Download Complete Student solutions manual for Calculus of a single variable by Ron Larson the Pennsylvania State University the Behrend College Bruce Edwards University of Florida Tenth Edition Edwards PDF for All Chapters
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Student solutions manual for Calculus of a single variable
by Ron Larson the Pennsylvania State University the
Behrend College Bruce Edwards University of Florida
Tenth Edition Edwards Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Edwards, Bruce H.;Larson, Ron
ISBN(s): 9781285085715, 128508571X
Edition: Tenth edition
File Details: PDF, 71.32 MB
Year: 2014
Language: english
Student Solutions Manual
TENTH EDITION
Ron Larson
The Pennsylvania State University,
The Behrend College
Bruce Edwards
University of Florida
Prepared by
Bruce Edwards
University of Florida
Australia • Brazil • Japan • Korea • Mexico • Singapore • Spain • United Kingdom • United States
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CONTENTS
Chapter 2 Differentiation.................................................................................................................... 57
iii
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
CHAPTER P
Preparation for Calculus
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
C H A P T E R P
Preparation for Calculus
Section P.1 Graphs and Models
1. y = − 32 x + 3 9. y = x + 2
x-intercept: (2, 0)
x −5 −4 −3 −2 −1 0 1
y-intercept: (0, 3)
Matches graph (b). y 3 2 1 0 1 2 3
y
2. y = 9 − x2
6
x-intercepts: ( −3, 0), (3, 0)
4
(− 5, 3)
y-intercept: (0, 3) (1, 3)
(− 4, 2) 2 (0, 2)
Matches graph (d). (− 3, 1) (− 1, 1)
x
−6 −4 (− 2, 0) 2
3. y = 3 − x 2
−2
x-intercepts: ( )(
3, 0 , − 3, 0 ) 11. y = x −6
y-intercept: (0, 3)
Matches graph (a). x 0 1 4 9 16
y −6 −5 −4 −3 −2
4. y = x3 − x
y
x-intercepts: (0, 0), ( −1, 0), (1, 0)
2
y-intercept: (0, 0) x
−4 4 8 12 16
Matches graph (c). −2 (9, −3)
(16, −2)
−4 (4, −4)
5. y = 1x
2
+ 2 (1, −5)
−6
(0, −6)
−8
x −4 −2 0 2 4
y 0 1 2 3 4 3
13. y =
y x
6 x −3 −2 −1 0 1 2 3
(4, 4)
4 (2, 3)
(0, 2) y −1 − 32 −3 Undef. 3 3
2
1
(−2, 1)
x
−4 −2 2 4 y
(−4, 0) −2
3
(1, 3)
2 (2, 32 (
7. y = 4 − x 2
1
(3, 1)
(−3, −1)
x
x −3 −2 0 2 3 −3 −2 −1
−1
1 2 3
−2 (−2, − 32 (
y −5 0 4 0 −5
(−1, −3)
y
6
(0, 4)
2
(− 2, 0) (2, 0)
x
−6 −4 4 6
−2
(− 3, − 5) −4 (3, − 5)
−6
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.1 Graphs and Models 3
(−4.00, 3)
(2, 1.73)
29. Symmetric with respect to the x-axis because
−6 6
(− y )2 = y 2 = x3 − 8 x.
−3
31. Symmetric with respect to the origin because
(a) (2, y) = ( 2, 1.73) (y = 5−2 = )
3 ≈ 1.73 (− x)(− y ) = xy = 4.
1
x-intercepts: 0 = x 16 − x 2 ( 23 , 0(
x
−1 2 3
0 = x (4 − x)(4 + x) −1
−2
25. x 2 y − x 2 + 4 y = 0
y-intercept: 02 ( y ) − 02 + 4 y = 0
y = 0; (0, 0)
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
4 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
43. y = x3 + 2 51. y = 6 − x
y = 03 + 2 = 2, y -intercept y = 6 − 0 = 6, y -intercept
0 = x + 2 ⇒ x = −2 ⇒ x = −
3 3 3
2, x-intercept 6− x = 0
Intercepts: − ( 3
)
2, 0 , (0, 2) y 6 = x
5 x = ± 6, x-intercepts
Symmetry: none
Intercepts: (0, 6), ( −6, 0), (6, 0)
4
(0, 2) y = 6 − −x = 6 − x
1
(− 3 2, 0)
−3 −2 1 2 3
x Symmetry: y-axis
−1 y
8
6 (0, 6)
45. y = x x +5 4
(− 6, 0) 2
(6, 0)
y = 0 0 + 5 = 0, y -intercept x
−8 −4 −2 2 4 6 8
−2
x x + 5 = 0 ⇒ x = 0, − 5, x-intercepts −4
−6
Intercepts: (0, 0), ( −5, 0) y
−8
3
Symmetry: none 2
53. y 2 − x = 9
(−5, 0) (0, 0)
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2
x
y2 = x + 9
y = ± x+9
−3
−4 y = ± 0+9 = ± 9 = ± 3, y -intercepts
± x +9 = 0
47. x = y 3 x +9 = 0
x = − 9, x-intercept
y 3 = 0 ⇒ y = 0, y -intercept
x = 0, x-intercept y
Intercepts: (0, 3), (0, − 3), ( −9, 0)
Intercept: (0, 0) 4
(− y )2 − x = 9 ⇒ y2 − x = 9
3
− x = (− y ) ⇒ − x = − y 3
3 2
Symmetry: x-axis
(0, 0)
x
Symmetry: origin −4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
y
−2 6
−3 4
−4 (0, 3)
(−9, 0) 2
x
8 −10 −6 −4 −2 2
49. y = −2 (0, −3)
x −4
−6
8
y = ⇒ Undefined ⇒ no y -intercept
0
8
= 0 ⇒ No solution ⇒ no x-intercept
x
y
Intercepts: none
8
8 8 6
−y = ⇒ y =
−x x 4
2
x
Symmetry: origin −2 2 4 6 8
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.1 Graphs and Models 5
55. x + 3 y 2 = 6 61. x 2 + y 2 = 5 ⇒ y 2 = 5 − x 2
3y2 = 6 − x x − y = 1 ⇒ y = x −1
5 − x 2 = ( x − 1)
2
6− x
y = ±
3 5 − x2 = x2 − 2x + 1
y = ±
6−0
= ± 2, y -intercepts 0 = 2 x 2 − 2 x − 4 = 2( x + 1)( x − 2)
3 x = −1 or x = 2
x + 3(0) = 6
2
The corresponding y-values are y = −2 (for x = −1)
x = 6, x-intercept
and y = 1 (for x = 2).
Intercepts: (6, 0), 0, ( )(
2 , 0, − 2 ) Points of intersection: ( −1, − 2), ( 2, 1)
x + 3( − y ) = 6 ⇒ x + 3 y = 6
2 2
63. y = x3 − 2 x 2 + x − 1
Symmetry: x-axis
y = − x2 + 3x − 1
y
4
4
y = x3 − 2x2 + x − 1
3
2 ( 0, 2) (2, 1)
1 −4 6
(6, 0) (0, −1)
x
−1 1 2 3 6 7 (−1, −5)
−2 ( 0, − 2)
−3 −8
y = −x2 + 3x − 1
−4
8 − x = 4x − 7 x3 − x 2 − 2 x = 0
15 = 5 x x( x − 2)( x + 1) = 0
3 = x x = −1, 0, 2.
The corresponding y-value is y = 5.
65. y = x+6
Point of intersection: (3, 5)
y = − x2 − 4 x
59. x 2 + y = 6 ⇒ y = 6 − x 2 4
x + y = 4 ⇒ y = 4− x y= x+6 (3, 3)
6 − x2 = 4 − x −7
(−2, 2)
2
0 = x − x−2 2 y= −x 2 − 4x
0 = ( x − 2)( x + 1)
−2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
6 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
67. (a) Using a graphing utility, you obtain 73. Answers may vary. Sample answer:
y = 0.005t 2 + 0.27t + 2.7. y = ( x + 4)( x − 3)( x − 8) has intercepts at
x = − 4, x = 3, and x = 8.
(b) 16
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.2 Linear Models and Rates of Change 7
2 1 1 21. y + 2 = 3( x − 3)
−
9. m = 3 6 = 2 = 2 y + 2 = 3x − 9
1 ⎛ 3⎞ 1
− − ⎜− ⎟ y = 3x − 11
2 ⎝ 4⎠ 4
y
0 = 3x − y − 11
3 y
2 3
(− 12 , 23 ) (− 34 , 16 ) 2
1
x
x
−3 −2 1 2 3
−2 −1 1 2 3 4 5 6
−1 −1
−2
−2 (3, −2)
−3
−3
−4
−5
y
11. m = −2
m is undefined. ∆y 1
23. (a) Slope = =
m=−3 ∆x 3
2
8 m=1
6
(b)
x
4 (3, 4) 10 ft
2
x
−6 −4 2 4 8 10 30 ft
−2
25. y = 4 x − 3
15. The equation of this line is
y − 7 = −3( x − 1) The slope is m = 4 and the y-intercept is (0, − 3).
y = −3x + 10.
27. x + 5 y = 20
Therefore, three additional points are (0, 10), (2, 4), and
y = − 15 x + 4
(3, 1).
Therefore, the slope is m = − 15 and the y-intercept is
17. y = 3x +3
4 (0, 4).
4 y = 3x + 12
0 = 3x − 4 y + 12 29. x = 4
y
The line is vertical. Therefore, the slope is undefined and
there is no y-intercept.
5
4 31. y = −3
(0, 3)
y
2
2
1
1
x x
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4 5
−2
19. y = 2x
3
−4
−5
3y = 2x −6
0 = 2x − 3y 33. y = −2 x + 1
y
y
4
3
3
1
(0, 0)
x x
1 2 3 4 −2 −1 1 2
−1
−1
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
8 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
35. y − 2 = 3
2 (x − 1) 7 3
−
11 y
2 4 11
= 4 = ( 12 , 72 )
4
y = 3x + 1 45. m =
2 2 1 1 2 3
−0 2
y 2 2 1 ( 0, 34 )
x
4 3 11
= ( x − 0)
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
3 y −
2
4 2
1 11 3
x y = x +
−4 −3 −2 1 2 3 4 2 4
−2 0 = 22 x − 4 y + 3
−3
−4
47. x = 3
x −3 = 0
37. 2 x − y − 3 = 0 y
y = 2x − 3
2
y
1
1 (3, 0)
x
x 1 2 4
−2 −1 2 3
−1
−1
−2 −2
−3
x y
49. + =1
8−0 y 2 3
39. m = = 2 3x + 2 y − 6 = 0
4−0 8 (4, 8)
y − 0 = 2( x − 0) 6
x y
y = 2x 4 51. + = 1
a a
2
0 = 2x − y (0, 0) 1 2
x + = 1
−4 −2 2 4 6 a a
3
= 1
a
8−0 8 y a = 3 ⇒ x+ y = 3
41. m = = −
2−5 3 9
8 (2, 8) x + y −3 = 0
7
8
( x − 5)
6
y −0 = − 5 x y
3 4 53. + =1
8 40
3 2a a
2
y = − x+ 1 (5, 0) 9 −2
3 3 x + =1
8 x + 3 y − 40 = 0
−1 1 2 3 4 6 7 8 9
2a a
−2
9− 4
=1
2a
5 = 2a
8−3 5
43. m = = , undefined 5
6−6 0 a =
2
The line is horizontal.
x y
x = 6 + =1
x−6 = 0
2 () ()
5
2
5
2
y x 2y
+ =1
8 (6, 8)
5 5
6
x + 2y = 5
4 x + 2y − 5 = 0
(6, 3)
2
x
−2 2 4 8
−2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.2 Linear Models and Rates of Change 9
y −5 = x − 2 c a − b⎛ a + b⎞
y − = ⎜x − ⎟
2 c ⎝ 2 ⎠
x − y + 3 = 0
c a + b⎛ b − a⎞
(b) y − 5 = −1( x − 2) y − = ⎜x − ⎟
2 −c ⎝ 2 ⎠
y − 5 = −x + 2
Setting the right-hand sides of the two equations equal
x + y −7 = 0 and solving for x yields x = 0.
Letting x = 0 in either equation gives the point of
59. 4 x − 2 y = 3
intersection:
y = 2x − 3
2 ⎛ −a 2 + b2 + c 2 ⎞
m = 2 ⎜ 0, ⎟.
⎝ 2c ⎠
(a) y − 1 = 2( x − 2)
This point lies on the third perpendicular bisector,
y − 1 = 2x − 4 x = 0.
0 = 2x − y − 3 y
(b) y −1 = − 12 ( x − 2)
2 y − 2 = −x + 2 (b, c)
x + 2y − 4 = 0
( b −2 a , 2c )
( a +2 b , 2c )
61. 5 x − 3 y = 0 x
5x (−a, 0) (a, 0)
y = 3
m = 5
3
71. Equations of altitudes:
(a) y − 7
8
= 5
3 ( x − 43 ) a −b
y = ( x + a)
24 y − 21 = 40 x − 30 c
0 = 40 x − 24 y − 9 x = b
a +b
(b) y − 7
8 (
= − 53 x − 3
4 ) y = −
c
( x − a)
40 y − 35 = −24 x + 18 Solving simultaneously, the point of intersection is
24 x + 40 y − 53 = 0 ⎛ a 2 − b2 ⎞
⎜ b, ⎟.
⎝ c ⎠
63. The slope is 250. y
V = 1850 when t = 2.
V = 250(t − 2) + 1850
(b, c)
= 250t + 1350
(a, 0)
65. The slope is −1600. x
(− a, 0)
V = 17,200 when t = 2.
V = −1600(t − 2) + 17,200
= −1600t + 20,400
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
10 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
73. ax + by = 4 79. (a) Two points are (50, 780) and (47, 825).
(a) The line is parallel to the x-axis if a = 0 and b ≠ 0. The slope is
(b) The line is parallel to the y-axis if b = 0 and a ≠ 0. 825 − 780 45
m = = = −15.
