film I had to get a mention of it in here somewhere. The original stories are still good reads and its fascinating to see how two great directors teased complete films out of them.


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Extract: The Whales by Evie Wyld

"I am an enemy of Waterstone's being destroyed. I am not in any way an enemy of Waterstone's being properly led by people who know what they're doing"

Tim Waterstone is explaining to me why he has a problem with the word entrepreneur, a distaste that I've seen ascribed to him on several occasions but find difficult to understand. How else might you describe a man who conjured, out of a redundancy package of a few thousand pounds, a retail operation that changed the face of British bookselling, and with it the nation's high streets? A man who went on to sell the company to the firm that had made him redundant, and then bought it back; and who, after apparently parting ways with his bookshops for good, made four separate attempts to gain control of them once again? This strikes me as almost a dictionary definition of an entrepreneur. So what's the beef?

His quibble, it turns out, has its basis in good manners. "I can't bear the self-congratulatory thing of applying it to oneself, really," he says: softly spoken and courteous, he appears, in tone and bearing, far more like a gentleman publisher than a cut-throat boardroom monster. Indeed, our semantic discussion has been prompted by his description of the bankers whom he met during a deal he was working on a few years ago and who make up a major strand in his new novel, In for a Penny, In for a Pound, an everyday tale of high finance, newspaper dynasties and the world of books. They were, he says, "so awful" that he started jotting down their conversations during meetings, and soon began to form an idea for a fictional parody of them. He was particularly struck by what seemed to him "like this endless drive towards the accumulation of personal wealth", a motivation at odds, he is at pains to point out, with his own impulses.

"You know, as an entrepreneur, and I hate calling myself an entrepreneur" – here our digression begins – "you don't do it for the money at all, really you don't; you're doing it because you get caught up in an idea and you want that idea to work." The ultimate achievement, according to Waterstone, is to see your vision realised, often against the odds: almost all entrepreneurs, he thinks, are fighting against received wisdom.

He was certainly bucking the trend when he started Waterstone's in 1982; he describes a grim landscape, in which the demise of the book was regularly predicted and which presented book-lovers with a choice between WH Smith, the smaller Blackwells and an array of independents, "some of whom were good, some of whom were terrible; one can romanticise the independents". By far the biggest market share lay with Smiths, the company that Waterstone had spent the previous eight years working for; when he first left university, he had gone to India to work in his father's tea business ("I was 22 going on 18, I was incredibly immature"), before "thoroughly enjoying" a long stint as a marketing man for Allied Breweries. Then, having married young and with a growing family to support, he joined Smiths, who were offering to triple his salary. It was a time he now says he loathed: "I don't want to spend my time knocking Smiths, but in those days family preference ran through, and it was a sort of caricature of corporate life, and I realised I can't stand corporate life, I really can't stand it. The fault was mine . . . I don't like other people's opinions much, I like having my own things, and then they fired me which was a huge relief, and I knew I wanted to start Waterstone's."

His first inspiration was the kind of bookselling he had witnessed in New York, exemplified by the "really terrific" Doubleday stores that stayed open until 11 o'clock at night and dispatched books around the city on delivery bicycles. By contrast, Putney-resident Waterstone had to trudge to the Smiths on his local high street or trek into central London to Hatchards, which, he says, "closed at 12 o'clock on Saturdays; Dillons didn't seem to open at all". And yet he was convinced that there was a market: he knew that all he wanted to do was read, and felt sure that there must be a couple of million like-minded souls in the country. "I was filled with this thought: why couldn't the best of the independents, Hatchards or whoever, be done nationally? Why can't they be like New York stores, better than New York stores, why can't they stay open late at night, why can't they have people working there who really love and know books? And why can't the stock be fabulous?"

So, with his £6,000 redundancy package and additional venture capital, Waterstone advertised in the London Evening Standard for staff – "salary moderate" – and opened up his first store in London's Old Brompton Road. And he was right, there was an appetite for books: soon, branches of Waterstone's, with their sleek black bookshelves, knowledgeable booksellers and unashamedly upmarket range of books, were opening everywhere, aided by their creator's "gift of the gab" with the money men, not to mention the occasional celebrity customer. Waterstone recalls Laurence Olivier visiting his Kensington High Street branch: "He said, are you looking for money? I said yes, so he put in 20,000 quid or something."

