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Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales And Novels, Volume 1




_Charles_. A great way further! further to-night!--No, no.

_2nd Peasant_. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were fast
asleep--You are to be carried, you and your knapsack.

[_They prepare to carry him_.]

_Charles_ (_starting up, and struggling with them_). I've legs to walk--I
won't be carried!--I, a Swede, and be carried!--No! No!--

_All together_. Yes! Yes!

_Charles_. No! No!--(_he struggles for his knapsack, which comes untied
in the struggle, and all the things fall out_.)--There, this comes of
playing the fool.

[_They help him to pick up the things, and exclaim,_]

_All_. There's no harm done--(_throwing the knapsack over his shoulder_).

_Charles_. I'm the first to march, after all.

_Peasants_. Ay, in your sleep!

[_Exeunt, laughing._]

_Enter_ CATHERINE'S _two little Children_.

_Little Girl_. I am sure I heard some voices this way--suppose it was the
fairies!

_Little Boy_. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There are no such
things as fairies; but if there were any such, we have no need to fear
them.

_Little Boy sings_.

I.

Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm,
Have pow'r, or will, to work us harm;
For those who dare the truth to tell,
Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well.

II.

For us they spread their dainty fare,
For us they scent the midnight air;
For us their glow-worm lamps they light,
For us their music cheers the night.

_Little Girl sings_.

I.

Ye fays and fairies, hasten here,
Robed in glittering gossamere;
With tapers bright, and music sweet,
And frolic dance, and twinkling feet.

II.

And, little Mable, let us view
Your acorn goblets fill'd with dew;
Nor warn us hence till we have seen
The nut-shell chariot of your queen:

III.

In which on nights of yore she sat,
Driven by her gray-coated gnat;
With spider spokes and cobweb traces,
And horses fit for fairy races.

IV.

And bid us join your revel ring,
And see you dance, and hear you sing:
Your fairy dainties let us taste,
And speed us home with fairy haste.

_Little Boy_. If there were really fairies, and if they would give me my
wish, I know what I should ask.

_Little Girl._ And so do I--I would ask them to send father home before I
could count ten.

_Little Boy_. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, in the face
of the whole army, "This is a brave man!" And father should hold up his
head as I do now, and march thus by the side of his general.

[_As the little Boy marches, he stumbles.]

Little Girl_. Oh! take care!--come, let us march home:--but stay, I have
not found my faggot.

_Little Boy_. Never mind your faggot; it was not here you left it.

_Little Girl_. Yes, it was somewhere here, I'm sure, and I must find it,
to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to
bed.

_Little Boy_. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.

_Little Girl_. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those
trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my faggot.--When we get home, I
shall say, "Mother, do you know there is great news?--there's a great
many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing and
music in the great house, because the master's come home, and the
housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our
faggots; at last the butler--"

_Little Boy_. Heyday!--What have we here?--a purse, a purse, a heavy
purse.

_Little Girl_. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.

_Little Boy_. No, no; it can't be mother's: mother has no purse full of
money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.

_Little Girl_. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she
has more purses and money than any body else in the world.

_Little Boy_. Come, let us run back with it to her,--mother would tell us
to do so, I'm sure, if she was here.

_Little Girl_. But I'm afraid the housekeeper won't see us to-night.

_Little Boy_. Oh, yes; but I'll beg, and pray, and push, till I get into
her room.

_Little Girl_. Yes; but don't push me, or I shall knock my head against
the trees. Give me your hand, brother.--Oh, my faggot! I shall never find
you.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--Catherine's _Cottage_.

CATHERINE, _spinning, sings_.

I.

Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel,
And leave my heart no time to feel;
Companion of my widow'd hour,
My only friend, my only dow'r.

II.

Thy lengthening thread I love to see,
Thy whirring sound is dear to me:
Oh, swiftly turn by night and day,
And toil for him that's far away.

_Catherine_. Hark! here come the children. No, 'twas only the wind.
What can keep these children so late?--but it is a fine moonlight
night--they'll have brave appetites for their supper when they come
back--but I wonder they don't come home.--Heigho! since their father has
been gone, I am grown a coward--(_a knock at the door heard_)--Come
in!--Why does every knock at the door startle me in this way?

