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Ecological Rationality Intelligence in the World 1st
Edition Peter M. Todd Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Peter M. Todd, Gerd Gigerenzer
ISBN(s): 9780195315448, 0195315448
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 2.27 MB
Year: 2012
Language: english
Ecological Rationality
Intelligence in the World
EVOLUTION AND COGNITION
Peter M. Todd
Gerd Gigerenzer
and the ABC Research Group
1
1
Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further
Oxford University’s objective of excellence
in research, scholarship, and education.
With offices in
Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece
Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore
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987654321
Printed in USA
on acid-free paper
Dedicated to Herbert Simon and Reinhard Selten, who pioneered
the study of rationality in the real world.
This page intentionally left blank
Preface
References 498
Name Index 552
Subject Index 567
This page intentionally left blank
The ABC Research Group
“
M ore information is always better, full information is best. More
computation is always better, optimization is best.” More-is-better
ideals such as these have long shaped our vision of rationality. The
philosopher Rudolf Carnap (1947), for instance, proposed the
“principle of total evidence,” which is the recommendation to use
all the available evidence when estimating a probability. The statis-
tician I. J. Good (1967) argued, similarly, that it is irrational to make
observations without using them. Going back further in time, the
Old Testament says that God created humans in his image (Genesis
1:26), and it might not be entirely accidental that some form of
omniscience (including knowledge of all relevant probabilities
and utilities) and omnipotence (including the ability to compute
complex functions in a blink) has sneaked into models of human
cognition. Many theories in the cognitive sciences and economics
have recreated humans in this heavenly image—from Bayesian
models to exemplar models to the maximization of expected utility.
Yet as far as we can tell, humans and other animals have always
relied on simple strategies or heuristics to solve adaptive problems,
ignoring most information and eschewing much computation
rather than aiming for as much as possible of both. In this book,
we argue that in an uncertain world, more information and com-
putation is not always better. Most important, we ask why and
when less can be more. The answers to this question constitute the
idea of ecological rationality, how we are able to achieve intelli-
gence in the world by using simple heuristics in appropriate con-
texts. Ecological rationality stems in part from the nature of those
3
4 THE RESEARCH AGENDA
Making Money
In 1990, Harry Markowitz received the Nobel Prize in Economics
for his path-breaking work on optimal asset allocation. He addressed
a vital investment problem that everyone faces in some form or
other, be it saving for retirement or earning money on the stock
market: How to invest your money in N available assets. It would
be risky to put everything in one basket; therefore, it makes sense
to diversify. But how? Markowitz (1952) derived the optimal rule
for allocating wealth across assets, known as the mean–variance
portfolio, because it maximizes the return (mean) and minimizes
the risk (variance). When considering his own retirement invest-
ments, we could be forgiven for imagining that Markowitz used his
award-winning optimization technique. But he did not. He relied
instead on a simple heuristic:
make better decisions. Yet our point is not that simple heuristics
are better than optimization methods, nor the opposite, as is typi-
cally assumed. No heuristic or optimizing strategy is the best in all
worlds. Rather, we must always ask, in what environments does a
given heuristic perform better than a complex strategy, and when is
the opposite true? This is the question of the ecological rationality
of a heuristic. The answer requires analyzing the information-
processing mechanism of the heuristic, the information structures
of the environment, and the match between the two. For the choice
between 1/N and the mean–variance portfolio, the relevant envi-
ronmental features include (a) degree of uncertainty, (b) number
N of alternatives, and (c) size of the learning sample.
It is difficult to predict the future performance of funds because
uncertainty is high. The size of the learning sample is the estima-
tion window, with 5 to 10 years of data typically being used to cali-
brate portfolio models in investment practice. The 1/N rule tends to
outperform the mean–variance portfolio if uncertainty is high, the
number of alternatives is large, and the learning sample is small.
This qualitative insight allows us to ask a quantitative question: If
we have 50 alternatives, how large a learning sample do we need so
that the mean–variance portfolio eventually outperforms the simple
heuristic? The answer is: 500 years of stock data (DeMiguel et al.,
2009). Thus, if you started keeping track of your investments now,
in the 26th century optimization would finally pay off, assuming
that the same funds, and the stock market, are still around.