Waterstone's arrived at just the right time. It was, he reminds me, a rich time for literary fiction, with writers such as Salman Rushdie, Ian McEwan, John Banville and Martin Amis rising to prominence; Waterstone capitalised on the excitement surrounding this explosion of new writing by making sure that his shops were a natural place for launch parties and readings. "We were," he says, "plainly unfussed about being as culturally aware as we wanted to be." They also made it their business to maximise exposure for writers they believed in, in one instance creating the chain's "Book of the Month" when Waterstone and others in the company fell in love with Nicholas Mosley's Hopeful Monsters in 1990. And there was confidence in the publishing industry, which meant that enough of the big players – Waterstone cites Peter Mayer as an example, then head of the all-powerful Penguin – were prepared to support the enterprise with favourable credit and discount terms. All of which added up, after a while and despite "some fantastically dangerous moments", to a profitable business. "But," maintains Waterstone now, "the real thrill was winning, it wasn't the money; we did make money and it's very nice to have done so, but the real thrill was the dream."

But even the best dreams must come to an end. Waterstone's had expanded rapidly ("We got so arrogant"), often going against the advice of local demographics and sticking to their policy of having an unprecedentedly wide stock offering. It all took a lot of capital and, in 1993, having already sold a share of the business to them, Waterstone sold out to WH Smith for £47m. It can be no coincidence that, in the following years, he wrote three novels – Lilley and Chase, An Imperfect Marriage and A Passage of Lives. Clearly, however, writing books was no simple replacement for selling them, because in 1998 Waterstone joined forces with HMV to buy back the chain for £300m, in the process creating the HMV Media Group, of which he became chairman. Three years later, he was on his way again, and set out to embark on one of the publishing world's most intriguing soap operas – his attempts to buy out HMV altogether. Why?

"I became increasingly frustrated – frankly pissed off – with the way it was being run. I was chairman of HMV and was watching my own baby being absolutely murdered. And it was so stupid because the book market was just growing and growing, and people coming in from Tesco or Asda or Boots seemed to think their job was to get Waterstone's away from books, and move it towards multimedia or something. It was very hard for the people who worked in the stores, who I'd known for years – great, terrific people, wonderful people."

You realise, chatting to Waterstone, that at least part of his success lies in his genial manner: good situations become superlative – "great, terrific, wonderful", while the challenging moments are "tricky". The exception comes when he touches on his declining relationship with HMV: during the period when he tried to buy back the company – especially his fourth, final and "very serious" attempt in 2006, which took place at around the same time as HMV's purchase of the Ottakars chain – he describes himself as "apoplectic" at how the chain was being managed. But when that deal collapsed, with both sides proclaiming themselves hamstrung by the other's impossible demands, he knew it was time to call it quits.

The twists and turns of the battle between Waterstone and Waterstone's must surely, though, have come in handy when he was writing In for a Penny, In for a Pound, the first draft of which ran to an eye-watering 240,000 words. It doesn't shy away from bloodlust in the boardroom – the in-fighting in a family-run newspaper business is cynically manipulated by a private bank hell-bent on extracting maximum commission. In a subsidiary story, a thoroughly decent chap struggles to keep his small publishing firm afloat; the two worlds collide when agony aunt Anna Lavey, the company's star author and a columnist for one of the Macaulay newspapers, finds herself at the centre of a tabloid scandal. Elsewhere, there are high-flying barristers sleeping with senior leftwing politicians, Australian media tycoons running amok and ardent fans who metamorphose into havoc-wreaking stalkers. In short, with its fast-paced plot and to-the-point dialogue (sample: "You're a shit, Nicky. A total shit"), it is designed to grab the attention quickly.