_Enter_ CHARLES, _with a knapsack on his back_

_Charles_. Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a stranger at this
time o' night, as I guess by the looks of ye--but I'm only a poor fellow,
that has been a-foot a great many hours.

_Cath_. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have you're
welcome to.

[_She sets milk, &c., on a table. Charles throws himself into a chair,
and flings his knapsack behind him_.]

_Charles_. 'Tis a choice thing to rest one's self:--I say, mistress, you
must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a many, many
leagues since break of day.

_Cath_. Indeed, you may well be tired--and where do you come from?--Did
you meet, on your road, any soldiers coming back from Finland?

_Charles (eats and speaks_). Not the soldiers themselves, I can't say as
I did; but we are them that are bringing home the knapsacks of the poor
fellows that have lost their lives in the wars in Finland.

_Cath. (during this speech of Charles, leans on the back of a
chair. _Aside_) Now I shall know my fate.

_Charles (eating and speaking)_. My comrades are gone on to the village
beyond with their knapsacks, to get them owned by the families of them to
whom they belonged, as it stands to reason and right. Pray, mistress, as
you know the folks here-abouts, could you tell me whose knapsack this is,
here, behind me? (_looking up at Catherine_.)--Oons, but how pale she
looks! (_aside_). Here, sit ye down, do. (_Aside_) Why, I would not have
said a word if I had thought on it--to be sure she has a lover now, that
has been killed in the wars. (_Aloud_) Take a sup of the cold milk,
mistress.

_Catherine (goes fearfully towards the knapsack_). 'Tis his! 'tis my
husband's!

[_She sinks down on a chair, and hides her face with her hands_.]

_Charles_. Poor soul! poor soul!--(_he pauses_.) But now it is not clear
to me that you may not be mistaken, mistress:--these knapsacks be all so
much alike, I'm sure I could not, for the soul of me, tell one from
t'other--it is by what's in the inside only one can tell for certain.
(_Charles opens the knapsack, pulls out a waistcoat, carries it towards
Catherine, and holds it before her face_.)--Look ye here, now; don't give
way to sorrow while there's hope left--Mayhap, mistress--look at this
now, can't ye, mistress?

[_Catherine timidly moves her hands from before her face, sees the
waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls back in a swoon. The peasant
runs to support her.--At this instant the back door of the cottage opens,
and_ ALEFTSON _enters_.]

_Aleft_. Catherine!

_Charles_. Poor soul!--there, raise her head--give her air--she fell into
this swoon at the sight of yonder knapsack--her husband's--he's dead.
Poor creature!--'twas my luck to bring the bad news--what shall we do for
her?--I'm no better than a fool, when I see a body this way.

_Aleft_. (_sprinkling water on her face_.) She'll be as well as ever she
was, you'll see, presently--leave her to me!

_Charles_. There! she gave a sigh--she's coming to her senses.

[_Catherine raises herself_.]

_Cath_. What has been the matter?--(_She starts at the sight of
Aleftson_.)--My husband!--no--'tis Aleftson--what makes you look so like
him?--you don't look like yourself.

_Aleft. (aside to the peasant_.) Take that waistcoat out of the way.

_Cath_. (_looking round, sees the knapsack_.) What's there?--Oh, I
recollect it all now.--(_To Aleftson_) Look there! look there! your
brother! your brother's dead! Poor fool, you have no feeling.

_Aleft_. I wish I had none.

_Cath_. Oh, my husband!--shall I never, never see you more--never more
hear your voice--never more see my children in their father's arms?

_Aleft_. (_takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed_.) But we
are not sure this is Christiern's.

_Charles (snatching it from him_). Don't show it to her again,
man!--you'll drive her mad.

_Aleft. (aside_.) Let me alone; I know what I'm about. (_Aloud_) 'Tis
certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear; but perhaps--

_Cath_. It is his--it is his--too well I know it--my own work--I gave it
to him the very day he went away to the wars--he told me he would wear it
again the day of his coming home--but he'll never come home again.