Catching Balls
Now let us think about sports, where players are also faced with
challenging, often emotionally charged problems. How do players
catch a fly ball? If you ask professional players, they may well stare
at you blankly and respond that they had never thought about it—
they just run to the ball and catch it. But how do players know
where to run? A standard account is that minds solve such complex
problems with complex algorithms. An obvious candidate complex
algorithm is that players unconsciously estimate the ball’s trajec-
tory and run as fast as possible to the spot where the ball will hit
the ground. How else could it work? In The Selfish Gene, biologist
Richard Dawkins (1989, p. 96) discusses exactly this:
When a man throws a ball high in the air and catches it again, he
behaves as if he had solved a set of differential equations in pre-
dicting the trajectory of the ball. He may neither know nor care
what a differential equation is, but this does not affect his skill
with the ball. At some subconscious level, something function-
ally equivalent to the mathematical calculation is going on.
6 THE RESEARCH AGENDA
Gaze heuristic: Fixate your gaze on the ball, start running, and
adjust your running speed so that the angle of gaze remains
constant.
The angle of gaze is the angle between the eye and the ball, rela-
tive to the ground. Players who use this rule do not need to measure
wind, air resistance, spin, or the other causal variables. They can
get away with ignoring all these pieces of causal information. All
the relevant facts are contained in only one variable: the angle of
gaze. Note that players using the gaze heuristic are not able to com-
pute the point at which the ball will land, just as demonstrated by
the experimental results. But the heuristic nevertheless leads them
to the landing point in time to make the catch.
Like the 1/N rule, the gaze heuristic is successful in a particular
class of situations, not in all cases, and the study of its ecological
rationality aims at identifying that class. As many ball players say,
the hardest ball to catch is the one that heads straight at you, a situ-
ation in which the gaze heuristic is of no use. As mentioned before,
the gaze heuristic works in situations where the ball is already high
WHAT IS ECOLOGICAL RATIONALITY? 7
in the air, but it fails if applied right when the ball is at the begin-
ning of its flight. However, in this different environmental condi-
tion, players do not need a completely new heuristic—just a slightly
modified one, with a different final step (McBeath, Shaffer, & Kaiser,
1995; Shaffer, Krauchunas, Eddy, & McBeath, 2004):
Modified gaze heuristic: Fixate your gaze on the ball, start run-
ning, and adjust your running speed so that the image of the
ball rises at a constant rate.
What Is a Heuristic?
(Continued )
Table 1-1: Twelve Well-Studied Heuristics With Evidence of Use in the Adaptive Toolbox of Humans
Heuristic Definition Ecologically rational if: Surprising findings (examples)
Gaze heuristic To catch a ball, fix your gaze on it, The ball is coming down Balls will be caught while
(Gigerenzer, 2007; start running, and adjust your from overhead running, possibly on a curved
McBeath, Shaffer, & running speed so that the angle path
Kaiser, 1995) of gaze remains constant.
1/N rule (DeMiguel, Allocate resources equally to each High unpredictability, Can outperform optimal asset
Garlappi, & Uppal, of N alternatives. small learning sample, allocation portfolios
2009) large N
Default heuristic If there is a default, follow it. Values of those who Explains why advertising has
(Johnson & Goldstein, set defaults match little effect on organ donor
2003; chapter 16) those of the decision registration; predicts behavior
maker; consequences when trait and preference
of a choice are hard to theories fail
foresee
Tit-for-tat (Axelrod, Cooperate first and then imitate The other players also Can lead to a higher payoff than
1984) your partner’s last behavior. play tit-for-tat “rational” strategies (e.g. by
backward induction)
Imitate the majority Determine the behavior followed Environment is stable or A driving force in bonding,
(Boyd & Richerson, by the majority of people in only changes slowly; group identification, and moral
2005) your group and imitate it. info search is costly or behavior
time consuming
Imitate the successful Determine the most successful Individual learning is A driving force in cultural
(Boyd & Richerson, person and imitate his or her slow; info search is evolution
2005) behavior. costly or time consuming
Note. For formal definitions and conditions concerning ecological rationality and surprising findings, see references indicated and related chapters
in this book.