(c) Answers will vary. Sample answer: a = −5 and 47 − 50 −3
b = 8. p − 780 = −15( x − 50)
−5 x + 8 y = 4 p = −15 x + 750 + 780 = −15 x + 1530
y = 1
8 (5 x + 4) = 5x
8
+ 1
2 or
(d) The slope must be − 52 . 1
x = (1530 − p)
15
Answers will vary. Sample answer: a = 5 and
b = 2. (b) 50
5x + 2 y = 4
y = 1
2 (−5 x + 4) = − 52 x + 2
5 0 1600
(e) a = 2
and b = 3. 0
F − 32 = 5(
9 C − 0
) (5, 12)
F = 9 C + 32 8
5
4
or (0, 0) 8
x
−8 −4 16
C = 1
9 (5 F − 160) −8
5F − 9C − 160 = 0 −16
For F = 72°, C ≈ 22.2°.
12
Slope of the line joining (5, 12) and (0, 0) is .
77. (a) Current job: W1 = 0.07 s + 2000 5
The equation of the tangent line is
New job offer: W2 = 0.05s + 2300
−5
(b) 3500 y − 12 = ( x − 5)
(15,000, 3050)
12
−5 169
y = x +
12 12
0 20,000
5 x + 12 y − 169 = 0.
1500
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.2 Linear Models and Rates of Change 11
B
y − y1 = ( x − x1 )
A
Ay − Ay1 = Bx − Bx1
Bx1 − Ay1 = Bx − Ay
The point of intersection of these two lines is:
Ax + By = −C ⇒ A2 x + ABy = − AC (1)
Bx − Ay = Bx1 − Ay1 ⇒ B 2 x − ABy = B 2 x1 − ABy1 ( 2)
( A2 + B 2 ) x = − AC + B 2 x1 − ABy1 (By adding equations (1) and (2))
− AC + B x1 − ABy1
2
x =
A2 + B 2
Ax + By = −C ⇒
ABx + B 2 y = − BC (3)
Bx − Ay = Bx1 − Ay1 ⇒ − ABx + A2 y = − ABx1 + A2 y1 ( 4)
( A2 + B 2 ) y = − BC − ABx1 + A2 y1 ( By adding equations (3) and ( 4))
− BC − ABx1 + A2 y1
y =
A2 + B 2
⎛ − AC + B 2 x1 − ABy1 − BC − ABx1 + A2 y1 ⎞
⎜ , ⎟ point of intersection
⎝ A2 + B 2 A2 + B 2 ⎠
The distance between ( x1 , y1 ) and this point gives you the distance between ( x1 , y1 ) and the line Ax + By + C = 0.
2 2
⎡ − AC + B 2 x1 − ABy1 ⎤ ⎡ − BC − ABx1 + A2 y1 ⎤
d = ⎢ − x1 ⎥ + ⎢ − y1 ⎥
⎣ A 2
+ B 2
⎦ ⎣ A 2
+ B 2
⎦
2 2
⎡ − AC − ABy1 − A2 x1 ⎤ ⎡ − BC − ABx1 − B 2 y1 ⎤
= ⎢ ⎥ + ⎢ ⎥
⎣ A + B
2 2
⎦ ⎣ A2 + B 2 ⎦
=
⎡− A(C + By1 + Ax1 ) ⎤
2
⎡− B(C + Ax1 + By1 ) ⎤
2
( A2 + B 2 )(C + Ax1 + By1 )2 Ax1 + By1 + C
⎢ ⎥ + ⎢ ⎥ = =
A + B A2 + B 2 ( A2 + B 2 )
2 2 2
⎣ ⎦ ⎣ ⎦ A2 + B 2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
12 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
89. For simplicity, let the vertices of the rhombus be (0, 0), 91. Consider the figure below in which the four points are
(a, 0), (b, c), and ( a + b, c), as shown in the figure. collinear. Because the triangles are similar, the result
immediately follows.
c
The slopes of the diagonals are then m1 = and y2* − y1* y − y1
a +b = 2
c x2 − x1
* *
x2 − x1
m2 = . Because the sides of the rhombus are
b−a y
(x 2 , y2 ) (x *2 , y*2 )
c c c2 c2
m1m2 = ⋅ = 2 = = −1. (x1, y1 )
a +b b−a b −a 2
−c 2
(x *1, y*1 )
Therefore, the diagonals are perpendicular.
y
x
(b, c) (a + b, c)
93. True.
a c a
ax + by = c1 ⇒ y = − x + 1 ⇒ m1 = −
(0, 0) (a , 0)
x b b b
b c b
bx − ay = c2 ⇒ y = x − 2 ⇒ m2 =
a a a
1
m2 = −
m1
(d) f ( x − 1) = 7( x − 1) − 4 = 7 x − 11 ⎛π ⎞ ⎛ ⎛ π ⎞⎞ 2π 1
(c) f ⎜ ⎟ = cos⎜ 2⎜ ⎟ ⎟ = cos = −
⎝3⎠ ⎝ ⎝ 3 ⎠⎠ 3 2
3. (a) g (0) = 5 − 02 = 5 (d) f (π ) = cos( 2(π )) = 1
( 5) = 5 − ( 5)
2
(b) g = 5−5 = 0
(d) g (t − 1) = 5 − (t − 1) = 5 − (t 2 − 2t + 1)
2
= 4 + 2t − t 2
f ( x + ∆x ) − f ( x ) (x + ∆x) − x3 x 3 + 3 x 2 ∆x + 3 x 2 ( ∆ x ) + ( ∆ x ) − x 3
3 2 3
= 3 x 2 + 3x∆x + ( ∆x) , ∆x ≠ 0
2
7. = =
∆x ∆x ∆x
9.
f ( x) − f ( 2)
=
(1 x −1 −1 )
x − 2 x − 2
1− x −1 1+ x −1 2− x −1
= ⋅ = = , x ≠ 2
(x− 2) x − 1 1 + x −1 ( x − 2) x −11+ ( x −1 ) x −11 + ( x −1 )
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.3 Functions and Their Graphs 13
11. f ( x) = 4 x 2 27. f ( x) =
1
x+3
Domain: ( −∞, ∞)
x+3 ≠ 0
Range: [0, ∞)
x +3 ≠ 0
(d) f (t 2 + 1) = 2(t 2 + 1) + 2 = 2t 2 + 4
17. f ( x) = 16 − x 2
(Note: t 2 + 1 ≥ 0 for all t.)
16 − x 2 ≥ 0 ⇒ x 2 ≤ 16
Domain: ( −∞, ∞)
Domain: [− 4, 4]
Range: [0, 4] Range: ( −∞, 1) ∪ [2, ∞)
x ≥ 0 and 1 − x ≥ 0 2
x ≥ 0 and x ≤ 1 x
−4 −2 2 4
Domain: 0 ≤ x ≤ 1 ⇒ [0, 1]
y
35. h( x) = x −6
2
25. g ( x) = 3
1 − cos x Domain:
2
1 − cos x ≠ 0 x −6 ≥ 0
1
cos x ≠ 1 x ≥ 6 ⇒ [6, ∞)
x
Range: [0, ∞)
3 6 9 12
Domain: all x ≠ 2nπ , n an integer
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
14 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
37. f ( x) = 9 − x2
y
55. y = f ( x + 5) is a horizontal shift 5 units to the left.
5
Matches d.
Domain: [−3, 3] 4
Range: [0, 3]
2 56. y = f ( x) − 5 is a vertical shift 5 units downward.
1
x Matches b.
−4 − 3 −2 − 1 1 2 3 4
Domain: ( −∞, ∞) 61. (a) The graph is shifted 3 units to the left.
y
Range: [−3, 3]
4
2−0 1
41. The student travels = mi min during the first x
4−0 2 −6 −4 −2 2 4
−2
4 minutes. The student is stationary for the next 2
minutes. Finally, the student travels −4
6−2 −6
= 1 mi min during the final 4 minutes.
10 − 6
(b) The graph is shifted 1 unit to the right.
43. x − y 2 = 0 ⇒ y = ± x
y
most once. −2
−4
47. x 2 + y 2 = 16 ⇒ y = ± 16 − x 2 −6
Shifted function: y = x − 2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.3 Functions and Their Graphs 15
x (a) f ( x) + g ( x) = (3x − 4) + 4 = 3 x
−4 −2 2 4 6
(b) f ( x) − g ( x) = (3 x − 4) − 4 = 3 x − 8
−2
−4
−6 (c) f ( x) ⋅ g ( x) = (3 x − 4)( 4) = 12 x − 16
−8
3x − 4 3
(d) f ( x) g ( x) = = x −1
4 4
−8
(e) f ( g ( x)) = f ( x 2 − 1) = x2 − 1
( x) = ( x)
2
(f) g ( f ( x)) = g
− 10
− 1 = x − 1, ( x ≥ 0)
(f ) The graph is stretched vertically by a factor of 1.
4
y 67. f ( x) = x 2 , g ( x) = x
4
(f D g )( x) = f ( g ( x))
2
( x) = ( x)
2
−4 −2 2 4 6
x
= f = x, x ≥ 0
Domain: [0, ∞)
(g D f )( x) = g ( f ( x)) = g ( x 2 ) =
−6
x2 = x
(g) The graph is a reflection in the x-axis. Domain: ( −∞, ∞)
y
3
69. f ( x) = , g ( x) = x 2 − 1
x
−4 −2 2 4 6
−2 x
3
D g )( x) = f ( g ( x)) = f ( x 2 − 1) =
−4
(f
x2 − 1
(h) The graph is a reflection about the origin.
y Domain: all x ≠ ±1 ⇒ ( −∞, −1) ∪ ( −1, 1) ∪ (1, ∞ )
6
(g D f )( x) = g ( f ( x))
4
2
⎛ 3⎞ ⎛ 3⎞ 9 9 − x2
= g⎜ ⎟ = ⎜ ⎟ − 1 = 2 − 1 =
x ⎝ x⎠ ⎝ x⎠ x x2
−6 −4 2 4
−2
Domain: all x ≠ 0 ⇒ ( −∞, 0) ∪ (0, ∞)
−4
No, f D g ≠ g D f .
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16 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
73. F ( x ) = 2x − 2
Let h( x) = 2 x, g ( x) = x − 2 and f ( x) = x.
(
f ( − x ) = ( − x) 4 − ( − x)
2 2
) = x (4 − x ) =
2 2
f ( x)
6
y
f is even. (−2, 4) 4
f ( x) = x (4 − x
2 2
)= 0 2
x
x 2 ( 2 − x)( 2 + x) = 0
−6 −4 −2 2 4 6
−4
Zeros: x = 0, − 2, 2
−6 (0, −6)
81. f ( x) = x cos x
f ( − x) = ( − x) cos ( − x) = − x cos x = − f ( x) 85. x + y 2 = 0
f is odd. y2 = −x
f ( x) = x cos x = 0 y = − −x
Zeros: x = 0,
π
+ nπ , where n is an integer f ( x) = − −x, x ≤ 0
2 y
x
−5 −4 −3 −2 −1 1
−2
−3
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.3 Functions and Their Graphs 17
87. Answers will vary. Sample answer: Speed begins and 95. (a) y
Average number of
acres per farm
y 400
300
Speed (in miles per hour)
200
100
x
10 20 30 40 50 60
Year (0 ↔ 1960)
97. f ( x) = x + x − 2
89. Answers will vary. Sample answer: In general, as the
price decreases, the store will sell more. If x < 0, then f ( x) = − x − ( x − 2) = −2 x + 2.
If 0 ≤ x < 2, then f ( x) = x − ( x − 2) = 2.
y
If x ≥ 2, then f ( x) = x + ( x − 2) = 2 x − 2.
Number of sneakers sold
So,
⎧−2 x + 2, x ≤ 0
⎪
f ( x) = ⎨2, 0 < x < 2.
x ⎪2 x − 2, x ≥ 2
Price (in dollars) ⎩
99. f ( − x) = a2 n +1 ( − x) + " + a3 (− x) + a1 ( − x)
2 n +1 3
91. y = c − x2
= − ⎡⎣a2 n +1 x 2 n +1 + " + a3 x3 + a1x⎤⎦
y 2 = c − x2
x 2 + y 2 = c, a circle. = − f ( x)
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
18 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
111. First consider the portion of R in the first quadrant: x ≥ 0, 0 ≤ y ≤ 1 and x − y ≤ 1; shown below.
y
x
−1 (0, 0) (1, 0) 2
−1
(−2, 1)
2
(2, 1)
The area of R is 4( 32 ) = 6.
x
−2 1 2
900
800
700
600 0 500
0
x
900 1050 1200 1350
(c) Greater per capita energy consumption by a country
Yes, the data appear to be approximately linear. tends to correspond to greater per capita gross
The data can be modeled by equation national income. The three countries that most
y = 0.6 x + 150. (Answers will vary). differ from the linear model are Canada, Japan, and
Italy.
(c) When x = 1075, y = 0.6(1075) + 150 = 795.
(d) Using a graphing utility, the new model
is y = 0.142 x − 1.66.
3. (a) d = 0.066 F
The correlation coefficient is r ≈ 0.97.
(b) 10
d = 0.066F
0 110
0
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section P.4 Fitting Models to Data 19
(b) 25,000
0 7
0
0 14
0
(c) If x = 4.5, y ≈ 214 horsepower.
(c) When x = 2, S ≈ 583.98 pounds.
2370
(d) ≈ 4.06
584
The breaking strength is approximately 4 times
greater.