_Aleft_. How can you be _sure_ of that?

_Cath_. How!--why, am not I sure, too sure?--hey!--what do you mean?--he
smiles!--have you heard any thing?--do you know any thing?--but he can
know nothing--he can tell me nothing--he has no sense. (_She turns to the
peasant_.) Where did you get this knapsack?--did you see--

_Aleft_. He saw nothing--he knows nothing--he can tell you
nothing:--listen to me, Catherine--see, I have thrown aside the dress of
a fool--you know I had my senses once--I have them now as clear as ever I
had in my life--ay, you may well be surprised--but I will surprise you
more--Count Helmaar's come home.

_Cath_. Count Helmaar!--impossible!

_Charles_. Count Helmaar!--he was killed in the last battle, in Finland.

_Aleft_. I tell ye, he was not killed in any battle--he is safe at
home--I have just seen him.

_Cath_. Seen him!--but why do I listen to him, poor fool! he knows not
what he says--and yet, if the count be really alive--

_Charles_. Is the count really alive? I'd give my best cow to see him.

_Aleft_. Come with me, then, and in one quarter of an hour you _shall_
see him.

_Cath. (clasping her hands_.) Then there _is_ hope for me--Tell me, is
there any news?

_Aleft_. There is.

_Cath_. Of my husband?

_Aleft_. Yes--ask me no more--you must hear the rest from Count Helmaar
himself--he has sent for you.

_Cath. (springs forward_.) This instant let me go, let me hear--(_she
stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, which lies in her
passage_).--But what shall I hear?--there can be no good news for
me--this speaks too plainly.

[_Aleftson pulls her arm between his, and leads her away_.]

_Charles_. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, along with you--I won't
be left behind--I'm wide awake now--I must have a sight of Count Helmaar
in his own castle--why, they'll make much of me in every cottage on my
road home, when I can swear to 'em I've seen Count Helmaar alive, in his
own castle, face to face--God bless him, he's _the poor man's friend_.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--_The housekeeper's room in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle_.

ULRICA _and_ CHRISTIERN.

CHRISTIERN _is drawing on his boots_.--_Mrs_. ULRICA _is sitting at a
tea-table making coffee_.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, well; I'll say no more: if you can't stay to-night,
you can't--but I had laid it all out in my head so cleverly, that you
should stay, and take a good night's rest here, in the castle; then, in
the morning, you'll find yourself as fresh as a lark.

_Christiern_. Oh! I am not at all tired.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Not tired! don't tell me that, now, for I know that you
_are_ tired, and can't help being tired, say what you will--Drink this
dish of coffee, at any rate--(_he drinks coffee_).

_Christiern_. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine and my little
ones--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Very true, very true; but in one word, I want to see the
happy meeting, for such things are a treat to me, and don't come every
day, you know; and now, in the morning, I could go along with you to the
cottage, but you must be sensible I could not be spared out this night,
on no account or possibility.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Ma'am, the cook is hunting high and low for the
brandy-cherries.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ Lord bless me! are not they there before those eyes of
yours?--But I can't blame nobody for being out of their wits a little
with joy such a night as this.

[_Exit Footman_.]

_Christiern_. Never man was better beloved in the regiment than Count
Helmaar.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Ay! ay! so he is every where, and so he deserves to be. Is
your coffee good? sweeten to your taste, and don't spare sugar, nor don't
spare any thing that this house affords; for, to be sure, you deserve it
all--nothing can be too good for him that saved my master's life. So now
that we are comfortable and quiet over our dish of coffee, pray be so
very good as to tell me the whole story of my master's escape, and of the
horse being killed under him, and of your carrying him off on your
shoulders; for I've only heard it by bits and scraps, as one may say;
I've seen only the bill of fare, ha! ha! ha!--so now pray set out all the
good things for me, in due order, garnished and all; and, before you
begin, taste these cakes--they are my own making.