WHAT IS ECOLOGICAL RATIONALITY? 11
Evolved Capacities
Building blocks of heuristics are generally based on evolved cap-
acities. For instance, in the gaze heuristic, to keep the gaze angle
constant an organism needs the capacity to track an object visually
against a noisy background—something that no modern robot or
computer vision system can do as well as organisms (e.g., humans)
that have evolved to follow targets. When we use the term evolved
capacity, we refer to a product of nature and nurture—a capacity
that is prepared by the genes of a species but usually needs experi-
ence to be fully expressed. For instance, 3-month-old babies spon-
taneously practice holding their gaze on moving targets, such as
mobiles hanging over their crib. Evolved capacities are one reason
why simple heuristics can perform so well: They enable solutions
to complex problems that are fundamentally different from the
mathematically inspired ideal of humans and animals somehow
optimizing their choices. Other capacities underlying heuristic
building blocks include recognition memory, which the recogni-
tion heuristic and fluency heuristics exploit, and counting and
recall, which take-the-best and similar heuristics can use to esti-
mate cue orders.
April 8, 1779
If you doubt, set down all the Reasons, pro and con, in
opposite Columns on a Sheet of Paper, and when you have
considered them two or three Days, perform an Operation
similar to that in some questions of Algebra; observe what
Reasons or Motives in each Column are equal in weight, one
to one, one to two, two to three, or the like, and when you
have struck out from both Sides all the Equalities, you will see
in which column remains the Balance.… This kind of Moral
Algebra I have often practiced in important and dubious
Concerns, and tho’ it cannot be mathematically exact, I have
WHAT IS ECOLOGICAL RATIONALITY? 13
to ignore much of the available information and use fast and frugal
heuristics. And yet this approach is often resisted: When a forecast-
ing model does not predict a criterion, such as the performance of
funds, as well as hoped, the gut reaction of many people, experts
and novices alike, is to do the opposite and call for more informa-
tion and more computation. The possibility that the solution may
lie in eliminating information and fancy computation is still
unimaginable for many and hard to digest even after it has been
demonstrated again and again (see chapter 3).
Sample Size In general, the smaller the sample size of available data
in the environment, the larger the advantage for simple heuristics.
One of the reasons is that complex statistical models have to esti-
mate their parameter values from past data, and if the sample size is
small, then the resulting error due to “variance” can exceed the error
due to “bias” in competing heuristics (see chapter 2). What consti-
tutes a small sample size depends on the degree of uncertainty, as
can be seen in the investment problem, where uncertainty is high:
In this case, a sample size of hundreds of years of stock data is
needed for the mean–variance portfolio to surpass the accuracy of
the 1/N rule.
There are many other important types of environment struc-
ture relevant for understanding ecological rationality. Two of
the major ones also considered in this book are redundancy and
variability.
(e.g., a disastrous hurricane) and other people (e.g., the public reac-
tion to a disaster). Each of the heuristics in Table 1-1 can be applied
to social objects (e.g., whom to hire, to trust, to marry) as well
as to physical objects (e.g., what goods to buy). As an example, the
recognition heuristic (see chapters 5 and 6) exploits environment
structures in which lack of recognition is valuable information and
aids inferences about, say, what microbrew to order and where to
invest, but also whom to talk to and whom to trust (“don’t ride with
a stranger”). Similarly, a satisficing heuristic can be used to select a
pair of jeans but also choose a mate (Todd & Miller, 1999), and the
1/N rule can help investors to diversify but also guide parents in
allocating their time and resources equally to their children.
Environment structures are also deliberately created by institu-
tions to influence behavior. Sometimes this is felicitous, as when
governments figure out how to get citizens to donate organs by
default, or design traffic laws for intersection right-of-way in a hier-
archical manner that matches people’s one-reason decision mecha-
nisms (chapter 16). In other cases, institutions create environments
that do not fit well with people’s cognitive processes and instead
cloud minds, accidentally or deliberately. For instance, informa-
tion about medical treatments is often represented in ways that
make benefits appear huge and harms inconsequential (chapter 17),
casinos set up gambling environments with cues that make gam-
blers believe the chance of winning is greater than it really is
(chapter 16), and store displays and shopping websites are crowded
with long lists of features of numerous products that can confuse cus-
tomers with information overload (Fasolo, McClelland, & Todd, 2007).