I say to Waterstone "When I first picked it up . . . " and he completes my sentence with the question "you thought it was Jeffrey Archer?" I did, a little: it is bright red, with black-and-gold lettering, and its title is not a million miles away from that of Archer's debut novel, Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less. Rather than being published by one of the vast commercial houses, Waterstone's novel was picked up by the independent publisher Atlantic, perhaps best known for its Man Booker victory with Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger. It was Atlantic's chief executive and chairman, Toby Mundy, who spotted the book's potential for Corvus, the Atlantic list that publishes crime and thrillers. Waterstone was attracted by Mundy's enthusiasm, though he confesses when he first saw the cover "I nearly passed out. I decorously tried to keep enthusiasm on my face. But I've rather come round to it now."

Mundy was no doubt aware that media and publishing industry observers would lock on to the book's roman à clef aspect: the Barclay brothers, Rupert Murdoch and Anna Raeburn have all been mentioned thus far. All that Waterstone will say is that Anna Lavey is most certainly not based on the late Beryl Bainbridge. But there was a detail that really bothered me. Surely, I ask, when he sends Anna to a bookshop event and has 500 eager readers queue up to meet her, isn't this stretching credulity a little far? After all, if that were most writers' and publishers' experience, they'd be riding around in golden sedan chairs. But he assures me that, no, when Dirk Bogarde signed books in his Kensington store, they sold more than 1,000 copies. If this is a little Pollyannaish – a global film star is not, of course, literary novelist X or poet Y – it is rather charmingly so.

In the latest throw of the dice, Waterstone has found himself largely reconciled with the chain he gave his name to. He is far too polite to inject a hint of "I told you so" into his conversation, saying only how delighted he is that some of Waterstone's most senior staff ring him up these days to talk over the whys and wherefores of the book trade. And, following the departure of managing director Gerry Johnson in January after a poor Christmas, it does seem that the chain is attempting to return to its roots, restoring buying power to staff in individual shops, lessening its reliance on aggressive marketing campaigns and emphasising its focus on quality. So, is the hatchet well and truly buried? "I am an enemy of Waterstone's being destroyed," he says. "I am not in any way an enemy of Waterstone's being properly led by people who know what they're doing." And will he ever try to buy it again? He says not, but stops short of ruling it out entirely with the words: "I'm certainly not going aggressively at them again, under any circumstances."

But even if the chain of shops can realign itself with its core market, it will still have to face the challenges of what Waterstone might call a "tricky" business environment: most obviously, the past few years have seen exceptionally stiff competition from both non-traditional retailers such as supermarkets, with their limited range but rock-bottom prices, and from online bookshops such as Amazon, which in a sense played Waterstone at his own game by having a stock offering of undreamt-of depth. And now there is the ebook – Waterstone has played about on an ereader, he says, but can't see it dominating leisure-time reading.

Perhaps most importantly for the man whose childhood experience of reading was to go into the independent bookshop in Crowborough in East Sussex – his family was not bookish and there wasn't "a bean" to spend on books – and sit on the floor, day after day, poring over their titles, does he still think that people want to buy books? This, it turns out, is not a tricky question to answer at all. "I just couldn't be more optimistic about it."

Waterstone will celebrate the publication of his novel with a party at one of the branch's shops, along with what he calls "the Waterstone diaspora", including former staff, many of whom have gone on to open their own shops or work in publishing. This, presumably, would have been unthinkable a few years ago, and must feel a bit odd. "It's quite strange to be connected to Waterstone's in that way," he concedes, "but they are being so generous over this." And then he will return to his other activities – looking after the youngest two of his eight children, serving as chancellor of Edinburgh Napier University, dodging invitations to sit on other companies' boards – and pondering his next novel. In the unlikely event that he hits a patch of writer's block, he can look for advice to his wife, TV producer Rosie Alison, whose first novel The Very Thought of You was shortlisted for this year's Orange prize. "I'm rather cross with Rosie, stealing my thunder," he jokes. But I'm not sure Waterstone really does cross – I suspect he goes straight from affable to apoplectic, and that, it seems clear, is reserved for rather exceptional circumstances.