_Christiern (aside)_. 'Tis the one-and-twentieth time I've told the story
to-day; but no matter. (_Aloud_) Why, then, madam, the long and the short
of the story is--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh, pray, let it be the _long_, not the _short_ of the
story, if you please: a story can never be too long for my taste, when it
concerns my master--'tis, as one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer the
finer, and the more I relish it--but I interrupt you, and you eat none of
my cake--pray go on--(_A call behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs.
Ulrica!_)--Coming!--coming!--patience.

_Christiern_. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, here--just
please to look; I've drawn the field of battle for you here, with coffee,
on the table--and you shall be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. I!--no--I'll not he the enemy--my master's enemy!

_Christiern_. Well, I'll be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. You!--Oh no, you sha'n't be the enemy.

_Christiern_. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. The cake--my cake!--no, indeed.

_Christiern_. Well, let the candle be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, let the candle be the enemy; and where was my
master, and where are you--I don't understand--what is all this great
slop?

_Christiern_. Why, ma'am, the field of battle; and let the coffee-pot be
my master: here comes the enemy--

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for the dancers above.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. More refreshments!--more!--bless my heart, 'tis an
_un_possibility they can have swallowed down all I laid out, not an hour
ago, in the confectionary room.

_Footman_. Confectionary room! Oh, I never thought of looking there.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Look ye there, now!--why, where did you think of looking,
then?--in the stable, or the cockloft, hey?--[_Exit Footman_.]--But I
can't scold on such a night as this: their poor heads are all turned with
joy; and my own's scarce in a more proper_er_ condition--Well, I beg
your pardon--pray go on--the coffee-pot is my master, and the candle's
the enemy.

_Christiern_. So, ma'am, here comes the enemy full drive, upon Count
Helmaar.

[_A call without of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!_]

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!--can't you do without Mrs.
Ulrica one instant but you must call, call--(_Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs.
Ulrica!_)--Mercy on us, what do you want? I _must_ go for one instant.

_Christiern_. And I _must_ bid ye a good night.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Nay, nay, nay,--(_eagerly_)--you won't go--I'll be back.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_ Ma'am! Mrs. Ulrica! the key of the blue press.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. The key of the blue press--I had it in my hand just now--I
gave it--I--(_looks amongst a bunch of keys, and then all round the
room_)--I know nothing at all about it, I tell you--I must drink my tea,
and I will--[_Exit Footman_]. 'Tis a sin to scold on such a night as
this, if one could help it--Well, Mr. Christiern, so the coffee-pot's my
master.

_Christiern_. And the sugar-basin--why here's a key in the sugar-basin.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Lord bless me! 'tis the very key, the key of the blue
press--why dear me--(_feels in her pocket_)--and here are the sugar tongs
in my pocket, I protest--where was my poor head? Hers, Thomas! Thomas!
here's the key; take it, and don't say a word for your life, if you can
help it; you need not come in, I say--(_she holds the door--the footman
pushes in_).

_Footman_. But, ma'am, I have something particular to say.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Why, you've always something particular to say--is it any
thing about my master?

_Footman_. No, but about your purse, ma'am.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. What of my purse?

_Footman_. Here's your little godson, ma'am, is here, who has found it.

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_aside_). Hold your foolish tongue, can't you?--don't
mention my little godson, for your life.

[_The little boy creeps in under the footman's arm; his sister Kate
follows him. Mrs. Ulrica lifts up her hands and eyes, with signs of
impatience_.]

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_aside_). Now I had settled in my head that their father
should not see them till to-morrow morning.

_Little Girl_. Who is that strange man?

_Little Boy_. He has made me forget all I had to say.

_Christiern_ (_aside_). What charming children!

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_asid_). He does not know them to be his--they don't know
him to be their father. (_Aloud_) Well, children, what brings you here at
this time of night?

_Little Boy_. What I was going to say was--(_the little boy looks at
the stranger between every two or three words, and Christiern looks at
him_)--what I was going to say was--

_Little Girl_. Ha! ha! ha!--he forgets that we found this purse in the
forest as we were going home.

_Little Boy_. And we thought that it might be yours.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Why should you think it was mine?