But there are ways to fix such problematic designs and make new
ones that people can readily find their way through, as we will see.
Finally, environment structure can emerge without design
through the social interactions of multiple decision makers. For
instance, people choosing a city to move to are often attracted by
large, vibrant metropolises, so that the “big get bigger,” which can
result in a J-shaped (or power-law) distribution of city populations
(a few teeming burgs, a number of medium-sized ones, and numer-
ous smaller towns). Such an emergent distribution, which is
seen in many domains ranging from book sales to website visits,
can in turn be exploited by heuristics for choice or estimation
(chapter 15). Similarly, drivers seeking a parking space using a par-
ticular heuristic create a pattern of available spots that serves as the
environment for future drivers to search through with their own
strategies, which may or may not fit that environment structure
(chapter 18). In these cases, individuals are, through the effects
of their own choices, shaping the environment in which they
and others must make further choices, creating the possibility of a
co-adapting loop between mind and world.
20 THE RESEARCH AGENDA
This view starts from the dictum that more is always better, as
described at the beginning of this chapter—more information and
computation would result in greater accuracy. But since in the real
world, so the argument goes, information is not free and computa-
tion takes time that could be spent on other things (Todd, 2001),
there is a point where the costs of further search exceed the
benefits. This assumed trade-off underlies optimization-under-
constraints theories of decision making, in which information
search in the external world (e.g., Stigler, 1961) or in memory (e.g.,
Anderson, 1990) is terminated when the expected costs exceed its
benefits. Similarly, the seminal analysis of the adaptive decision
maker (Payne et al., 1993) is built around the assumption that heu-
ristics achieve a beneficial trade-off between accuracy and effort,
where effort is a function of the amount of information and compu-
tation consumed. And indeed, as has been shown by Payne et al.’s
research and much since, heuristics can save effort.
The major discovery, however, is that saving effort does not nec-
essarily lead to a loss in accuracy. The trade-off is unnecessary.
Heuristics can be faster and more accurate than strategies that use
more information and more computation, including optimization
techniques. Our analysis of the ecological rationality of heuristics
goes beyond the incorrect universal assumption of effort–accuracy
trade-offs to ask empirically where less information and computa-
tion leads to more accurate judgments—that is, where less effortful
heuristics are more accurate than more costly methods.
These less-is-more effects have been popping up in a variety of
domains for years, but have been routinely ignored, as documented
in chapter 3. Now, though, a critical mass of instances is being
assembled, as shown throughout this book. For instance, in an age
in which companies maintain databases of their customers, com-
plete with historical purchase data, a key question becomes pre-
dicting which customers are likely to purchase again in a given
timeframe and which will be inactive. Wübben and Wangenheim
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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had his own stock of stories picked up from his little Moslem friends, and
had you listened to him you would have recognized in a mutilated form the
doings of the old heroes of the "Nights"—the Chinese Magician, Aladdin,
The Three Calenders and the D'jin imprisoned by the seal of the great
"Zuleiman."
They took two months in the making and a lot of trouble in obtaining the
paint for the coats and trousers, but they were finished for the time
appointed: Christmas Day.
Karasloff, who had seen the making of the things, was much moved
when he found that they were for Ivan, but he said scarcely anything. Ivan
did all the thanking, and the valiant wooden soldiers formed another bond,
if such a thing were wanted, between himself and the légionnaire.
One day Karasloff said to Jacques, "Life in the Legion is a healthy life;
though hard enough at times, the work is not without interest, one has the
sunshine and the blue sky and the good wine is only three sous a bottle. All
the same, this life in the Legion is killing me."
II
Jacques looked at Karasloff in surprise. He had noticed lately that
Karasloff was growing thinner.
"I think it is this way with men," said he, "they do not bear transplanting.
The real soil in which the mind grows is the social condition to which it is
accustomed. Minds die when torn up by the roots from everything to which
they have been used to. Then there are some men whose bodies are affected
by their minds, and to whom mental decay means bodily decay—that is
how it is."
"You will get all right," said he; "a turn with the Arabs will put new life
in you, and they say we are likely to be sent down south after them any
day."