23,860
(e) ≈ 4.37
5460
When the height is doubled, the breaking strength
increases approximately by a factor of 4.
y1 + y2 + y3
y1
y2
y3
0 11
0
≈ 15.31 cents/mile
13. (a) Yes, y is a function of t. At each time t, there is one 17. Yes, A1 ≤ A2 . To see this, consider the two triangles of
and only one displacement y. areas A1 and A2 :
(b) The amplitude is approximately T2
T1
(2.35 − 1.65) 2 = 0.35. a1 γ1 b1
a2
γ2
b2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
20 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
y = 0: 0 = 5 x − 8 ⇒ x = 8
5
⇒ ( 85 , 0), x-intercept
x −3
3. y =
x−4
0−3 3 ⎛ 3⎞
x = 0: y = = ⇒ ⎜ 0, ⎟, y-intercept
0− 4 4 ⎝ 4⎠
x −3
y = 0: 0 = ⇒ x = 3 ⇒ (3, 0), x-intercept
x − 4
5. y = x 2 + 4 x does not have symmetry with respect to either axis or the origin.
1 11. y = x3 − 4 x
9. y = − x + 3
2
y-intercept: y = 03 − 4(0) = 0
1
y-intercept: y = − (0) + 3 = 3 (0, 0)
2
(0, 3) x-intercepts: x3 − 4 x = 0
1
x-intercept: − x + 3 = 0 x ( x 2 − 4) = 0
2
x( x − 2)( x + 2) = 0
1
− x = −3
2 x = 0, 2, − 2
x = 6 (0, 0), (2, 0), (− 2, 0)
(6, 0) Symmetric with respect to the origin because
Symmetry: none ( − x) − 4( − x) = − x3 + 4 x = − ( x3 − 4 x).
3
y
y
6
4
4
(0, 3) 3
2
(6, 0) (−2, 0)
1
(0, 0) (2, 0)
x x
−2 2 4 6 −4 −3 −1 1 3 4
−2
−2
−4 −3
−4
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Review Exercises for Chapter P 21
y
13. y = 2 4 − x 19.
5
y-intercept: y = 2 4 − 0 = 2 4 = 4 4
(0, 4) 3 ( 5, 52 )
2
x-intercept: 2 4 − x = 0
( 32 , 1 )
1
4− x = 0 x
1 2 3 4 5
4− x = 0
x = 4 ⎛5⎞ 3
⎜ ⎟ −1 3
⎝ 2⎠
(4, 0) Slope = = 2 =
⎛ 3⎞ 7 7
5−⎜ ⎟
Symmetry: none ⎝ 2⎠ 2
y 21. y − ( −5) = 7
4 (x − 3)
5 7 21
(0, 4) y +5 = 4
x − 4
3 4 y + 20 = 7 x − 21
2
0 = 7 x − 4 y − 41
1
(4, 0) y
x
−1 1 2 3 4 5
−1 2
x
−8 −6 −4 −2 2 4 6 8
15. 5 x + 3 y = −1 ⇒ y = 1
3 ( −5 x − 1) −4
−6
(3, −5)
x − y = −5 ⇒ y = x + 5 −8
−10 (0, − 414(
1
3 ( −5 x − 1) = x + 5
−5 x − 1 = 3 x + 15
−16 = 8 x 23. y − 0 = − 23 ( x − ( −3)) y
3
−2 = x y = − 23 x − 2 2
1
For x = −2, y = x + 5 = −2 + 5 = 3. 2x + 3y + 6 = 0 (− 3, 0)
x
−4 −3 −1 1 2 3
Point of intersection is: ( − 2, 3)
17. x − y = −5 ⇒ y = x + 5 −3
−4
x − y =1⇒ y = x −1
2 2
x + 5 = x2 − 1 25. y = 6 y
0 = x2 − x − 6 Slope: 0 8
(5, 4)
x = 3 or x = − 2 2
x
For x = 3, y = 3 + 5 = 8. −4 −2 2 4 6
−2
For x = − 2, y = − 2 + 5 = 3.
Points of intersection: (3, 8), ( − 2, 3) 27. y = 4 x − 2 y
4
Slope: 4 3
y -intercept: (0, − 2) 2
1
x
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−2
−3
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
22 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
2−0 37. f ( x) = 4 x 2
y
1
29. m = =
8−0 4 4
f ( x + ∆x) − f ( x) 4( x + ∆x) − 4 x 2
3 2
1
y − 0 = ( x − 0) 2
=
4 1 ∆x ∆x
( ) − 4x
x
4 x + 2 x∆x + ( ∆x)
2
1 −4 −1 1 2 3 4 2 2
y = x
4 −2
=
−3 ∆x
4y − x = 0 −4
4 x + 8 x∆x + 4( ∆x) − 4 x 2
2 2
=
∆x
31. (a) y −5 = 7
16 (x + 3)
8 x∆x + 4( ∆x)
2
16 y − 80 = 7 x + 21 =
∆x
0 = 7 x − 16 y + 101
= 8 x + 4∆x, ∆x ≠ 0
(b) 5 x − 3 y = 3 has slope 53 .
39. f ( x) = x 2 + 3
y −5 = 5
3 ( x + 3)
Domain: ( −∞, ∞)
3 y − 15 = 5 x + 15
0 = 5 x − 3 y + 30 Range: [3, ∞)
(c) 3x + 4 y = 8
41. f ( x) = − x + 1
4 y = − 3x + 8
Domain: ( −∞, ∞)
−3
y = x + 2 Range: ( −∞, 0]
4
4 y
Perpendicular line has slope . 43. x − y 2 = 6
3 4
y = ± x−6 3
4
y − 5 = ( x − ( − 3)) 2
3 Not a function because 1
x
3 y − 15 = 4 x + 12 there are two values of 2 4 8 10 12 14
−1
y for some x. −2
4
4 x − 3 y + 27 = 0 or y = x +9 −3
3 −4
35. f ( x) = 5 x + 4 47. f ( x) = x3 − 3x 2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Problem Solving for Chapter P 23
49. (a) f ( x) = x 2 ( x − 6)
2 53. (a) Yes, y is a function of t. At each time t, there is one
100 and only one displacement y.
The leading coefficient is (b) The amplitude is approximately
positive and the degree is
even so the graph will rise
(0.25 − (−0.25)) 2 = 0.25. The period is
to the left and to the right. −4 10 approximately 1.1.
1 ⎛ 2π ⎞ 1
− 25
(c) One model is y = cos⎜ t ⎟ ≈ cos(5.7t )
4 ⎝ 1.1 ⎠ 4
(b) g ( x) = x3 ( x − 6)
2
300 (d) 0.5
(1.1, 0.25)
The leading coefficient is
positive and the degree is 0 2.2
200
0 33
0
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
24 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
⎧1, x ≥ 0 ⎧1
3. H ( x) = ⎨ 1 ⎪ , x ≥ 0
⎩0, x < 0 (e) H ( x) = ⎨ 2
2 ⎪
y
⎩0, x < 0
4 y
3 4
2 3
1 2
x 1
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−1 x
−2 −4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−1
−3 −2
−4 −3
−4
⎧−1, x ≥ 0 ⎧1, x ≥ 2
(a) H ( x) − 2 = ⎨ (f ) − H ( x − 2) + 2 = ⎨
⎩−2, x < 0 ⎩2, x < 2
y
y
4
4
3
3
2
1
1
x
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4 x
−1 −4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−1
−2
−3
−3
−4
−4
⎧1, x ≥ 2
(b) H ( x − 2) = ⎨ 100 − x
⎩0, x < 2 5. (a) x + 2 y = 100 ⇒ y =
2
y
⎛ 100 − x ⎞ x2
4
A( x) = xy = x⎜ ⎟ = − + 50 x
3 ⎝ 2 ⎠ 2
2
1 Domain: 0 < x < 100 or (0, 100)
x
−4 −3 −2 −1
−1
1 2 3 4
(b) 1600
−2
−3
−4
⎧−1, x ≥ 0
(c) − H ( x) = ⎨ 0
0
110
⎩0, x < 0
y Maximum of 1250 m 2 at x = 50 m, y = 25 m.
4
(c) A( x) = − 12 ( x 2 − 100 x)
3
2
1
= − 12 ( x 2 − 100 x + 2500) + 1250
x
= − 12 ( x − 50) + 1250
2
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−1
−2
−3 A(50) = 1250 m 2 is the maximum.
−4
x = 50 m, y = 25 m
⎧1, x ≤ 0
(d) H ( − x) = ⎨
7. The length of the trip in the water is 22 + x 2 , and the
⎩0, x > 0
1 + (3 − x) . So, the
2
y length of the trip over land is
4
1 + (3 − x )
2
3 4 + x2
2 total time is T = + hours.
2 4
x
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−1
−2
−3
−4
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Problem Solving for Chapter P 25
9 −4
9. (a) Slope = = 5. Slope of tangent line is less than 5.
3 −2
4 −1
(b) Slope = = 3. Slope of tangent line is greater than 3.
2 −1
4.41 − 4
(c) Slope = = 4.1. Slope of tangent line is less than 4.1.
2.1 − 2
f ( 2 + h ) − f ( 2)
(d) Slope =
( 2 + h) − 2
=
( 2 + h)2 −4
h
4h + h 2
=
h
= 4 + h, h ≠ 0
(e) Letting h get closer and closer to 0, the slope approaches 4. So, the slope at (2, 4) is 4.
1
11. f ( x) = y =
1− x
(a) Domain: all x ≠ 1 or ( −∞, 1) ∪ (1, ∞)
⎛ 1 ⎞ 1 1 1− x x −1
(b) f ( f ( x)) = f ⎜ ⎟ = = = =
⎝1 − x ⎠ 1 − ⎛ 1 ⎞ 1 − x − 1 −x x
⎜ ⎟ 1− x
⎝1 − x ⎠
Domain: all x ≠ 0, 1 or ( −∞, 0) ∪ (0, 1) ∪ (1, ∞)
⎛ x − 1⎞ 1 1
( )
(c) f f ( f ( x)) = f ⎜ ⎟ =
⎝ x ⎠ 1 − ⎛ x − 1⎞
=
1
= x
⎜ ⎟ x
⎝ x ⎠
Domain: all x ≠ 0, 1 or ( −∞, 0) ∪ (0, 1) ∪ (1, ∞)
(d) The graph is not a line. It has holes at (0, 0) and (1, 1).
y
x
−2 1 2
−2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
26 Chapter P Preparation for Calculus
I 2I I 2I
13. (a) = (b) =
( x − 3) ( x − 3)2 + y 2
2
x2 x + y
2 2 y
8
x2 − 6x + 9 = 2x2 (x − 3) + y 2 = 2( x 2 + y 2 )
2
6
x + 6x − 9 = 0
2
x2 − 6x + 9 + y 2 = 2x2 + 2 y 2 2
−6 ± 36 + 36 x + y + 6x − 9 = 0
2 2 x
x = −8 −4 −2
−2
2 4
2
= −3 ± 18
(x + 3) + y 2 = 18
2
−6
≈ 1.2426, − 7.2426
Circle of radius 18 and center ( −3, 0).
x
0 1 2 3
15. d1d 2 = 1
⎡( x + 1) + y 2 ⎤⎡( x − 1) + y 2 ⎤ = 1
2 2
⎣ ⎦⎣ ⎦
(x + 1) ( x − 1) + y 2 ⎡( x + 1) + ( x − 1) ⎤ + y 4 = 1
2 2
⎣
2 2
⎦
( x2 − 1) + y 2 ⎡⎣2 x 2 + 2⎤⎦ + y 4 = 1
2
x4 − 2 x2 + 1 + 2 x2 y 2 + 2 y 2 + y 4 = 1
2
( x4 + 2 x2 y 2 + y 4 ) − 2 x2 + 2 y 2 = 0
(− 2 , 0) 1
( 2 , 0)
(x + y ) = 2( x − y )
2
2 2 2 2 x
−2 2
−1 (0, 0)
Let y = 0. Then x 4 = 2 x 2 ⇒ x = 0 or x 2 = 2.
−2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
C H A P T E R 1
Limits and Their Properties
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
C H A P T E R 1
Limits and Their Properties
Section 1.1 A Preview of Calculus
1. Precalculus: ( 20 ft/sec)(15 sec) = 300 ft 7. f ( x) = 6 x − x 2
(a) y
3. Calculus required: Slope of the tangent line at x = 2 is 10
the rate of change, and equals about 0.16. 8
P
(5)(4)
6
5. (a) Precalculus: Area = 1 bh = 1 = 10 sq. units
2 2
= 5 sq. units
(b) slope = m =
(6 x − x 2 ) − 8 =
(x − 2)( 4 − x)
x−2 x−2
= ( 4 − x), x ≠ 2
For x = 3, m = 4 − 3 = 1
3
For x = 2.5, m = 4 − 2.5 = 1.5 =
2
5
For x = 1.5, m = 4 − 1.5 = 2.5 =
2
(c) At P( 2, 8), the slope is 2. You can improve your
approximation by considering values of x close to 2.