_Little Boy_. Because nobody else could have so much money in one purse;
so we brought it to you--here it is.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. 'Tis none of my purse. (_Aside_) Oh! he'll certainly find
out that they are his children--(_she stands between the children and
Christiern_). 'Tis none of my purse; but you are good, honest little
dears, and I'll be hanged if I won't carry you both up to my master
himself, this very minute, and tell the story of your honesty before all
the company.

[_She pushes the children towards the door. Ulric looks back._]

_Little Boy_. He has a soldier's coat on--let me ask him if he is a
soldier.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. No--what's that to you?

_Little Girl_. Let me ask him if he knows any thing about father.

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_puts her hand before the little girl's mouth_). Hold your
little foolish tongue, I say--what's that to you?

[_Exeunt, Mrs. Ulrica pushing forward the children._]

_Enter, at the opposite door,_ THOMAS, _the footman._

_Footman._ Sir, would you please to come into our servants'-hall, only
for one instant: there's one wants to speak a word to you.

_Christiern._ Oh, I cannot stay another moment: I must go home: who is
it?

_Footman_. 'Tis a poor man who has brought in two carts full of my
master's baggage; and my master begs you'll be so very good as to see
that the things are all right, as you know 'em, and no one else here
does.

_Christiern (with impatience)._ How provoking!--a full hour's work:--I
sha'n't get home this night, I see that:--I wish the man and the baggage
were in the Gulf of Finland. [_Exeunt._]

SCENE--_The apartment where the_ COUNT, ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, _&c., were
dancing._

_Enter Mrs._ ULRICA, _eading the two children._

_Christina._ Ha! Mrs. Ulrica, and her little godson.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ My lady, I beg pardon for presuming to interrupt; but I
was so proud of my little godson and his sister, though not my
goddaughter, that I couldn't but bring them up, through the very midst of
the company, to my master, to praise them according to their deserts; for
nobody can praise those that deserve it so well as my master--to my
fancy.

_Eleonora_ (_aside_). Nor to mine.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Here's a purse, sir, which this little boy and girl of
mine found in the woods as they were going home; and, like honest
children, as they are, they came back with it directly to me, thinking
that it was mine.

_Helmaar_. Shake hands, my honest little fellow--this is just what I
should have expected from a godson of Mrs. Ulrica, and a son of--

_Mrs. Ulrica (aside to the Count_). Oh, Lord bless you, sir, don't tell
him--My lady--(_to Christina_)--would you take the children out of
hearing?

_Eleon_. (_to the children_). Come with us, my dears.

[_Exeunt ladies and children._]

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Don't, sir, pray, tell the children any thing about their
father: they don't know that their father's here, though they've just
seen him; and I've been striving all I can to keep the secret, and to
keep the father here all night, that I may have the pleasure of seeing
the meeting of father and mother and children at their own cottage
to-morrow. I would not miss the sight of their meeting for fifty pounds;
and yet I shall not see it after all--for Christiern will go, all I can
say or do. Lord bless me! I forgot to bolt him in when I came up with the
children--the bird's flown, for certain--(_going in a great hurry_).

_Helmaar_. Good Mrs. Ulrica, you need not be alarmed; your prisoner is
very safe, I can assure you, though you forgot to bolt him in: I have
given him an employment that will detain him a full hour, for I design to
have the pleasure of restoring my deliverer myself to his family.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh! that will be delightful!--Then you'll keep him here
all night!--but that will vex him terribly; and of all the days and
nights of the year, one wouldn't have any body vexed this day or night,
more especially the man, who, as I may say, is the cause of all our
illuminations, and rejoicings, and dancings--no, no, happen what will, we
must not have him vexed.

_Helmaar_. He shall not be vexed, I promise you; and, if it be necessary
to keep your heart from breaking, my good Mrs. Ulrica, I'll tell you a
secret, which I had intended, I own, to have kept from you one half hour
longer.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. A secret! dear sir, half an hour's a great while, to
keep a secret from one when it's about one's friends: pray, if it be
proper--but you are the best judge--I should be very glad to hear just a
little hint of the matter, to prepare me.

_Helmaar_. Then prepare in a few minutes to see the happy meeting between
Christiern and his family: I have sent to his cottage for his wife, to
desire that she would come hither immediately.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh! a thousand thanks to you, sir; but I'm afraid the
messenger will let the cat out of the bag.