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Booker prize sees Peter Carey and Emma Donoghue head shortlist

Evie Wyld, whose debut novel After the Fire, a Still Small Voice won the 2009 John Llewellyn Rhys prize, has written a short story, The Whales, exclusively for Booktrust, where she is currently writer-in-residence. Here we join Jimmy, Elaine, Terry and Yvonne, deep in the bush after five days of walking. The conclusion will appear on the Booktrust website tomorrow

There are four of them footslogging single file along the trail. They sweat and wave their sticks at the flies, spitting the salt off their lips and feeling the rub of their backpacks, hot on their shoulders. A storm bird knows about them from miles off and lets out a wop-wop-wop, getting higher and louder as it goes. Jimmy watches Elaine look up at the gum-treed sky. He follows her gaze. No, he thinks. The bird is wrong; overhead is blue without a wash of cloud.

The crack of dry bark, the whistle of whip birds and sometimes a thundering in the undergrowth – a wombat, a pademelon – it all makes Jimmy feel younger. He can feel the muscles in his thighs working, can feel them thank him for not being stood at the assembly line six hours a day.

Five days of walking and now they are deep in the bush. In another day, they'll turn east, head for the sea, where if they make good time, they'll see the humpbacks heading south towards the Antarctic, their new calves in tow. There'll be a party that night, between the four of them. Terry the young bow-legged one from further down the line with a touch of the idiot about him, Yvonne his frizz-plaited, heavy cousin who runs accounts and her friend Elaine who is nothing to do with the factory and who returns his glances, smiling. Not a bad lot really, especially the girls.

Three days down the coast and they'll arrive home about ready for that soft bed and the meal without char-grit from the campfire, or the dog food pong of tinned meat. It's been good so far. He thinks of what was waiting for him if he hadn't gone bush this week – all those monkey-wrenches wanting to be set. It's been time to move on for a while, he sees that now. Only he'll wait and see what comes of Elaine and the damp hair that ringlets at the back of her neck.

Later in the day he spots a bower bird's chapel. Even this far in, the bird has found a blue toothbrush and bits of turquoise plastic to frame its humpy. He takes a photo, so that the side of Elaine's brown leg slides up the view finder.

'They only collect blue stuff', he says, mainly to Elaine. He feels the roots of his fingers strain as he reigns himself in, his stiff hands reminding him not to overdo it. Steady on.

Chances are, Elaine already knows more than him about bower birds – she told him she's walked the bush for six years, since she left varsity, this last two with Yvonne for company and he only knows from camping out when money gets bad. But he wants to show something to her. Elaine squats next to him and traces an arc with one finger in the dirt, looking at the toothbrush. She is smiling with her eyebrows pulled in.

'It's to impress the female – then she'll come down and he'll do a sexy dance.' As he explains, he wiggles his tail a little in a sexy dance and Elaine smiles wider.

Terry who has been leaning over them to get a look, gyrates around his walking stick. What his mating dance lacks in accuracy it makes up for in energy and the other three look on in silence while he makes the noise of a boombox with his lips pressed together. Jimmy's fingers stretch out towards the ground in embarrassment as he keeps his bad eye – the eye that he thinks of as his secret eye – on Elaine.

'You're a disgustin' specimen, Terry', says the stone-buttocked Yvonne. Terry quickens his hips and points, wiggling himself towards her.

Yvonne stands stiff and still like a wary buffalo. 'Never been the brightest crayon in the box', she says and they all push past him, smiles held down. Jimmy looks back to see him finish in a bunny squat and a flick of his head.

'Yeah!' says Terry loudly, arms raised and both thumbs up to the tops of the trees like they are his audience.

'Yeah' and he finds a cigarette in his back pocket, lights it and considers its glowing end before following on.

There'd been a night of heavy breathing when Elaine and Jimmy faced each other in their swags. They hadn't touched but they'd looked hard in the dark, seeing the glints of each other's tongues, teeth and eyes. There is a luxury in not touching, Jimmy thinks, in not just going with your gut; they don't have all the time in the world but they have this time, which won't end for another few days.