5 5 5
9. (a) Area ≈ 5 + 2
+ 3
+ 4
≈ 10.417
Area ≈ 1
2 (5 + 1.55 + 52 + 2.55 + 53 + 3.55 + 54 + 4.55 ) ≈ 9.145
(b) You could improve the approximation by using more rectangles.
x − 4 ⎛ 1⎞
lim ≈ 0.2000 ⎜ Actual limit is .⎟
x → 4 x2 − 3x − 4 ⎝ 5⎠
3.
x –0.1 –0.01 –0.001 0 0.001 0.01 0.1
f (x) 0.5132 0.5013 0.5001 ? 0.4999 0.4988 0.4881
x +1 −1 ⎛ 1⎞
lim ≈ 0.5000 ⎜ Actual limit is .⎟
x→0 x ⎝ 2⎠
28
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section 1.2 Finding Limits Graphically and Numerically 29
5.
x –0.1 –0.01 –0.001 0.001 0.01 0.1
f (x) 0.9983 0.99998 1.0000 1.0000 0.99998 0.9983
sin x
lim ≈ 1.0000 ( Actual limit is 1.) ( Make sure you use radian mode.)
x→0 x
7.
x 0.9 0.99 0.999 1.001 1.01 1.1
f (x) 0.2564 0.2506 0.2501 0.2499 0.2494 0.2439
x − 2 ⎛ 1⎞
lim ≈ 0.2500 ⎜ Actual limit is .⎟
x →1 x + x −6
2
⎝ 4⎠
9.
x 0.9 0.99 0.999 1.001 1.01 1.1
f (x) 0.7340 0.6733 0.6673 0.6660 0.6600 0.6015
x4 − 1 ⎛ 2⎞
lim ≈ 0.6666 ⎜ Actual limit is .⎟
x →1 x6 − 1 ⎝ 3 ⎠
11.
x –6.1 –6.01 –6.001 –6 –5.999 –5.99 –5.9
f (x) –0.1248 –0.1250 –0.1250 ? –0.1250 –0.1250 –0.1252
10 − x − 4 ⎛ 1⎞
lim ≈ − 0.1250 ⎜ Actual limit is − .⎟
x → −6 x + 6 ⎝ 8⎠
13.
x –0.1 –0.01 –0.001 0.001 0.01 0.1
f (x) 1.9867 1.9999 2.0000 2.0000 1.9999 1.9867
sin 2 x
lim ≈ 2.0000 (Actual limit is 2.) (Make sure you use radian mode.)
x→0 x
15. lim ( 4 − x) = 1 23. (a) f (1) exists. The black dot at (1, 2) indicates that
x →3
f (1) = 2.
17. lim f ( x) = lim ( 4 − x) = 2
x→2 x→2 (b) lim f ( x) does not exist. As x approaches 1 from the
x →1
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
30 Chapter 1 Limits and Their Properties
25. y
27. One possible answer is y
6 6
5
5
4
4
3
f f
2
1 2
x 1
−2 −1 1 2 3 4 5 x
−1
−2 −1 1 2 3 4 5
−2 −1
29. You need f ( x) − 3 = (x + 1) − 3 = x − 2 < 0.4. So, take δ = 0.4. If 0 < x − 2 < 0.4, then
x − 2 = (x + 1) − 3 = f ( x) − 3 < 0.4, as desired.
31. You need to find δ such that 0 < x − 1 < δ implies 33. lim (3 x + 2) = 3(2) + 2 = 8 = L
x→2
1 (3 x + 2) − 8 < 0.01
f ( x) − 1 = − 1 < 0.1. That is,
x
3 x − 6 < 0.01
1
−0.1 < − 1 < 0.1 3 x − 2 < 0.01
x
1 0 < x − 2 < 0.01
≈ 0.0033 = δ
1 − 0.1 < < 1 + 0.1 3
x
So, if 0 < x − 2 < δ = 0.01
, you have
9 1 11 3
< <
10 x 10 3 x − 2 < 0.01
10 10
> x > 3 x − 6 < 0.01
9 11
10 10 (3 x + 2) − 8 < 0.01
−1 > x −1 > −1
9 11 f ( x) − L < 0.01.
1 1
> x −1 > − .
9 11 35. lim ( x 2 − 3) = 22 − 3 = 1 = L
x→2
1
So take δ =
11
. Then 0 < x − 1 < δ implies ( x2 − 3) − 1 < 0.01
1 1 x 2 − 4 < 0.01
− < x −1<
11 11
(x + 2)( x − 2) < 0.01
1 1
− < x −1< . x + 2 x − 2 < 0.01
11 9
Using the first series of equivalent inequalities, you 0.01
x − 2 <
obtain x + 2
1 If you assume 1 < x < 3, then δ ≈ 0.01 5 = 0.002.
f ( x) − 1 = − 1 < 0.1.
x
So, if 0 < x − 2 < δ ≈ 0.002, you have
1 1
x − 2 < 0.002 = (0.01) < (0.01)
5 x+2
x + 2 x − 2 < 0.01
x 2 − 4 < 0.01
( x2 − 3) − 1 < 0.01
f ( x) − L < 0.01.
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section 1.2 Finding Limits Graphically and Numerically 31
Given ε > 0: ( )
47. lim x 2 + 1 = 12 + 1 = 2
x →1
f ( x) − L < ε . ε
x −1 <
x +1
If you assume 0 < x < 2, then δ = ε 3.
ε
So for 0 < x − 1 < δ = , you have
3
1 1
x −1 < ε < ε
3 x +1
x2 − 1 < ε
( x2 + 1) − 2 < ε
f ( x) − 2 < ε .
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
32 Chapter 1 Limits and Their Properties
0 10
0
0 6
8
(b)
t 3 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 4
C 11.57 12.36 12.36 12.36 12.36 12.36 12.36
lim C (t ) = 12.36
t → 3.5
(c)
t 2 2.5 2.9 3 3.1 3.5 4
C 10.78 11.57 11.57 11.57 12.36 12.36 12.36
The lim C (t ) does not exist because the values of C approach different values as t approaches 3 from both sides.
t →3
57. lim f ( x) = 25 means that the values of f approach 25 as x gets closer and closer to 8.
x →8
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section 1.2 Finding Limits Graphically and Numerically 33
1
x
−4 −3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4
−1
3 (0, 2.7183)
−3 2
−4 1
x
−3 −2 −1 1 2 3 4 5
−1
(ii) The values of f increase without bound as x
approaches c:
y
x f (x) x f (x)
6
5 –0.1 2.867972 0.1 2.593742
4
3
–0.01 2.731999 0.01 2.704814
2
1
x
–0.001 2.719642 0.001 2.716942
−3 −2 −1 2 3 4 5
−1
−2 –0.0001 2.718418 0.0001 2.718146
(iii) The values of f oscillate between two fixed –0.00001 2.718295 0.00001 2.718268
numbers as x approaches c:
y
–0.000001 2.718283 0.000001 2.718280
4
3
65. 0.002
(1.999, 0.001)
x (2.001, 0.001)
−4 −3 −2 2 3 4
−3
1.998 2.002
−4 0
f ( 2) = 0
lim f ( x) = lim ( x − 4) = 2 ≠ 0
x→2 x→2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
34 Chapter 1 Limits and Their Properties
75. If lim f ( x) = L1 and lim f ( x) = L2 , then for every ε > 0, there exists δ1 > 0 and δ 2 > 0 such that
x→c x→c
x − c < δ1 ⇒ f ( x) − L1 < ε and x − c < δ 2 ⇒ f ( x) − L2 < ε . Let δ equal the smaller of δ1 and δ 2 . Then for
x − c < δ , you have L1 − L2 = L1 − f ( x) + f ( x) − L2 ≤ L1 − f ( x ) + f ( x) − L2 < ε + ε . Therefore,
L1 − L2 < 2ε . Since ε > 0 is arbitrary, it follows that L1 = L2 .
77. lim ⎡⎣ f ( x) − L⎤⎦ = 0 means that for every ε > 0 there 79. The radius OP has a length equal to the altitude z of the
x→c
h h
exists δ > 0 such that if triangle plus . So, z = 1 − .
2 2
0 < x − c < δ,
1 ⎛ h⎞
Area triangle = b⎜1 − ⎟
then 2 ⎝ 2⎠
( f ( x) − L) − 0 < ε. Area rectangle = bh
1 ⎛ h⎞
This means the same as f ( x) − L < ε when Because these are equal, b⎜1 − ⎟ = bh
2 ⎝ 2⎠
0 < x − c < δ. h
1− = 2h
So, lim f ( x) = L. 2
x→c 5
h =1
2
2
h = .
5
P
h O
−4 8 −
−6 −4
⎛ π⎞
⎜= ⎟
⎝ 6⎠
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section 1.3 Evaluating Limits Analytically 35
(b) lim g ( x) = 43 = 64
7. lim ( 2 x − 1) = 2(0) − 1 = −1 x→4
x→0
(c) lim g ( f ( x)) = g ( f (1)) = g ( 4) = 64
x →1
9. lim ( x + 3 x) = ( −3) + 3( −3) = 9 − 9 = 0
2 2
x → −3
25. (a) lim f ( x) = 4 − 1 = 3
x →1
11. lim ( 2 x + 4 x + 1) = 2( −3) + 4( −3) + 1
2 2
x →−3 (b) lim g ( x) = 3+1 = 2
x →3
= 18 − 12 + 1 = 7
(c) lim g ( f ( x)) = g (3) = 2
x →1
3
x2 − 1 ( x + 1)( x − 1)
39. (a) lim ⎡⎣ f ( x)⎤⎦ = ⎡⎢ lim f ( x)⎤⎥ = ( 4) = 64
3
43. f ( x) =
3
= and
x→c ⎣x → c ⎦ x +1 x +1
(b) lim f ( x) = lim f ( x) = 4 = 2 g ( x) = x − 1 agree except at x = −1.
x→c x→c
lim f ( x) = lim g ( x) = lim ( x − 1) = −1 − 1 = −2
(c) lim ⎡⎣3 f ( x)⎤⎦ = 3 lim f ( x) = 3( 4) = 12 x → −1 x → −1 x → −1
x→c x→c
3
32
(d) lim ⎣⎡ f ( x)⎦⎤ = ⎡⎢ lim f ( x)⎤⎥ = ( 4)
32 32
= 8
x→c ⎣x → c ⎦ −3 4
x 2 + 3x x( x + 3)
41. f ( x ) = = and g ( x) = x + 3
x x −4
agree except at x = 0.
lim f ( x ) = lim g ( x) = lim ( x + 3) = 0 + 3 = 3
x→0 x→0 x→0
−5 4
−1
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
36 Chapter 1 Limits and Their Properties
x3 − 8 x x 1 1
45. f ( x ) = and g ( x) = x 2 + 2 x + 4 agree except 47. lim = lim = lim = = −1
x − 2 x → 0 x2 − x x → 0 x( x − 1) x→0 x − 1 0 −1
at x = 2.
x − 4 x − 4
lim f ( x) = lim g ( x ) = lim ( x 2 + 2 x + 4) 49. lim = lim
x→2 x→2 x→2 x → 4 x2 − 16 x → 4 ( x + 4)( x − 4)
= 22 + 2(2) + 4 = 12 1 1 1
= lim = =
12 x→4 x + 4 4+ 4 8
51. lim
x2 + x − 6
= lim
( x + 3)( x − 2)
x → −3 x2 − 9 x → −3 ( x + 3)( x − 3)
−9 9 x − 2 −3 − 2 −5 5
0 = lim = = =
x → −3 x−3 −3 − 3 −6 6
x +5 −3 x +5 −3 x + 5 +3
53. lim = lim ⋅
x→4 x − 4 x→4 x − 4 x +5 +3
= lim
( x + 5) − 9 = lim
1
=
1
=
1
x→4
( x − 4)( x + 5 + 3 ) x→4 x +5 +3 9 +3 6
x +5 − 5 x + 5 − 5 x + 5 + 5
55. lim = lim ⋅
x→0 x x→0 x x +5 + 5
= lim
(x + 5) − 5
= lim
1
=
1
=
1
=
5
x→0 x
( x +5 + 5 ) x→0 x +5 + 5 5 + 5 2 5 10
1 1
−
57. lim 3 + x 3 = lim 3 − (3 + x) = lim −x
= lim
−1
=
−1
= −
1
x→0 x x → 0 (3 + x )3( x ) x → 0 (3 + x )(3)( x ) x → 0 (3 + x )3 (3)3 9
2( x + ∆x) − 2 x 2 x + 2∆x − 2 x 2 ∆x
59. lim = lim = lim = lim 2 = 2
∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0
(x + ∆x) − 2( x + ∆x) + 1 − ( x 2 − 2 x + 1)
2
x 2 + 2 x∆x + ( ∆x) − 2 x − 2∆x + 1 − x 2 + 2 x − 1
2
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section 1.3 Evaluating Limits Analytically 37
x + 2 − 2
75. f ( x) =
x
x –0.1 –0.01 –0.001 0 0.001 0.01 0.1
f (x) 0.358 0.354 0.354 ? 0.354 0.353 0.349
−3 3
−2
1 1
−
77. f ( x) = 2 + x 2
x
−5 1
−2
sin 3t
79. f (t ) =
t
− 2 2
−1
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
38 Chapter 1 Limits and Their Properties
sin x 2
81. f ( x) =
x
− 2 2
−1
(x + ∆x) − 4( x + ∆x) − ( x 2 − 4 x)
2
f ( x + ∆x) − f ( x) x 2 + 2 x∆x + ∆x 2 − 4 x − 4∆x − x 2 + 4 x
85. lim = lim = lim
∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0 ∆x
∆x( 2 x + ∆x − 4)
= lim = lim ( 2 x + ∆x − 4) = 2 x − 4
∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0
1 1
f ( x + ∆x) − f ( x) −
87. lim = lim x + ∆x + 3 x + 3
∆x → 0 ∆x ∆x → 0 ∆x
x + 3 − ( x + ∆x + 3) 1
= lim ⋅
∆x → 0 ( x + ∆x + 3)( x + 3) ∆x
−∆x
= lim
∆x → 0 ( x + ∆x + 3)( x + 3)∆x
−1 −1
= lim =
∆x → 0 (x + ∆x + 3)( x + 3) ( x + 3)2
Therefore, lim f ( x) = 4.
x→0
− 0.5 0.5
91. f ( x) = x sin x
− 0.5
6
⎛ 1⎞
lim ⎜ x sin ⎟ = 0
− 2 2
x → 0⎝ x⎠
−6
lim x sin x = 0
x→0
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Section 1.3 Evaluating Limits Analytically 39
95. (a) Two functions f and g agree at all but one point sin x
99. f ( x) = x, g ( x) = sin x, h( x) =
(on an open interval) if f ( x) = g ( x) for all x in the x
interval except for x = c, where c is in the interval. 3
f
g
x2 − 1 ( x + 1)( x − 1) h
(b) f ( x) = = and −5 5
x −1 x −1
g ( x) = x + 1 agree at all points except x = 1.
−3
(Other answers possible.)