But the expedition against the Arabs did not come off, and Karasloff did
not get all right; on the contrary the mysterious malady that had seized him
developed with alarming rapidity, it was acute phthisis; he was taken into
hospital, and one day Jacques, receiving an urgent message, went there to
find him dying.
Karasloff had sent for him to speak to him about Ivan. They had a long
talk, and after it Jacques returned to barracks looking troubled and
perplexed.
Karasloff died the next day and was buried on the day following in the
cemetery of the légionnaires with military honours.
"Life has trouble enough," said the old man. "He would gain nothing by
knowing—only grief; we will tell him that his father has gone on a journey.
I will keep him in my house and he will be to me as my own child, and you
can come to see him of an evening as usual."
Jacques, nothing loth, agreed, and things went on just as before with the
exception of Karasloff's absence from the evening meetings at the shop of
El Kobir.
The effect of the child on Jacques had been profound. This scamp, who
had started in life as an Apache and who had gone through the fire of the
Legion, so that one might have fancied his soul scorched for ever,
developed under the influence of the child quite unsuspected qualities and
possibilities.
You might have preached to Jacques; you might have beaten him,
tortured him, shown him visions or showered wisdom upon him without
producing any permanent effect upon his cynical bandit mind, not an evil
mind, but a mind set in narrow ways, with narrow and oblique outlooks
upon life.
Ivan touched the humanity in the man because Ivan was absolutely
human. I think children are the only real human beings, other people are
either men or women. However that may be, in the presence of Ivan
Jacques became something like Ivan, a very simple individual, not above
playing with wooden soldiers or converting himself into a horse for the
child to ride upon.
Then these august beings joked with him and sometimes patted him on
the head, pulled out their bayonets from their scabbards and pretended to
stab him, taught him how to salute and nicknamed him the Corporal.
Then, one day, surrounded with jesting légionnaires, he and Beaujon, the
regimental tailor, had an interview, and Beaujon measured him as if for fun,
took the girth of his chest and the length of his legs and arms, and then—a
week later—Jacques appeared one evening at the shop of El Kobir with a
bundle. It was a little uniform for Ivan to be worn on festive occasions, a
complete corporal's uniform, képi and all.
Jacques for some time past had been out of sorts, with the manner of a
man who has something weighing upon his mind.
To-night he seemed more gloomy than ever, and when Ivan, after
showing himself in his new uniform, went off to have it changed, Jacques
turned to El Kobir.
"All the same," said he, "the child must go. The sight of him in that turn-
out has settled the business for me. Only yesterday, when Corporal Kempfer
asked him what he was going to be when he grew up, he said, 'A
légionnaire.'"
El Kobir put down his cigarette on the little ash-tray by his elbow, and
turned from the rug he was engaged in doctoring.
"Now, listen! when Karasloff was dying, he said to me, 'I leave you Ivan
to send back to my people. He will take his own place among them when I
am dead. They do not know where he is. I took him away because he was
the only thing I cared for, you must return him to my people when I am
dead.' Karasloff has been dead five months," finished Jacques.
"Oh, mon Dieu, how? Karasloff gave me the address of his people just
before he died, and I promised to write to them."
"Yes, five months ago. I did not want to send the child off, and so I have
played false with Karasloff for five months."
"Oh, as for that," said Jacques, "I said to myself when he was dead that I
would keep the child, promise or no promise; then, lately it came to me that
a child has no say, he just has to take his marching orders, and I fell to
wondering if I was marching him into a ditch; just now when he came in
wearing that rig-out, it was as if the uniform hit me in the face. No, he has
to go back to his own people."
Jacques knew the word "Duty" only as a military term. He could not tell
in the least what power it was that compelled him to do this thing he did not
want to do. The child had become a companion, an interest, almost a
necessity of life, and had you told him that it was the good influence of the
child upon him that was now driving the child away from him, he would not
have understood you.
No. The uniform had hit him in the face, that was enough for him.
El Kobir said nothing more. Like Jacques, he did not want to part with
the child, yet he was a just man. Had he been an unjust man or a hard-
hearted man, he would not have wanted to keep the child. Our good
qualities hit us very hard sometimes.
"And who are the child's people?" asked El Kobir, as Jacques, rose to go.
The latter took a paper from his pocket and handed it to his questioner,
who scanned it and handed it back without a word.