He looks forward to it, imagines the beach in an old film kind of a way. The last night when they will open the wine they've lugged all this way – they'll cool the bottles in a rock pool for a couple of hours, while they see what the beach has for them. He's a beach person at heart, it's where his childhood is at and he can't wait to show off about it. Terry's brought along his spearfishing gear and says he reckons on a good spot up at the point. Jimmy imagines striding into camp, a jewfish slung over one shoulder, a clutch of softly ticking crays hung from their whiskers in his other fist. When the moon's up and the salty wine is drunk, their fingers warm and sticky with sand and cray brains, he'll rub his foot over hers. He'll put his wrists either side of her jaw, so as not to touch her with his prawny fingers and he'll plant a long warm kiss on her mouth, one that shows them both that this is the start of things. He could think about staying on at the factory, him who hasn't stayed in one spot for more than six months at a time since he was 16. Or else, Elaine could come with him, go feral together up the coast. He gets the feeling there's not much holding her to the city anymore. He looks down at himself and he speaks softly to his hands You're orright you bung-eyed bastard. You're an okay sort after all.

Elaine breaks off from the group to take a pee in the scrub. She squats behind a paperbark and laughs. She's been hip deep in croc water, has woken up feeling a huntsman, as big as both of her hands put together, tangling with her feet in her swag. But the idea that the group might hear the sound of her pissing makes it so that she can't go. Eventually, she manages and makes a wet stain on the gum leaves. She pulls her shorts back up and a twig cracks not far up ahead. Shadows rise and fall as something heavy moves away. She catches up with the others at a jog.

Jimmy, that trunk of a man with his duff eye and his bear hands and her pal Yvonne are arguing about a fish. The argument is snapper versus flathead, but in what capacity Elaine is not sure. Terry is unusually quiet for a conversation involving food and he walks a little way from Jimmy and Yvonne.

'Stone lighter?' he asks quietly.

'It was a pee', she says, but her face flushes anyway.

'Right', says Terry and he smiles a weird smile. Elaine accidentally catches his eye.

By five o'clock they reach a small billabong. They strip down to their underwear and jump in like kids, laughing, drowning each other with splashing. Terry tries to duck the girls under, Jimmy dives for yabbies and opens his eyes in the bourbon-coloured water. The white legs of the other three bicycle in the open water. When he comes up for air, he can see that Yvonne is pleased with her breasts and bobs them gently up and down making small waves to the bank.

Jimmy looks a long time at Elaine and she looks back. There is a water level smile between them. He is aware of the ripples that come from his heartbeat and he sees how Elaine's canines creep over her bottom lip. Her hair is dark now, but in the light you can see into it. Where the sun hasn't caught her, her skin is like the damp underside of a leaf.

Elaine thinks she's some wonderful creature. The water holds her in on all sides, she feels good in her skin. The billabong is black from the tea trees that line the bank and when she flicks her legs to the surface she's a pale fish. She pauses before she puts her head under – a brief worry about spluttering and snotting in front of Jimmy, but then she thinks of the beach and the sea to come and she duck dives.

The dark water lifts her hair up and spreads it out, it pushes around her cheeks and taps on her eyelids as she reaches out for the leafy mud of the billabong floor, but even though she goes deep, her hands touch nothing. She kicks up for air and sends a flume of mist from her mouth. She smiles widely at Jimmy who floats on his back like an otter, hands clasped over his chest, dreaming of something.

Frogs and magpies are loud and someone finds a leech and then another and another and there's shrill laughing.

Terry shouts, 'It's eatin' the fuckin' kidneys out of me!' then, 'You girls want me to check under your bras?'

Even though everyone has had a leech before and every person has treated that leech with salt or the tip of a cigarette, quietly, without fear, they all pretend this is the first time they've been bitten and they wallow in the hysteria, enjoying it like gobble-mouthed kids.