When the x-values are “close to” 0 the magnitude of f is
97. If a function f is squeezed between two functions h and approximately equal to the magnitude of g. So,
g f ≈ 1 when x is “close to” 0.
g, h( x) ≤ f ( x ) ≤ g ( x ), and h and g have the same limit
L as x → c, then lim f ( x) exists and equals L
x→c
= −29.4 m/sec
The object is falling about 29.4 m/sec.
105. Let f ( x) = 1 x and g ( x) = −1/ x. lim f ( x) and 109. If b = 0, the property is true because both sides are
x →0
equal to 0. If b ≠ 0, let ε > 0 be given. Because
lim g ( x) do not exist. However,
x →0 lim f ( x) = L, there exists δ > 0 such that
x→c
⎡ 1 ⎛ 1 ⎞⎤
lim ⎡ f ( x) + g ( x)⎤⎦ = lim ⎢ + ⎜ − ⎟⎥ = lim [0] = 0 f ( x) − L < ε b whenever 0 < x − c < δ . So,
x → 0⎣ x→0 x ⎝ x ⎠⎦
⎣ x→0
107. Given f ( x) = b, show that for every ε > 0 there exists b f ( x) − L < ε or bf ( x) − bL < ε
a δ > 0 such that f ( x) − b < ε whenever which implies that lim ⎣⎡bf ( x)⎦⎤ = bL.
x→c
x − c < δ . Because f ( x) − b = b − b = 0 < ε for
every ε > 0, any value of δ > 0 will work.
Copyright 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Bearded, unkempt, with massive shoulders and huge neck, the caller
stood a moment and stared. “Your name and address,” he said at length,
“were given to me”—he hesitated a moment, then added—“you know by
whom.” His voice was deep and windy and echoing. It made the stretched
cords of the upright piano ring against the wall. “He told me to call,” the
man concluded.
“Ah yes; of course,” Jones stammered, forgetting for the moment who or
where he was. “Let me see—where are you”—the word did not want to
come out—“staying?” The caller made an awful and curious movement; it
seemed so much bigger than his body. “In what way—er—can I be of
assistance?” Jones hardly knew what he said. The other volunteered so
little. He was frightened. Then, before the man could answer, he caught a
dreadful glimpse, as of something behind the outline. It moved. Was it
shadow that thus extended his form? Was it the glare of that ugly gas-stove
that played tricks with the folds of the curtain, driving bodily outline forth
into mere vacancy? For the figure of his strange caller seemed to carry with
it the idea of projections, extensions, growths, in themselves not monstrous,
fine and comely, rather—yet awful.
The man left the window and moved towards him. It was a movement
both swift and enormous. It was instantaneous.
“Who are you—really?” asked Jones, his breath catching, while he went
pluckily out to meet him, irresistibly drawn. “And what is it you really want
of me?” He went very close to the shrouded form, caught the keen air from
the open window behind, sniffed a wind that was not London’s stale and
weary wind, then stopped abruptly, frozen with terror and delight. The man
facing him was splendid and terrific, exhaling something that overwhelmed.
“What can I ... do ... for ... you?” whispered Jones, shaking like a leaf. A
delight of racing clouds was in him.
The answer came in a singular roaring voice that yet sounded far away,
as though among mountains. Wind might have brought it down.
“There is nothing you can do for me! But, by Chiron, there is something
I can do for you!”
“And that is?” asked Jones faintly, feeling something sweep against his
feet and legs like the current of a river in flood.
The man eyed him appallingly a moment.
“Let you see me!” he roared, while his voice set the piano singing again,
and his outline seemed to swim over the chairs and tables like a fluid mass.
“Show myself to you!”
The figure stretched out what looked like arms, reared gigantically aloft
towards the ceiling, and swept towards him. Jones saw the great visage
close to his own. He smelt the odour of caves, river-beds, hillsides—space.
In another second he would have been lost——
His brother made a great rattling as he opened the door. The atmosphere
of rice and sugar and office desks came in with him.
“Why, Billy, old man, you look as if you’d seen a ghost. You’re white!”
William Jones mopped his forehead. “I’ve been working rather hard,” he
answered. “Feel tired. Fact is—I got stuck in a story for a bit.”
“Too bad. Got it straightened out at last, I hope?”
“Yes, thanks. It came to me—in the end.”
The other looked at him. “Good,” he said shortly. “Rum thing,
imagination, isn’t it?” And then he began talking about his day’s business—
in tons and tons of food.
XI
THE INVITATION
They bumped into one another by the swinging doors of the little Soho
restaurant, and, recoiling sharply, each made a half-hearted pretence of
lifting his hat (it was French manners, of course, inside). Then, discovering
that they were English, and not strangers, they exclaimed, “Sorry!” and
laughed.
“Hulloa! It’s Smith!” cried the man with the breezy manner; “and when
did you get back?” It sounded as though “Smith” and “you” were different
persons. “I haven’t seen you for months!” They shook hands cordially.
“Only last Saturday—on the Rollitania,” answered the man with the
pince-nez. They were acquaintances of some standing. Neither was aware
of anything in the other he disliked. More positive cause for friendship there
was none. They met, however, not infrequently.
“Last Saturday! Did you really?” exclaimed the breezy one; and, after an
imperceptible pause which suggested nothing more vital, he added, “And
had a good time in America, eh?”
“Oh! not bad, thanks—not bad at all.” He likewise was conscious of a
rather barren pause. “Awful crossing, though,” he threw in a few seconds
later with a slight grimace.
“Ah! At this time of year, you know——” said Breezy, shaking his head
knowingly; “though sometimes, of course, one has better trips in winter than
in summer. I crossed once in December when it was like a mill-pond the
whole blessed way.”
They moved a little to one side to let a group of Frenchmen enter the
swinging doors.
“It’s a good line,” he added, in a voice that settled the reputation of the
steamship company for ever. “By Jove, it’s a good line.”
“Oh! it’s a good line, yes,” agreed Pince-nez, gratified to find his choice
approved. He shifted his glasses modestly. The discovery reflected glory
upon his judgment. “And such an excellent table!”
Breezy agreed heartily. “I’d never cross now on any other,” he declared,
as though he meant the table. “You’re right.”
This happy little agreement about the food pleased them both; it showed
their judgment to be sound; also it established a ground of common interest
—a link—something that gave point to their little chat, and made it seem
worth while to have stopped and spoken. They rose in one another’s
estimation. The chance meeting ought to lead to something, perhaps. Yet
neither found the expected inspiration; for neither au fond had anything to
say to the other beyond passing the time of day.
“Well,” said Pince-nez, lingeringly but very pleasantly, making a
movement towards the doors; “I suppose I must be going in. You—er—
you’ve had lunch, of course?”
“Thanks, yes, I have,” Breezy replied with a certain air of
disappointment, as though the question had been an invitation. He moved a
few steps backwards down the pavement. “But, now you’re back,” he added
more cheerfully, “we must try and see something of one another.”
“By all means. Do let’s,” said Pince-nez. His manner somehow
suggested that he too expected an invitation, perhaps. He hesitated a
moment, as though about to add something, but in the end said nothing.
“We must lunch together one day,” observed Breezy, with his jolly smile.
He glanced up at the restaurant.
“By all means—let’s,” agreed the other again, with one foot on the steps.
“Any day you like. Next week, perhaps. You let me know.” He nodded
cordially, and half turned to enter.
“Lemme see, where are you staying?” called Breezy by way of after-
thought.
“Oh! I’m at the X——,” mentioning an obscure hostel in the W.C.
district.
“Of course; yes, I remember. That’s where you stopped before, isn’t it?
Up in Bloomsbury somewhere——?”
“Rooms ain’t up to much, but the cooking’s quite decent.”
“Good. Then we’ll lunch one day soon. What sort of time, by the bye,
suits you?” The breezy one, for some obscure reason, looked vigorously at
his watch.
“Oh! any time; one o’clock onwards, sort of thing, I suppose?” with an
air of “just let me know and I’ll be there.”
“Same here, yes,” agreed the other, with slightly less enthusiasm.
“That’s capital, then,” from Pince-nez. He paused a moment, not finding
precisely the suitable farewell phrase. Then, to his own undoing, he added
carelessly, “There are one or two things—er—I should like to tell you about
——”
“And luncheon is the best time,” Breezy suggested at once, “for busy
men like us. You might bespeak a table, in fact.” He jerked his head towards
the restaurant.
The two acquaintances, one on the pavement, the other on the steps,
stood and stared at each other. The onus of invitation had somehow shifted
insensibly from Breezy to Pince-nez. The next remark would be vital.
Neither thought it worth while to incur the slight expense of a luncheon that
involved an hour in each other’s company. Yet it was nothing stronger than
a dread of possible boredom that dictated the hesitancy.
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Pince-nez vaguely. “But I doubt if they’ll keep
a table after one o’clock, you know.”
“Never mind, then. You’re on the telephone, I suppose, aren’t you?”
called Breezy down the pavement, still moving slowly backwards.
“Yes, you’ll find it under the name of the hotel,” replied the other,
putting his head back round the door-post in the act of going in.
“My number’s not in the book!” Breezy cried back; “but it’s 0417
Westminster. Then you’ll ring me up one day? That’ll be very jolly indeed.
Don’t forget the number!” This shifting of telephonic responsibility, he felt,
was a master-stroke.
“Right-O. I’ll remember. So long, then, for the present,” Pince-nez
answered more faintly, disappearing into the restaurant.
“Decent fellow, that. I shall go to lunch if he asks me,” was the thought
in the mind of each. It lasted for perhaps half a minute, and then—oblivion.
Ten days later they ran across one another again about luncheon-time in
Piccadilly; nodded, smiled, hesitated a second too long—and turned back to
shake hands.
“How’s everything?” asked the breezy one with gusto.
“First-rate, thanks. And how are you?”
“Jolly weather, isn’t it?” Breezy said, looking about him generally, “this
sunshine—by Jove——!”
“Nothing like it,” declared Pince-nez, shifting his glasses to look at the
sun, and concealing his lack of something to say by catching at the hearty
manner.
“Nothing,” agreed Breezy.
“In the world,” echoed Pince-nez.
Again the topic was a link. The stream of pedestrians jostled them. They
moved a few yards up Dover Street. Each was really on his way to
luncheon. A pause followed the move.
“Still at—er—that hotel up there?” The name had escaped him. He
jerked his head vaguely northwards.
“Yes; I thought you’d be looking in for lunch one day,” a faint memory
stirring in his brain.
“Delighted! Or—you’d better come to my Club, eh? Less out of the way,
you know,” declared Breezy.
“Very jolly. Thanks; that’d be first-rate.” Both paused a moment. Breezy
looked down the street as though expecting someone or something. They
ignored that it was luncheon hour.
“You’ll find me in the telephone book,” observed Pince-nez presently.
“Under X—— Hotel, I suppose?” from Breezy. “All right.”
“0995 Northern’s the number, yes.”
“And mine,” said Breezy, “is 0417 Westminster; or the Club”—with an
air of imparting valuable private information—“is 0866 Mayfair. Any day
you like. Don’t forget!”
“Rather not. Somewhere about one o’clock, eh?”
“Yes—or one-thirty.” And off they went again—each to his solitary
luncheon.
A fortnight passed, and once more they came together—this time in an
A.B.C. shop.
“Hulloa! There’s Smith,” thought Breezy “By Jove, I’ll ask him to lunch
with me.”
“Why, there’s that chap again,” thought Pince-nez. “I’ll invite him, I
think.”
They sat down at the same table. “But this is capital,” exclaimed both;
“you must lunch with me, of course!” And they laughed pleasantly. They
talked of food and weather. They compared Soho with A.B.C. Each offered
light excuses for being found in the latter.
“I was in a hurry to-day, and looked in by the merest chance for a cup of
coffee,” observed Breezy, ordering quite a lot of things at once, absent-
mindedly, as it were.
“I like the butter here so awfully,” mentioned Pince-nez later. “It’s quite
the best in London, and the freshest, I always think.” As this was not the
luncheon, they felt that only commonplace things were in order. The special
things they had to discuss must wait, of course.
The waitress got their paper checks muddled somehow. “I’ve put a
’alfpenny of yours on ’is,” she explained cryptically to Pince-nez.
“Oh,” laughed Breezy, “that’s nothing. This gentleman is lunching with
me, anyhow.”
“You’ll ’ave to make it all right when you get outside, then,” said the girl
gravely.
They laughed over her reply. At the paydesk both made vigorous search
for money. Pince-nez, being nimbler, produced a florin first. “This is my
lunch, of course. I asked you, remember,” he said. Breezy demurred with a
good grace.
“You can be host another time, if you insist,” added Pince-nez, pocketing
twopence change.
“Rather,” said the other heartily. “You must come to the Club—any day
you like, you know.”
“I’ll come to-morrow, then,” said Pince-nez, quick as a flash. “I’ve got
the telephone number.”
“Do,” cried Breezy, very, very heartily indeed. “I shall be delighted! One
o’clock, remember.”
XII
THE IMPULSE
“My dear chap,” cried Jones, throwing his hands out in a gesture of distress
he thought was quite real, “nothing would give me greater pleasure—if only
I could manage it. But the fact is I’m as hard up as yourself!”
The little pale-faced man of uncertain age opposite shrugged his
shoulders ever so slightly.
“In a month or so, perhaps——” Jones added, hedging instinctively, “If
it’s not too late then—I should be delighted——”
The other interrupted quickly, a swift flush emphasising momentarily the
pallor of his strained and tired face. Overworked, overweary he looked.
“Oh, thanks, but it’s really of no consequence. I felt sure you wouldn’t
mind my asking, though.” And Jones replied heartily that he only wished he
were “flush” enough to lend it. They talked weather and politics then—after
a pause, finished their drinks, Jones refusing the offer of another, and,
presently, the elder man said good-night and left the Club. Jones, with a
slight sigh of boredom, as though life went hard with him, passed upstairs
to the card-room to find partners for a game.