_Helmaar_. The man I have sent can keep a secret--Which way did the Lady
Eleonora go?--Are those peasants in the hall? [_Exit Count._]

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_following_). She went towards the west drawing-room, I
think, sir.--Yes, sir, the peasants are at supper in the hall. (_Aside_)
Bless me! I wonder what messenger he sent, for I don't know many--men I
mean--fit to be trusted with a secret. [_Exit_.]

SCENE--_An apartment in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle_.--ELEONORA.--
CHRISTINA.--_Little_ KATE _and_ ULRIC _asleep on the floor_.

_Eleon_. Poor creatures! they were quite tired by sitting up so late: is
their mother come yet?

_Christina._ Not yet; but she will soon be here, for my brother told
Aleftson to make all possible haste. Do you know where my brother is?--he
is not among the dancers. I expected to have found him sighing at the
Lady Eleonora's feet.

_Eleon_. He is much better employed than in sighing at any body's feet;
he is gone down into the great hall, to see and reward some poor peasants
who have brought home the knapsacks of those unfortunate soldiers who
fell in the last battle:--your good Mrs. Ulrica found out that these
peasants were in the village near us--she sent for them, got a plentiful
supper ready, and the count is now speaking to them.

_Christina_. And can you forgive my ungallant brother for thinking of
vulgar boors, when he ought to be intent on nothing but your bright
eyes?--then all I can say is, you are both of you just fit for one
another: every _fool_, indeed, saw that long ago.

[_A cry behind the scenes of "Long line Count Helmaar! Long live the good
count! long live the poor man's friend!_"]

_Christina (joins the cry_). Long live Count Helmaar!--join me,
Eleonora--long live the good count! long live the poor man's friend!

[_The little children waken, start up, and stretch themselves_.]

_Eleon_. There, you have wakened these poor children.

_Ulric_. What's the matter? I dreamed father was shaking hands with me.

_Enter Mrs_. ULRICA.

_Little Kate_. Mrs. Ulrica! where am I? I thought I was in my little bed
at home--I was dreaming about a purse, I believe.

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Documentary to lay bare 'Narnia Code'

He wrote it in just three weeks, furiously and loudly tap-tap-tapping away on his typewriter on 12ft long reels of paper so that he did not have to stop, just writing writing writing fuelled only, he said, by coffee…

It became one of the most important American novels of the last century and yesterday the original manuscript - a scroll taped together with eight reels of paper - of Jack Kerouac's On The Road was unfurled in the UK for the first time.
Fifty years after the novel which more or less defined the Beat generation, was published in Britain, the Barber Institute in Birmingham is showing what is now one of the most valuable literary manuscripts in existence as part of its exhibition Jack Kerouac: Back On the Road.

The exhibition's curator Professor Dick Ellis said there had been a lot of competition to get the scroll which is itself spending a lot of time on the move, having toured a string of US cities and hitting the road to Rome once this show is over. "We're very excited indeed," he said. "This is an iconic manuscript. It is a record of the huge effort Kerouac put into composing it. It was 20 days of typing 6,500 words a day, flat out, in spontaneous composition. He wanted to record things with the most possible accuracy using the spontaneous technique. His typewriter became a compositional instrument.

"Truman Capote once accused Kerouac of typing rather than writing, I would say he was learning the ability of using the typewriter like a jazz instrument, like a saxophone. He also had an incredible memory. And he had great speed at typing, he became a lightning typist. He came to be able to use a typewriter in a way that has not been seen before or since. Kerouac said he wrote fast because the road was fast."

About 22 of the scroll's 120ft will be on display in a specially built cabinet and while visitors will have to slightly tilt their heads, Ellis believes they will get a much deeper knowledge of what Kerouac was all about. It comes to Birmingham courtesy of Jim Irsay, owner of the Indianapolis Colts, who bought it for $2.4m (£1.6m) in 2001 before agreeing to a tour. Of course, in the published novel, there are paragraph breaks but in the scroll, there are none. Kerouac did not have the time. The exhibition runs until January 28.

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