He knew quite well that Jacques was about to write, or get his
commanding officer to write to the child's people, yet he had said nothing to
urge or deter him from that course.
He was an old man, and the child had grown round his heart. However,
Fate is Fate. If the thing had to be, it had to be. All the same, a half
welcome idea clung to his mind that Jacques might prove weak enough to
let the matter stand as it was for the present. A year or two, what did it
matter. And suppose the child were taken off to that splendid palace and that
glorious future awaiting him, might that prove the happiest fate for him?
However, a week later the bomb-shell fell. Quite early in the afternoon
Jacques made his appearance at El Kobir's.
The old man, who was looking over some accounts, glanced up.
"Ah, they have come for the child. Where are they?"
"At the Hôtel d'Oran. They wanted to come here and fetch him. I told
them not. I told them I would fetch him myself. You see we don't want a
fuss—you had better say nothing to the child. I will just take him for a walk
and leave him with them at the hotel. They seem good folk these people of
his. There is a woman and a man, the grandfather and grandmother it seems.
There is also our Colonel at the hotel with all the papers about Karasloff.
"The grandfather is M. le Prince, but he is all the same a kind-spoken old
man—the child will be happy enough. Besides, he need not know he is
going away for always. Only there must be no fuss. He does not want to
take any clothes with him or luggage—they will give him all that."
"Ivan," said El Kobir, "your friend has come to take you for a walk."
He took the child to his side for a moment and gave him a little squeeze,
then he kissed him on the forehead.
Ivan clapped his hand in that of Jacques, and the pair went off, while El
Kobir returned to his accounts.
But the addition of figures made little way, and the eternal cigarette was
unlit as he sat thinking, thinking, a hundred miles removed from the shop,
from his business, from himself.
He was an old man and he had lost many friends. His business was
indeed the only friend left to him. Jacques had never been his friend.
Indeed, now that Ivan was gone, El Kobir felt a vague antagonism
towards Jacques.
Jacques had divided them. This rascal of a Jacques had done a fine thing
no doubt in parting with the child he was so fond of, for the child's sake—
all the same, he had taken the child away.
It was after dark and the swaying lamp was lit in the shop when Jacques
came back.
"Well," he said, "it's done, and they leave to-morrow for Oran. They
made me stay for a while and talk——"
"And the child?" asked El Kobir.
"The child's as pleased as they are. He ran into the old woman's arms
directly they met, and called her grandmama. He does not know he's going
away for good—anyway, there he is quite happy. Happier than I've ever
seen him."
El Kobir heaved a sigh. Then he went off into the back premises and
returned with a bundle. It was the uniform of the Corporal of the
légionnaires, little képi and all.
"These are yours," said he, "you had better take them back to the man
who made them. Your Legion is a légionnaire the less now."
Jacques unrolled the things, looked at the blue coat and red trousers, the
sash and the belt, then as we close the pages of a story, he folded them
together, put them under his arm, and with the képi swinging by the chin-
strap to his finger, bade good-night to the old man and went off to the
barracks.
MANSOOR
They were coming back from the rifle butts in the blaze of the late
afternoon sun, Jacques walking beside Corporal Kandorff. The roofs and
minarets of Sidi-bel-Abbès showed beyond the barracks, swimming in the
heat-shaken air, whilst on the tepid wind blowing in their faces came the
scents of the desert and the smell of the town.
You can smell Sidi-bel-Abbès half a league off, the perfume of the
yellow city is as distinctive as the perfume of a marigold, and as
unforgettable. Camels, negroes, jasmine flowers, caporal tobacco and the
old, old yellow earth of the ramparts all lend a trace of themselves to form a
scent the very recollection of which brings up the bugles of the Legion, the
domes of the city, and the cry of the muezzins from the minarets of the
mosques.
"Seven years in the regiment," he was saying, "and look at me. I who
know every hole and corner of Sidi-bel-Abbès. Things are going from bad
to worse; a year ago there was lots of pickings to be had what between the
new drafts from Oran and the town there; but of late there's not a man
joined the Legion with more than the rags he stands up in, and as for the
town it's gone rotten. Visitors don't seem to come there now, there's no
money and no tick and no trade to be done. I was the sharpest man in the
regiment once at carving a bit out of the Arabs and the visitors and the
traders, but where's the use in being sharp when you have nothing to cut.