Jones was not a bad fellow really; he was untaught. Experience had
neglected him a little, so that his sympathies knew not those sweet though
difficult routes by which interest travels away from self—towards others.
He entirely lacked that acuter sense of life which only comes to those who
have known genuine want and hardship. A fat income had always tumbled
into his bank without effort on his part, the harvest of another’s sweat; yet,
as with many such, he imagined that he earned his thousand a year, and
figured somehow to himself that he deserved it. He was neither evil-liver
nor extravagant; he knew not values, that was all—least of all money
values; and at the moment when his cousin asked for twenty pounds to help
his family to a holiday, he found that debts pressed a bit hard, that he owed
still on his motor-car, and that some recent speculations seemed suddenly
very doubtful. He was hard up, yes.... Perhaps, if the cards were lucky, he
might do it after all. But the cards were not lucky. Soon after midnight he
took a taxi home to his rooms in St. James’s Street. And then it was he
found a letter marked “Urgent” placed by his man upon the table by the
door so that he could not miss it.
The letter kept him awake most of the night in keen distress—for
himself. It was anonymous, signed “Your Well-wisher.” It warned him, in
words that proved the writer to be well informed, that the speculation in
which he, Jones, had plunged so recklessly a week before would mean a
total loss unless he instantly took certain steps to retrieve himself. Such
steps, moreover, were just possible, provided he acted immediately.
Jones, as he read it, turned pale, if such a thing were possible, all over
his body; then he turned hot and cold. He sweated, groaned, sighed, raged;
sat down and wrote urgent instructions to solicitors and others; tore the
letters up and wrote others. The loss of that money would reduce his income
by at least half, alter his whole plan and scale of living, make him poor. He
tried to reflect, but the calmness necessary to sound reflection lay far from
him. Action was what he needed, but action was just then out of the
question, for all the machinery of the world slept—solicitors, company
secretaries, influential friends, lawcourts. The telephone on the wall merely
grinned at him uselessly. Sleep was as vain a remedy as the closed and
silent banks. There was absolutely nothing he could do till the morning; and
he realised that the letters he wrote were futile even while he wrote them—
and tore them up the next minute. Personal interviews the first thing in the
morning, energetic talk and action based upon the best possible advice,
were the only form relief could take, and these personal interviews he could
obtain even before the letters would be delivered, or as soon. For him that
money seemed as good as already lost ... and tossing upon his sleepless bed
he faced the change of life the loss involved—bitterly, savagely, with keen
pain: the lowered scale of self-indulgence, the clipped selfishness, restricted
pleasures, fewer clothes, cheaper rooms, difficult and closely calculated
travelling, and all the rest. It bit him hard—this first grinding of the little
wheels of possible development in an ordinary selfish, though not evil,
heart....
And then it was, as the grey dawn-light crept past the blinds, that the
sharpness of his pain and the keen flight of his stirred imagination,
projecting itself as by these forced marches into new, untried conditions,
produced a slight reaction. The swing of the weary pendulum went a little
beyond himself. He fell to wondering vaguely, and with poor insight, yet
genuinely, what other men might feel, and how they managed on smaller
incomes than his own—smaller than his would be even with the loss.
Gingerly, tentatively, he snatched fearful glimpses (fearful, they seemed, to
him, at least) into the enclosures of these more restricted lives of others. He
knew a mild and weak extension of himself, as it were, that fringed the little
maps of lives less happy and indulgent than his own. And the novel
sensation brought a faint relief. The small, clogged wheels of sympathy
acquired faster movement, almost impetus. It seemed as though the heat and
fire of his pain, though selfish pain, generated some new energy that made
them turn.
Jones, in all his useless life, had never thought; his mind had reflected
images perhaps, but had never taken hold of a real idea and followed it by
logical process to an end. His mind was heavy and confused, for his nature,
as with so many, only moved to calculated action when a strong enough
desire instinctively showed the quickest, easiest way by which two and two
could be made into four. His reflections upon comparative poverty—the
poverty he was convinced now faced him cruelly—were therefore obscure
and trivial enough, while wholly honest. Wealth, he divined dimly, was
relative, and money represented the value of what is wanted, perhaps of
what is needed rather, and usually of what cannot be obtained. Some folk
are poor because they cannot afford a second motor-car, or spend more than
£100 upon a trip abroad; others because the moors and sea are out of reach;
others, again, because they are glad of cast-off clothing and only dare “the
gods” one night a week or take the free standing-room at Sunday
concerts.... He suddenly recalled the story of some little penniless, elderly
governess in Switzerland who made her underskirts from the silk of old
umbrellas because she liked the frou-frou sound. Again and again this
thought for others slipped past the network of his own distress, making his
own selfish pain spread wider and therefore less acutely. For even with a
mere £500 his life, perhaps, need not be too hard and unhappy.... The little
wheels moved faster. His pain struck sparks. He saw strange glimpses of a
new, far country, a fairer land than he had ever dreamed of, with endless
horizons, and flowers, small and very simple, yet so lovely that he would
have liked to pick them for their perfume. A sense of joy came for a
moment on some soft wind of beauty, fugitive, but sweet. It vanished
instantly again, but the vision caught for a moment, too tiny to be measured
even by a fraction of a second, had flamed like summer lightning through
his heart. It almost seemed as though his grinding selfish pain had burned
the dense barriers that hid another world, bringing a light that just flamed
above those huge horizons before they died. For they did die—and quickly,
yet left behind a touch of singular joy and peace that somehow glowed on
through all his subsequent self-pity....
And then, abruptly, with a vividness of detail that shocked him, he saw
the Club smoking-room, and the worn face of his cousin close before him—
the overworked hack-writer, who had asked a temporary £20, a little sum he
would assuredly have paid back before the end of the year, a sum he asked,
not for himself, but that he might send his wife and children to the sea.
Impulse, usually deplored as weakness, may prove first seed of habit.
Whether Jones afterwards regretted his unconsidered action may be left
unrecorded—whether he would have regretted it, rather, if the saving of his
dreaded loss had not subsequently been effected. As matters stand, he only
knew a sense or flattering self-congratulation that he had slipped that letter
—the only one he left untorn—into the pillar-box at the corner before the
sun rose, and that it contained a pink bit of paper that should bring to
another the relief he himself had, for the first time in his life, known
imaginatively upon that sleepless bed. Before the day was over the letter
reached its destination, and his own affairs had been put right. And two
days later, when they met in the Club, and Jones noticed the obvious
happiness in the other’s eyes and manner, he only answered to his words of
thanks:
“I wish I could have given it at once. The fact is I found letters on
getting home that night which—er—made it possible, you see ...!”
But in his heart, as he said it, flamed again quite suddenly the memory of
that fair land with endless horizons he had sighted for a second, and the
sentence that ran unspoken through his mind was: “By Jove, that’s
something I must do again. It’s worth it ...!”
XIII
HER BIRTHDAY
It was her birthday on the morrow, and I set forth to find a suitable and
worthy present. My means, judged by the standards of the big merchants,
seemed trivial; yet, could I but discover the right gift, no matter how
insignificant, I felt sure that it would please her, and so make me doubly
happy. And the kind of gift I already knew, for I had a specimen of it in my
humble lodgings; only of so poor a type that I was ashamed to offer it. I
must find somewhere a much, much better one, if possible, perfect and
without a single flaw. I went, therefore, into the great shops and saw a
thousand wonderful and lovely things....
So particular was I, however, and so difficult to suit, that I wearied the
salesfolk, and began to feel despondent. All that they showed me was so
wrong—so cheap. In the matter of actual expense there was no
disagreement, for I mentioned plainly beforehand the price that I would pay,
or, rather, that I was prepared to pay. But in the nature and quality of the
goods there was no satisfying me at all. Everything that they spread before
my eyes seemed ordinary, trifling, even spurious. Marvellously fashioned,
and of the most costly description, they yet seemed somewhere counterfeit.
The goods were sham. Already she possessed far better. There was nowhere
—and I went to the very best emporiums where the rich and favoured of the
world bought their offerings—there was nowhere the little genuine thing I
sought. The finest that was set before me seemed unworthy. I compared one
and all with the specimen, broken yet authentic, that I had at home. And
even the cleverest of the salesfolk was unable to deceive me, because I
knew.
“And this, for instance?” I asked at length, far from content, yet thinking
it might just do perhaps in place of anything better I could find. “How much
is this magnificent, jewelled thing, with its ingenious little surprise for each
day in the entire year? You mentioned——?”
“Ten million pounds, sir,” said the man obsequiously, while he eyed me
with a close and questioning glance.
“Ten million only!” And I laughed in his face.
“That was the price you named, sir,” he murmured.
I drew myself up, looking disdainfully, pityingly at him. And, though he
met my eye, he hesitated. Over his tired features there stole a soft and
marvellous expression. Something more tender than starlight shone in his
little eyes. And, as he answered in a gentle voice that was almost a whisper,
I saw him smile as a man may smile when he understands a divine,
unutterable thing. Glory touched him for an instant with high radiance, and
a hint of delicious awe hid shyly in his voice. I barely caught the words, so
low he murmured them:
“I fear, sir, that what you want is not to be had at all—in our
establishment. You will hardly find it. It is not in the market.” He seemed to
bow his head in reverence a moment. “It is not—for sale.”
And so I went back to my dingy lodgings, having made no single
purchase. I looked fondly at my own little specimen, trying to imagine it
had somehow gained in value, in beauty, almost in splendour. At least, I
said to myself, it is not spurious. It is real....
And, sitting down to my table, I dipped my broken pen into a penny
bottle of inferior ink, and began my birthday letter:—
“This is your birthday, dear, and I send you all my love——” Being
young, I underlined the words describing my little present, thinking to
increase its value thus.
But I did not complete the sentence, for there was another thing that I
must find to send her, or she would be disappointed. And a birthday comes
but once a year. But, again, though I already possessed a tiny specimen of
this other thing I sought, it did not seem to me nearly good enough to offer.
Though genuine, it was worn by frequent use. Its lustre had dimmed a little,
for I touched it daily. It seemed too ordinary and common for a special
present. I was ashamed to send it.
So I set out again and searched ... and searched ... in every likely and
unlikely place, even groping in the dark about the altars of the churches
where I found by chance the doors ajar, and penetrating to those secret
shrines where those who seek truth, it is said, go in to pray. For I knew that
there was this other little present from me that she would look for—because
she had need of it....
And my search was wonderful and full of high adventure, yet so long
that the moon had drawn the hood over the door of her silver tent, and the
stars were fading in the east behind the towers of the night, before I
returned home, footsore, aching, empty-handed, and very humble in my
heart. For nowhere had I been able to find this other little thing she would
be pleased to have from me. To my amazement, yet to my secret joy, I
found nothing better than what I had at home—nothing, that is, indubitably
genuine. In quantity it was not anywhere for sale. It was more rare than I
had guessed—and I felt delicious triumph in me.
I sat down, humble, reverent, but incommunicably proud and happy, to
my unfinished letter. Unless I posted it immediately she would not get it
when she woke upon her birthday morning. I finished it. I posted it just as it
was—brief, the writing a little shaky, the paper cheap, blot, smudge, and all:
“...and my worship.”
And then, like a scrap of paper that enclosed the other gifts, yet need not
be noticed unless she wished it, I added (above the little foolish name she
knew me by) another tiny present—all that I had brought into the world or
could take out with me again when I left it:
I wrote: “Yours ever faith-fully.”
XIV
TWO IN ONE
Some idle talker, playing with half-truths, had once told him that he was too
self-centred to fall into love—out of himself; he was unwilling to lose
himself in another; and that was the reason he had never married. But Le
Maitre was not really more of an egoist than is necessary to make a useful
man. A too selfless person is ever ineffective. The suggestion, nevertheless,
had remained to distress, for he was no great philosopher—merely a writer
of successful tales—tales of wild Nature chiefly; the “human interest” (a
publisher’s term) was weak; the great divine enigma of an undeveloped soul
—certainly of a lover’s or a woman’s soul—had never claimed his attention
enough, perhaps. He was somewhat too much detached from human life.
Nature had laid so powerful a spell upon his heart....
“I hope she won’t be late,” ran the practical thought across his mind as
he waited that early Sunday morning in the Great Central Station and
reflected that it was the cleanest, brightest, and most airy terminus of all
London. He had promised her the whole day out—a promise somewhat
long neglected. He was not conscious of doing an unselfish act, yet on the
whole, probably, he would rather—or just as soon—have been alone.
The air was fragrant, and the sunshine blazed in soft white patches on
the line. The maddening loveliness of an exceptional spring danced
everywhere into his heart. Yes, he rather wished he were going off into the
fields and woods alone, instead of with her. Only—she was really a dear
person, more, far more now, than secretary and typist; more, even, than the
devoted girl who had nursed him through that illness. A friend she was; the
years of their working together had made her that; and she was wise and
gentle. Oh, yes; it would be delightful to have her with him. How she would
enjoy the long sunny day!
Then he saw her coming towards him through the station. In a patch of
sunshine she came, as though the light produced her—came suddenly from
the middle of a group of men in flannels carrying golf-sticks. And he smiled
his welcome a little paternally, trying to kill the selfish thought that he
would rather have been alone. Soft things fluttered about her. The big hat
was becoming. She was dressed in brown, he believed.
He bought a Sunday paper. “I must buy one too,” she laughed. She chose
one with pictures, chose it at random rather. He had never heard its name
even. And in a first-class carriage alone—he meant to do it really well—
they raced through a world of sunshine and brilliant fields to Amersham.
She was very happy. She tried every seat in turn; the blazing sheets of
yellow—such a spring for buttercups there had never been—drew her from
side to side. She put her head out, and nearly lost her big hat, and that soft
fluttering thing she wore streamed behind her like the colour of escaping
flowers. She opened both windows. The very carriage held the perfume of
may that floated over the whole country-side.