Out of the water, damp shirts wrapped around them like towels, Jimmy burns a fat one off Elaine's shoulder. She looks at him sideways and curls a bit of paper bark around her finger.

'Ta', she says, as Jimmy passes her the cigarette which they share puffs from. He looks at her with his good eye. It creases in the corner.

The four of them set up camp a little way from the water hole, away from the leeches. Terry makes a small tepee out of kindling and rings stones around it to stop the fire spreading. Once it's lit they hang over a billy and drink tea while they watch the bats turning circles in the creeping darkness. Yvonne stirs up a thick damper and they bake it in a pan over the fire, to be eaten with a warmed tin of bean stew and rice pudding for afters. The birds are mostly quiet and the cicadas and frogs rev themselves up, as everyone slaps on Rid against the mosquitoes.

'Reckon we'll beat those whales, the way we're moving', Terry says cleaning his bowl with a licked finger.

'Fuckin' A.' Yvonne brings out a flask of bourbon to swill down the pudding with. She takes a long unflinching pull of it before passing it round and beginning a murder story.

'There's this girl went missing not far from Tully – all the kids hitchhike out there…' The dark gets deeper and everyone settles in, enjoying the creep of it. Elaine thinks that there's nothing you can't fix by putting your cheek to the land and feeling it settle. She studies the landscape of Jimmy's face. He is unashamedly enthralled by Yvonne's story. His funny eye looks directly at Elaine but doesn't see her. The lines on his forehead have dirt ground in. He's older than Elaine and she wonders what it is he's been doing all the time he's been alive.

In the silence, after Yvonne's concluding remark 'They only ever found her thumb', Terry farts, a loud one and everyone groans.

'Well, that's put that to bed', he says and they all unroll their swags around the fire and climb in for the night. Jimmy feels the hot weight of Elaine's foot on his and his fingers twitch on their own. Elaine sees Terry's wet eyes, tangerine from the fire and spreads her toes out. She stays awake for as long as possible, making up script after script of how it will go with Jimmy once they reach the sea. She replays the swim at waterhole until she's unsure if she's made parts of it up. She finally falls asleep with her heartbeat high in her chest.

Jimmy wakes long before dawn with a pressure like a stone on his bladder. He swears quietly and rolls out of his swag to ease the ache against a tree. In the undergrowth to his right, something scrabbles. He catches a strong scent and sees a wet snout or eye in the dark. A rumble in the brush and it's gone. Probably a pig or a dingo, but he's glad to get back to the group, where the coals in the fire are still orange. He checks each sleeper. Terry is spread at a diagonal, mouth open, not snoring but making noise. Yvonne sleeps on her front clutching the loose material of her swag, not letting it get away. Elaine is on her side and a brown arm has slithered free. Her hair makes a perfect ring around her ear. As he watches she produces a little noise, a tiny pop from her lips as they're opened with breath. Sleep speaking, thinks Jimmy as he burrows back into his swag, careful not to jog her feet with his, but careful also that they are touching.

The morning is hot and blue from the outset. After tea and a tidy up, they set off, aiming to reach the sea before sunset. Jimmy looks forward to a swim in the bubbling salt, a proper clean down with no bloodsuckers. Terry starts to talk about food almost immediately,

'Lamb chops.' He says confidently to Yvonne. 'That's gotta be the best type of food; lamb chops with the whole grill piece; onions, mushrooms, boiled spuds – no tomatoes though, I'm so over tomatoes.' Yvonne rolls her eyes at him.

'Couldn't give a rat's ring, Terry,' but she hands him a date and a piece of chocolate. Elaine enjoys her feeling of emptiness. Her spit tastes of eucalyptus, she feels new, like the air and blood in her has been filtered out and changed for something better.

After midday, there's a yell from Terry up ahead.

'Get a look at this!' The other three catch up to find him crouching in a small clearing surrounded by stay-a-while and they peer over his shoulder. There's a dead butcher bird on the ground and following the line of Terry's finger into one of the thorny bushes, they see its larder. A small mouse impaled through the neck, stiff and dry, missing parts of its hind quarters, a large Christmas beetle, upside down with the thorn square through the middle and last, still twitching, its legs up and angry, barely impaled through its leaking abdomen, a mouse spider.