Tell me that. I had money once, enough to start in business when I got my
discharge; much good my discharge will do me when I get it. It will mean
rejoining for another five years, and that will be the end of me. I want the
sight of money and I want it bad; every time I pass the Crédit Lyonnais I
can scent the gold there just as you smell the cooking going on in a café. I'll
break in there some day, and if I can't do anything more I'll just roll in the
twenty-franc pieces, swallow them, choke myself with them. That's how I
feel—you'll see."
"Then they would shoot you," said Kandorff, "and I would never get my
fifteen centimes back."
Jacques laughed.
"Well, there would be some satisfaction in that," said he. "It's better to
die owing fifteen centimes than owing nothing—one has someone to mourn
one then. Ah, ha! here's the placard for Mansoor stuck up."
They had reached the barrack gates and he pointed to a poster just stuck
upon the right gate-post. It was the offer of a reward of five hundred francs
for the capture of Mansoor, late superintendent of the Arab police, and the
delivery of his body alive or dead into the hands of Colonel Tirard, chief of
the regiment of légionnaires stationed at Sidi-bel-Abbès. The poster was
issued from the Bureau Arabe, but the goods were to be delivered at the
headquarters of the Legion.
Mansoor, two days ago, had murdered a légionnaire; it was a sordid and
ferocious crime, committed on account of a woman. The criminal had made
his escape, Sidi-bel-Abbès had been searched, Oran sealed, and the desert
posts warned, but the murderer was still at large, hence the reward. Jacques
and Kandorff stood amongst the crowd that had gathered to discuss the
notice.
"Why not? Well, just for the very good reason that he is an Arab and the
Arab police will shelter him and wink at his escape."
"Winking at him won't help him much if he wants to cross the frontier,"
replied the other, "to get into Tunisia."
"He won't bother about that," said Kandorff; "he'll stick on to some
wandering tribe and most likely the next time we meet him he'll be fighting
us down south somewhere. That is the sort of man worse to let loose than a
plague, and he will very likely raise a holy war of his own if he is not
caught."
Kandorff—whose name was not Kandorff and who had spent some years
in the Asiatic Department of the Russian Foreign Office—was a man who
knew what he was talking about. He turned and entered the barrack yard
with Jacques and the business passed from their minds. A légionnaire has no
time to bother about murders, even if the murdered man is a légionnaire.
Jacques and his companion had not even time to think about resting. They
had their washing to do.
Jacques had annexed a piece of soap that morning and hidden it under
his bed; he shared it now with Kandorff as they stood at the great washing
trough, and then, the uniforms washed, pressed and packed safely away,
they started off on their usual evening's walk to the town.
He reached the Crédit Lyonnais, which was closed, and stood for a
moment looking at the building as though measuring the strength of it. This
was the place where fellows shovelled twenty-franc pieces across the
counter with copper shovels and pulled out drawers stuffed with pink and
blue five-hundred-franc notes. Dreams rose before him of what the Legion
could do if it only had the courage of its desires and opinions. The looting
of Sidi-bel-Abbès rose up before him, a gaudy picture with himself in the
foreground armed with a copper shovel and a sack. Then he resumed his
way, striking from the boulevard into the native quarter, or rather the
Moslem quarter of the town.
He was quite at home here and well known to many of the traders. He
had eaten kouss-kouss in the terrible little native cafés where the front
premises are only the stage curtains that conceal an opium joint or worse;
he was known to black-eyed Arab children and to the quick-eyed Arab
police, and to-night, being hard up for cigarettes, he was on the look-out for
someone amidst all this host of acquaintances who could supply him.
He had rolled cigarettes since the time when he was a little boy, son of a
cigarette-maker in Blidah. He would continue rolling cigarettes till they
took him to the grave. He did not know how many he had rolled since his
fingers had first closed on the rice paper and the yellow opium-tinctured
tobacco. He might have rolled millions, tens of millions, he did not know.
He never smoked the things he rolled and one might have taken him for an
automaton, but for the song that was always humming upon his lips, a song
without words, monotonous, dreary and fateful.
Jacques paused before this image and greeted it. It nodded in reply to his
greeting and went on with its work.