He was very nice to her, but read his paper—though always ready with a
smile and answer when she asked for them. She teased and laughed and
chattered. The luncheon packages engaged her serious attention. Never for a
moment was she still, trying every corner in turn, putting her feet up, and
bouncing to enjoy the softness of the first-class cushions. “You’ll be sitting
in the rack next,” he suggested. But her head was out of the window again
and she did not hear him. She was radiant as a child. His paper interested
him—book reviews or something. “I’ve asked you that three times, you
know, already,” he heard her laughing opposite. And with a touch of shame
he tossed the paper through the window. “There! I’d quite forgotten her
again!” he thought, with a touch of shame. “I must pull myself together.”
For it was true. He had for the moment—more than once—forgotten her
existence, just as though he really were alone.
Together they strolled down through the beech wood towards
Amersham, he for ever dropping the luncheon packages, which she picked
up again and tried to stuff into his pockets. For she refused to carry
anything at all. “It’s my day out, not yours, remember! I do no work to-
day!” And he caught her happiness, pausing to watch her while she picked
flowers and leaves and all the rest, and disentangling without the least
impatience that soft fluttering thing she wore when it caught in thorns, and
even talking with her about this wild spring glory as though she were just
the companion that he needed out of all the world. He no longer felt quite
so conscious of her objective presence as at first. In the train, for instance,
he had felt so vividly aware that she was there. Alternately he had forgotten
and remembered her presence. Now it was better. They were more together,
as it were. “I wish I were alone,” he thought once more as the beauty of the
spring called to him tumultuously and he longed to lie and dream it all,
unhampered by another’s presence. Then, even while thinking it, he realised
that he was—alone. It was curious.
This happened even in their first wood when they went downhill into
Amersham. As they left it and passed again into the open it came. And on
its heels, as he watched her moving here and there, light-footed as a child or
nymph, there came this other instinctive thought—“I wish I were ten years
younger than I am!”—the first time in all his life, probably, that such a
thought had ever bothered him. Apparently he said it aloud, laughingly, as
he watched her dancing movements. For she turned and ran up to his side
quickly, her little face quite grave beneath the big hat’s rim. “You are!” That
answer struck him as rather wonderful. Who was she after all ...?
And in Amersham they hired from the Griffin a rickety old cart, drawn
by a still more rickety horse, to drive them to Penn’s Woods. She, with her
own money, bought stone-bottle ginger-beer—two bottles. It made her day
complete to have those bottles, though unless they had driven she would
have done without them. The street was deserted, drenched in blazing
sunshine. Rooks were cawing in the elms behind the church. Not a soul was
about as they crawled away from the houses and passed upwards between
hedges smothered in cow-parsley over the hill. She had kept her picture-
paper. It lay on her lap all the way. She never opened it or turned a single
page; but she held it in her lap. They drove in silence. The old man on the
box was like a faded, weather-beaten farmer dressed in somebody else’s
cast-off Sunday coat. He flicked the horse with a tattered whip. Sometimes
he grunted. Plover rose from the fields, cuckoos called, butterflies danced
sideways past the carriage, eyeing them ... and, as they passed through Penn
Street, Le Maitre started suddenly and said something. For, again, he had
quite forgotten she was there. “What a selfish beast I am! Why can’t I forget
myself and my own feelings, and look after her and make her feel amused
and happy? It’s her day out, not mine!” This, somehow, was the way he put
it to himself, just as any ordinary man would have put it. But, when he
turned to look at her, he received a shock. Here was something new and
unexpected. With a thud it dropped down into his mind—crash!
For at the sound of his voice she looked up confused and startled into his
face. She had forgotten him! For the first time in all the years together,
years of work, of semi-official attention to his least desire, yet of personal
devotion as well, because she respected him and thought him wonderful—
she had forgotten he was there. She had forgotten his existence beside her
as a separate person. She, too, had been—alone.
It was here, perhaps, he first realised this singular thing that set this day
apart from every other day that he had ever known. In reality, of course, it
had come far sooner—begun with the exquisite spring dawn before either of
them was awake, had tentatively fluttered about his soul even while he
stood waiting for her in the station, come softly nearer all the way in the
train, dropped threads of its golden web about him, especially in that first
beech wood, then moved with its swifter yet unhurried rush—until, here,
now, in this startling moment, he realised it fully. Thus steal those changes
o’er the sky, perhaps, that the day itself knows at sunrise, but that
unobservant folk do not notice till the sun bursts out with fuller explanation,
and they say, “The weather’s changed; how delightful! how unexpected!”
Le Maitre had never been observant very—of people.
And then in this deep, lonely valley, too full of sunshine to hold anything
else, it seemed, they stopped where the beech woods trooped to the edge of
the white road. No wind was here; it was still and silent; the leaves
glittered, motionless. They entered the thick trees together, she carrying the
ginger-beer bottles and that picture-paper. He noticed that: the way she held
it, almost clutched it, still unopened. Her face, he saw, was pale. Or was it
merely the contrast of the shade? The trees were very big and wonderful.
No birds sang, the network of dazzling sunshine-patches in the gloom
bewildered a little.
At first they did not talk at all, and then in hushed voices. But it was only
when they were some way into the wood, and she had put down the bottles
—though not the paper—to pick a flower or spray of leaves, that he traced
the singular secret thrill to its source and understood why he had felt—no,
not uneasy, but so strangely moved. For he had asked the sleepy driver of
the way, and how they might best reach Beaconsfield across these Penn
Woods, and the old man’s mumbled answer took no note of—her:
“It’s a bit rough, maybe, on t’other side, stony like and steep, but that
ain’t nothing for a gentleman—when he’s alone ...!”
The words disturbed him with a sense of darkness, yet of wonder. As
though the old man had not noticed her; almost as though he had seen only
one person—himself.
They lunched among heather and bracken just beside a pool of sunshine.
In front lay a copse of pines, with little beeches in between. The roof was
thick just there, the stillness haunting. All the country-side, it seemed, this
Sunday noon, had gone to sleep, he and she alone left out of the deep, soft
dream. He watched those pines, mothering the slim young beeches, the
brilliant fresh green of whose lower branches, he thought, were like little
platforms of level sunlight amid the general gloom—patches that had left
the ground to escape by the upper air and had then been caught.
“Look,” he heard, “they make one think of laughter crept in unawares
among a lot of solemn monks—or of children lost among grave elder
beings whose ways are dull and sombre!” It was his own thought continued
... yet it was she, lying there beside him, who had said it....
And all that wonderful afternoon she had this curious way of picking the
thoughts out of his mind and putting them into words for him. “Look,” she
said again later, “you can always tell whether the wind loves a tree or not by
the way it blows the branches. If it loves them, it tries to draw them out to
go away with it. The others it merely shakes carelessly as it passes!” It was
the very thought in his own mind, too. Indeed, he had been on the point of
saying it, but had desisted, feeling she would not understand—with the half
wish—though far less strong than before—that he were alone to enjoy it all
in his own indulgent way. Then, even more swiftly, came that other strange
sensation that he was alone all the time; more—that he was for the first time
in his life most wonderfully complete and happy, all sense of isolation gone.
He turned quickly the instant she had said it. But not quickly enough. By
the look in her great grey eyes, by the expression on the face where the
discarded hat no longer hid it, he read the same amazing enigma he had half
divined before. She, too, was—alone. She had forgotten him again—
forgotten his presence—radiant and happy without him, enjoying herself in
her own way. She had merely uttered her delightful thought aloud, as if
speaking to herself!
How the afternoon, with its long sunny hours, passed so quickly away,
he never understood, nor how they made their way eventually to
Beaconsfield through other woods and over other meadows. He remembers
only that the whole time he kept forgetting that she was with him, and then
suddenly remembering it again. And once on the grass, when they rested to
drink the cold tea from his rather musty flask, he lit his pipe, and after a bit
he—dozed. He actually slept; for ten minutes at her side, yes, he slept. He
heard her laughing at him, but the laughter was faint and very far away; it
might just as well have been the wind in the cow-parsley that said, “If you
sleep, I shall change you—change you while you sleep!” And for some
minutes after he woke again, it hardly seemed queer to him that he did not
see her, for when he noticed her coming towards him from the hedgerow,
her arms full of flowers and things, he only thought, “Oh, there she is”—as
though her absence, or his own absence in sleep, were not quite the
common absences of the world.
And he remembered that on the walk to the village her shoe hurt her, and
he offered to carry her, and that then she took her shoe off and ran along the
grass beside the lane the whole way. But it was at the inn where they had
their supper that the oddest thing of all occurred, for the deaf and rather
stupid servant girl would insist on laying the table on the lawn for—one.
“Oh, expectin’ some one, are yer?” she said at last. “Is that it?” and so
brought plates and knives for two. The girl never once looked at his
companion—almost as though she did not see her and seemed unaware of
her presence. Le Maitre began to feel that he was dreaming. This was a
dream-country, where the people had curious sight. He remembered the
driver....
In the dusk they made their way to the station. They spoke no word. He
kept losing sight of her. Once or twice he forgot who he was. But the whole
amazing thing blazed into him most strongly, showing how it had seized
upon his mind, when he stood before the ticket-window and hesitated—for
a second—how many tickets he should buy. He stammered at length for two
first-class, but he was absurdly flustered for a second. It had actually
occurred to him that they needed only one ticket....
And suddenly in the train he understood—and his heart came up in his
throat. They were alone. He turned to her where she lay in the corner, feet
up, weary, crumpled among the leaves and flowers she had gathered. Like a
hedgerow flower she looked, tired by the sunshine and the wind. In one
hand was the picture-paper, still unopened and unread, symbol of everyday
reality. She was dozing certainly, if not actually asleep. So he woke her with
a touch, calling her name aloud.
There were no words at first. He looked at her, coming up very close to
do so, and she looked back at him—straight into his eyes—just as she did at
home when they were working and he was explaining something important.
And then her own eyes dropped, and a deep blush spread over all her face.
“I wasn’t asleep—really,” she said, as he took her at last into his arms; “I
was wondering—when—you’d find out——”
“Come to myself, you mean?” he asked tremblingly.
“Well,” she hesitated, as soon as she got breath, “that I am yourself—and
that you are me. Of course, we’re really only one. I knew it years—oh,
years and years ago....”
XV
ANCIENT LIGHTS
From Southwater, where he left the train, the road led due west. That he
knew; for the rest he trusted to luck, being one of those born walkers who
dislike asking the way. He had that instinct, and as a rule it served him well.
“A mile or so due west along the sandy road till you come to a stile on the
right; then across the fields. You’ll see the red house straight before you.”
He glanced at the post-card’s instructions once again, and once again he
tried to decipher the scratched-out sentence—without success. It had been
so elaborately inked over that no word was legible. Inked-out sentences in a
letter were always enticing. He wondered what it was that had to be so very
carefully obliterated.
The afternoon was boisterous, with a tearing, shouting wind that blew
from the sea, across the Sussex weald. Massive clouds with rounded, piled-
up edges, cannoned across gaping spaces of blue sky. Far away the line of
Downs swept the horizon, like an arriving wave. Chanctonbury Ring rode
their crest—a scudding ship, hull down before the wind. He took his hat off
and walked rapidly, breathing great draughts of air with delight and
exhilaration. The road was deserted; no horsemen, bicycles, or motors; not
even a tradesman’s cart; no single walker. But anyhow he would never have
asked the way. Keeping a sharp eye for the stile, he pounded along, while
the wind tossed the cloak against his face, and made waves across the blue
puddles in the yellow road. The trees showed their under leaves of white.
The bracken and the high new grass bent all one way. Great life was in the
day, high spirits and dancing everywhere. And for a Croydon surveyor’s
clerk just out of an office this was like a holiday at the sea.
It was a day for high adventure, and his heart rose up to meet the mood
of Nature. His umbrella with the silver ring ought to have been a sword, and
his brown shoes should have been top-boots with spurs upon the heels.
Where hid the enchanted Castle and the princess with the hair of sunny
gold? His horse....
The stile came suddenly into view and nipped adventure in the bud.
Everyday clothes took him prisoner again. He was a surveyor’s clerk,
middle-aged, earning three pounds a week, coming from Croydon to see
about a client’s proposed alterations in a wood—something to ensure a
better view from the dining-room window. Across the fields, perhaps a mile
away, he saw the red house gleaming in the sunshine; and resting on the
stile a moment to get his breath he noticed a copse of oak and hornbeam on
the right. “Aha,” he told himself, “so that must be the wood he wants to cut
down to improve the view? I’ll ’ave a look at it.” There were boards up, of
course, but there was an inviting little path as well. “I’m not a trespasser,”
he said; “it’s part of my business, this is.” He scrambled awkwardly over
the gate and entered the copse. A little round would bring him to the field
again.
But the moment he passed among the trees the wind ceased shouting and
a stillness dropped upon the world. So dense was the growth that the
sunshine only came through in isolated patches. The air was close. He
mopped his forehead and put his green felt hat on, but a low branch
knocked it off again at once, and as he stooped an elastic twig swung back
and stung his face. There were flowers along both edges of the little path;
glades opened on either side; ferns curved about in damper corners, and the
smell of earth and foliage was rich and sweet. It was cooler here. What an
enchanting little wood, he thought, turning down a small green glade where
the sunshine flickered like silver wings. How it danced and fluttered and
moved about! He put a dark blue flower in his buttonhole. Again his hat,
caught by an oak branch as he rose, was knocked from his head, falling
across his eyes. And this time he did not put it on again. Swinging his
umbrella, he walked on with uncovered head, whistling rather loudly as he
went. But the thickness of the trees hardly encouraged whistling, and
something of his gaiety and high spirits seemed to leave him. He suddenly
found himself treading circumspectly and with caution. The stillness in the
wood was so peculiar.
There was a rustle among the ferns and leaves and something shot across
the path ten yards ahead, stopped abruptly an instant with head cocked
sideways to stare, then dived again beneath the underbrush with the speed
of a shadow. He started like a frightened child, laughing the next second
that a mere pheasant could have made him jump. In the distance he heard
wheels upon the road, and wondered why the sound was pleasant. “Good
old butcher’s cart,” he said to himself—then realised that he was going in
the wrong direction and had somehow got turned round. For the road should
be behind him, not in front.