'Christssake' whispers Jimmy stepping back.

'How the poor bastard got it up here, I can't figure,' Terry says, pushing the bird with his foot to reveal the green ants starting on its wing. The mouse spider's fangs, black and thick and shiny are up and ready to strike. It waves its legs in the air. Terry picks up a twig to poke it with, but Yvonne knocks it out of his hand.

'Don't be a bum, Terry. I'm not carrying yer fat dead lump out of here if you get bitten. You can count on that.' Jimmy takes a photograph, in which Terry insists on including his own hand, so as get the scale of the thing.

They start to walk on, but Elaine stays behind a beat or two looking at the spider; its fangs reaching for her, legs pointing.

'The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' Yvonne shrieks in a chicken voice as thunder mumbles in the distance. Elaine looks again at the sky, but it's still clear. The thunder is a long way off, but you can smell it in the air, which is heavy and hot. The tips of the trees sway in the sky, but there's no breeze down on the bush floor.

A goanna clings to a Moreton Bay fig above them but nobody sees it.

Jimmy touches the side of Elaine's hand with his little finger and as he does, the leaves to the side of her snaffle and a striped snake comes streaking out of the ground, hitting her on the boot. She barks loudly and kicks trying to get her foot away. The snake's fangs are deeply embedded in the leather of her boot and she shakes her leg hard while around her the others dip and weave and try to help and point their sticks. Jimmy thinks he has control of the situation when he holds Elaine's arm and beats at the snake with his walking stick, accidentally cracking her on the shin. The snake is dislodged, but instead of bolting back into the undergrowth, it turns again and bites Elaine, once, twice, three times and a fourth; calf, back of the knee, thigh, deeply, deeply again on her inner thigh. It's snap-quick and Jimmy doesn't have time to understand and still has Elaine by the arm so she doesn't get away. Finally, Terry gets it – a blow to the eye – and it's stunned. He stomps on the head, but it still twitches, so he beats it with his stick, smashing, till it changes colour, loses its stripes. It is still, but the bush crackles and carries on.

Elaine is tight-lipped and white. Yvonne cries softly into her cupped hands, the small beeps of a bird. Terry shoes leaves over the corpse of the snake and Jimmy still holds Elaine's arm, his grip hard from not knowing what to do, from doing the wrong thing. There is blood, Elaine thinks how it looks like she's got her period and then thinks she'd love a piece of liquorice from her backpack. She starts to turn around, to take her pack off, but her legs have lost their hardness and she is sliding back into Jimmy who is stiff and still.

'Jesus H Christ,' whispers Terry. He looks at the snake and away, prodding it rhythmically with his stick. 'Jimmy,' he says. 'Jesus, Jimmy.'

'S'just a nip,' says Elaine.

As she slides to the ground with the help of Jimmy who has become flesh again, Elaine thinks about the liquorice and then about how it was a tiger. A big dose of tiger and she's starting to feel it now, it feels like it bit her in the artery of her groin. The big one. The one where all the blood lives.

Yvonne straightens herself. She helps Elaine's pack off her back and slides it behind her back to prop her up. She pulls out her poncho and arranges it over Elaine's wounded leg, to keep it out of sight and then snaps the men into action.

'Hot water - get a fire on. Get the first aid.' She looks at the two men who are twisting their fingers. 'C'mon s'only a fuckin' snake bite, let's get it sorted and get on with it.' She's right and Jimmy says so. He says, 'Only a snake bite.' Smiling at Elaine, but what they all think, Jimmy, Terry, Yvonne and Elaine is but it's tiger. And we are deep in. Deep.

• To read the conclusion of the story, visit the Booktrust website from Tuesday 7 September.

• Evie Wyld works in the independent Review Bookshop in Peckham. She is taking part in a live-streamed book club Q&A from the shop at 7.30pm on Thursday 9 September. To find out how to submit questions for the event, visit the Booktrust website


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