And he hurriedly took another narrow glade that lost itself in greenness
to the right. “That’s my direction, of course,” he said; “the trees has mixed
me up a bit, it seems”—then found himself abruptly by the gate he had first
climbed over. He had merely made a circle. Surprise became almost
discomfiture then. And a man, dressed like a gamekeeper in browny green,
leaned against the gate, hitting his legs with a switch. “I’m making for Mr.
Lumley’s farm,” explained the walker. “This is his wood, I believe——”
then stopped dead, because it was no man at all, but merely an effect of
light and shade and foliage. He stepped back to reconstruct the singular
illusion, but the wind shook the branches roughly here on the edge of the
wood and the foliage refused to reconstruct the figure. The leaves all rustled
strangely. And just then the sun went behind a cloud, making the whole
wood look otherwise. Yet how the mind could be thus doubly deceived was
indeed remarkable, for it almost seemed to him the man had answered,
spoken—or was this the shuffling noise the branches made?—and had
pointed with his switch to the notice-board upon the nearest tree. The words
rang on in his head, but of course he had imagined them: “No, it’s not his
wood. It’s ours.” And some village wit, moreover, had changed the lettering
on the weather-beaten board, for it read quite plainly, “Trespassers will be
persecuted.”
And while the astonished clerk read the words and chuckled, he said to
himself, thinking what a tale he’d have to tell his wife and children later
—“The blooming wood has tried to chuck me out. But I’ll go in again.
Why, it’s only a matter of a square acre at most. I’m bound to reach the
fields on the other side if I keep straight on.” He remembered his position in
the office. He had a certain dignity to maintain.
The cloud passed from below the sun, and light splashed suddenly in all
manner of unlikely places. The man went straight on. He felt a touch of
puzzling confusion somewhere; this way the copse had of shifting from
sunshine into shadow doubtless troubled sight a little. To his relief, at last, a
new glade opened through the trees and disclosed the fields with a glimpse
of the red house in the distance at the far end. But a little wicket gate that
stood across the path had first to be climbed, and as he scrambled heavily
over—for it would not open—he got the astonishing feeling that it slid off
sideways beneath his weight, and towards the wood. Like the moving
staircases at Harrod’s and Earl’s Court, it began to glide off with him. It was
quite horrible. He made a violent effort to get down before it carried him
into the trees, but his feet became entangled with the bars and umbrella, so
that he fell heavily upon the farther side, arms spread across the grass and
nettles, boots clutched between the first and second bars. He lay there a
moment like a man crucified upside down, and while he struggled to get
disentangled—feet, bars, and umbrella formed a regular net—he saw the
little man in browny green go past him with extreme rapidity through the
wood. The man was laughing. He passed across the glade some fifty yards
away, and he was not alone this time. A companion like himself went with
him. The clerk, now upon his feet again, watched them disappear into the
gloom of green beyond. “They’re tramps, not gamekeepers,” he said to
himself, half mortified, half angry. But his heart was thumping dreadfully,
and he dared not utter all his thought.
He examined the wicket gate, convinced it was a trick gate somehow—
then went hurriedly on again, disturbed beyond belief to see that the glade
no longer opened into fields, but curved away to the right. What in the
world had happened to him? His sight was so utterly at fault. Again the sun
flamed out abruptly and lit the floor of the wood with pools of silver, and at
the same moment a violent gust of wind passed shouting overhead. Drops
fell clattering everywhere upon the leaves, making a sharp pattering as of
many footsteps. The whole copse shuddered and went moving.
“Rain, by George,” thought the clerk, and feeling for his umbrella,
discovered he had lost it. He turned back to the gate and found it lying on
the farther side. To his amazement he saw the fields at the far end of the
glade, the red house, too, ashine in the sunset. He laughed then, for, of
course, in his struggle with the gate, he had somehow got turned round—
had fallen back instead of forwards. Climbing over, this time quite easily, he
retraced his steps. The silver band, he saw, had been torn from the umbrella.
No doubt his foot, a nail, or something had caught in it and ripped it off.
The clerk began to run; he felt extraordinarily dismayed.
But, while he ran, the entire wood ran with him, round him, to and fro,
trees shifting like living things, leaves folding and unfolding, trunks darting
backwards and forwards, and branches disclosing enormous empty spaces,
then closing up again before he could look into them. There were footsteps
everywhere, and laughing, crying voices, and crowds of figures gathering
just behind his back till the glade, he knew, was thick with moving life. The
wind in his ears, of course, produced the voices and the laughter, while sun
and clouds, plunging the copse alternately in shadow and bright dazzling
light, created the figures. But he did not like it, and he went as fast as ever
his sturdy legs could take him. He was frightened now. This was no story
for his wife and children. He ran like the wind. But his feet made no sound
upon the soft mossy turf.
Then, to his horror, he saw that the glade grew narrow, nettles and weeds
stood thick across it, it dwindled down into a tiny path, and twenty yards
ahead it stopped finally and melted off among the trees. What the trick gate
had failed to achieve, this twisting glade accomplished easily—carried him
in bodily among the dense and crowding trees.
There was only one thing to do—turn sharply and dash back again, run
headlong into the life that followed at his back, followed so closely too that
now it almost touched him, pushing him in. And with reckless courage this
was what he did. It seemed a fearful thing to do. He turned with a sort of
violent spring, head down and shoulders forward, hands stretched before his
face. He made the plunge; like a hunted creature he charged full tilt the
other way, meeting the wind now in his face.
Good Lord! The glade behind him had closed up as well; there was no
longer any path at all. Turning round and round, like an animal at bay, he
searched for an opening, a way of escape, searched frantically, breathlessly,
terrified now in his bones. But foliage surrounded him, branches blocked
the way; the trees stood close and still, unshaken by a breath of wind; and
the sun dipped that moment behind a great black cloud. The entire wood
turned dark and silent. It watched him.
Perhaps it was this final touch of sudden blackness that made him act so
foolishly, as though he had really lost his head. At any rate, without pausing
to think, he dashed headlong in among the trees again. There was a
sensation of being stiflingly surrounded and entangled, and that he must
break out at all costs—out and away into the open of the blessed fields and
air. He did this ill-considered thing, and apparently charged straight into an
oak that deliberately moved into his path to stop him. He saw it shift across
a good full yard, and being a measuring man, accustomed to theodolite and
chain, he ought to know. He fell, saw stars, and felt a thousand tiny fingers
tugging and pulling at his hands and neck and ankles. The stinging nettles,
no doubt, were responsible for this. He thought of it later. At the moment it
felt diabolically calculated.
But another remarkable illusion was not so easily explained. For all in a
moment, it seemed, the entire wood went sliding past him with a thick deep
rustling of leaves and laughter, myriad footsteps, and tiny little active,
energetic shapes; two men in browny green gave him a mighty hoist—and
he opened his eyes to find himself lying in the meadow beside the stile
where first his incredible adventure had begun. The wood stood in its usual
place and stared down upon him in the sunlight. There was the red house in
the distance as before. Above him grinned the weather-beaten notice-board:
“Trespassers will be prosecuted.”
Dishevelled in mind and body, and a good deal shaken in his official
soul, the clerk walked slowly across the fields. But on the way he glanced
once more at the post-card of instructions, and saw with dull amazement
that the inked-out sentence was quite legible after all beneath the scratches
made across it: “There is a short cut through the wood—the wood I want
cut down—if you care to take it.” Only “care” was so badly written, it
looked more like another word; the “c” was uncommonly like “d.”
“That’s the copse that spoils my view of the Downs, you see,” his client
explained to him later, pointing across the fields, and referring to the
ordnance map beside him. “I want it cut down and a path made so and so.”
His finger indicated direction on the map. “The Fairy Wood—it’s still
called, and it’s far older than this house. Come now, if you’re ready, Mr.
Thomas, we might go out and have a look at it....”
XVI
DREAM TRESPASS
The little feathers of the dusk were drifting through the autumn leaves when
we came so unexpectedly upon the inn that was not marked upon our big-
scaled map. And most opportunely, for Ducommun, my friend, was clearly
overtired. An irritability foreign to his placid temperament had made the
last few hours’ trudge a little difficult, and I felt we had reached that narrow
frontier which lies between non-success and failure.
“Another five miles to the inn we chose this morning,” I told him; “but
we’ll soon manage it at a steady pace.”
And he groaned, “I’m done! I simply couldn’t do it.”
He sank down upon the bit of broken wall to rest, while the darkness
visibly increased, and the wind blew damp and chill across the marshes on
our left. But behind the petulance of his tone, due to exhaustion solely, lay
something else as well, something that had been accumulating for days. For
our walking tour had not turned out quite to measure, distances always
under-calculated; the inns, moreover, bad; the people surly and
inhospitable; even the weather cross.
And Ducommun’s disappointment had in a sense been double, so that I
felt keen sympathy with him. For this was the country where his ancestors
once reigned as proprietors, grand seigneurs, and the rest; he had always
longed to visit it; and secretly in his imagination had cherished a
reconstructed picture in which he himself would somehow play some high,
distinguished rôle his proud blood entitled him to. Clerk to-day in a mere
insurance office, but descendant of romantic, ancient stock, he knew the
history of the period intimately; the holiday had been carefully, lovingly
planned; and—the unpleasantness of the inhabitants had shattered his dream
thus fostered and so keenly anticipated. The breaking-point had been
reached. Was not this inn we hoped to reach by dark a portion of the very
château—he had established it from musty records enough—where once his
family dwelt in old-time splendour? And had he not indulged all manner of
delightful secret dreaming in advance?...
It was here, then, returning from a little private reconnoitring on my own
account, that I reported my brave discovery of an unexpected half-way
house, and found him almost asleep upon the stones, unwilling to believe
the short half-mile I promised. “Only another nest of robbery and
insolence,” he laughed sourly, “and, anyhow, not the inn we counted on.”
He dragged after me in silence, eyeing askance the tumbled, ivy-covered
shanty that stood beside the roadway, yet gladly going in ahead of me to
rest his weary limbs, and troubling himself no whit with bargaining that he
divined might be once more unpleasant.
Yet the inn proved a surprise in another way—it was entirely delightful.
There was a glowing fire of peat in a biggish hall, the patron and his wife
were all smiles and pleasure, welcoming us with an old-fashioned dignity
that made bargaining impossible, and in ten minutes we felt as much at
home as if we had arrived at a country house where we had been long
expected.
“So few care to stop here now,” the old woman told us, with a gracious
gesture that was courtly rather than deferential, “we stand no longer upon
the old high road,” and showed in a hundred nameless ways that all they
had was entirely at our disposal. Till even Ducommun melted and turned
soft: “Only in France could this happen,” he whispered with a touch of
pride, as though claiming that this fragrance of gentle life, now fast
disappearing from the world, still lingered in the land of his descent and in
his own blood too. He patted the huge, rough deer-hound that seemed to fill
the little room where we awaited supper, and the friendly creature,
bounding with a kind of subdued affection, added another touch of
welcome. His face and manners were evidence of kind treatment; he was
proud of his owners and of his owners’ guests. I thought of well-loved pets
in our English country houses. “This beast,” I laughed, “has surely lived
with gentlemen.” And Ducommun took the compliment to himself with
personal satisfaction.
It is difficult to tell afterwards with accuracy the countless little touches
that made the picture all so gentle—they were so delicately suggested,
painted in silently with such deft spiritual discretion. It stands out in my
memory, set in some strange, high light, as the most enchanting experience
of many a walking tour; and yet, about it all, like a veil of wonder that
evades description, an atmosphere of something at the same time—I use the
best available word—truly singular. This touch of something remote,
indefinite, unique, began to steal over me from the very first, bringing with
it an incalculable, queer charm. It lulled like a drug all possible suspicions.
And in my friend—detail of the picture nearest to my heart, that is—it first
betrayed itself, with a degree of surprise, moreover, not entirely removed
from shock.
For as he passed before me underneath that low-browed porch, quite
undeniably he—altered. This indefinable change clothed his entire
presentment to my eyes; to tired eyes, I freely grant, as also that it was
dusk, and that the transforming magic of the peat fire was behind him. Yet,
eschewing paragraphs of vain description, I may put a portion of it crudely
thus, perhaps: that his lankiness turned suddenly all grace; the atmosphere
of the London office stool, as of the clerk a-holidaying, vanished; and that
the way he bowed his head to enter the dark-beamed lintel of the door was
courtly and high bred, instinct with native elegance, and in the real sense
aristocratic. It came with an instant and complete conviction. It was
wonderful to see; and it gave me a moment’s curious enchantment. All that
I divined and loved in the man, usually somewhat buried, came forth upon
the surface. A note of explanation followed readily enough, half explanation
at any rate—that houses alter people because, like dressing-up with women
and children, they furnish a new setting to the general appearance, and the
points one is accustomed to undergo a readjustment. Yet with him this
subtle alteration did not pass; it not only clung to him during the entire
evening, but most curiously increased. He maintained, indeed, his silence
the whole time, but it was a happy, dreaming silence holding the charm of
real companionship, his disappointment gone as completely as the memory
of our former cheerless inns and ill-conditioned people.
I cannot pretend, though, that I really watched him carefully, since an
attack from another quarter divided my attention equally, and the charm of
the daughter of the house, in whose eyes, it seemed to me, lay all the quiet
sadness of the country we had walked through—triste, morne, forsaken
land—claimed a great part of my observant sympathy. The old people left
us entirely to her care, and the way she looked after us, divining our wants
before we ventured to express them, was more suggestive of the perfect
hostess than merely of someone who would take payment for all that she
supplied. The question of money, indeed, did not once intrude, though I
cannot say whence came my impression that this hospitality was, in fact,
offered without the least idea of remuneration in silver and gold. That it did