Jahāl, for that was the name of this man, did not work for his own hand.
He was only a servant in the employ of the Kassim company. It supplied
him with the tobacco and cigarette-papers and paid him for the finished
product. He sat now without replying to the remarks of the légionnaire, for
he guessed Jacques was hard up for a smoke and had come to borrow.
Jacques noted the sullenness of the other and resented it. He was just on
the point of flinging an epigram at the head of the silent one and turning on
his heel, when the reed curtain at the back of the shop parted, revealing the
head of Mansoor the murderer.
There was no mistaking that dark haughty head with the hare lip that
exposed glistening teeth in an eternal sneer.
The pause in the talk between Jacques and Jahāl had evidently inspired
Mansoor with the belief that the visitor was gone, and, as evidently, he had
something urgent to say to Jahāl, else he would not have put forth from his
hiding hole. As it was he drew back instantly, but not before Jacques had
sprung into the shop, upsetting Jahāl, sending the pile of made cigarettes
flying every way and striking with his head the swinging lamp so that it
smashed against the fretwork screen depending from the low ceiling and
went out.
Jacques had joined in many a game of life and death, but never one quite
like this. There was money in this business, a lot of money, and fame. More
fame than he could ever get were he to perform the utmost prodigies of
valour as a soldier fighting the enemy with his regiment.
With the rush of a rat, Mansoor broke from the lane into a passage that
was simply a crack between two houses that were built right against the
inner wall of the ramparts.
The house next the rampart had an iron stair leading to the upper story
and the roof. Mansoor, followed by Jacques, swarmed up these stairs,
reached the roof, reached the ramparts and dropped over into the encircling
ditch.
Mansoor made the drop fifteen seconds only before Jacques. It was
thirty feet and they ought both to have been killed, but we may fancy that
the gods like a bit of sport sometimes, for they weren't.
But the Arab recovered from the shake-up of the fall before his pursuer
had done likewise, and from the start at the ditch's edge for the race for
freedom Jacques was under a half-minute handicap.
Half a minute is a terribly long time when the energy of life is blazing to
a point as in battle, or a pursuit like this. It gave Mansoor time to get well
away.
Just here, around the walls of Sidi-bel-Abbès, you will find vineyards
stretching southward and breaking up at last into market gardens. Mansoor
was making his way between two vineyards down a path that ended in a
cul-de-sac.
A fence, in fact, ended the path and barred his way and checked it for a
moment. He left it broken behind him and struck across a market garden
where long lines of bell glasses glowed in the light of the moon. In the
grape season all this place would be watched by the grape growers and by
this a hue and cry might have been set up and half a dozen unsolicited
helpers spoiling Jacques' game, but at this time of year the place was
deserted and the pursued and the pursuer had the ground to themselves.
The time taken by Mansoor in breaking through the fence gave Jacques
an advantage, for the break was so thorough that he was able to get through
without delay; when he was through, Mansoor, at the other end of the
garden, was negotiating the fence on that side.
Beyond lay broken ground, spotted here and there with stunted bushes
and cacti.
When Jacques reached this place, Mansoor was far ahead but distinctly
visible, and he had altered his pace. He was no longer running as if for his
life, he had settled down to a jog-trot, and Jacques, after a spurt that
lessened the distance between them by a quarter, held himself in and settled
down to the pace of Mansoor.
The man who holds the lead in an affair of this kind holds the advantage,
for the pursuer, if he overhauls the pursued, must inevitably come up to the
scratch winded.
Jacques had come to the conclusion that the murderer was unarmed, else
here, in this desolate place, he would undoubtedly have attacked instead of
running away. Believing this, he determined to hang on the other's heels,
wear him down, and then close with him.
The desert places of Algeria show little sand except in districts away
down south, as, for instance, by the Oasis of the Five Palms or that great,
sandy track where we saw the Legion fronting the Arabs and defeating
them.
Through this wilderness runs the great southern military road, built by
the soldiers of the Legion, and the line Mansoor was now taking lay to the
west of this road. It was his object to avoid the road; in this Jacques was
with him; the road meant military patrols and the prize taken out of Jacques'
hands.
Five hundred francs! Never for a moment had the idea left his mind; it
had driven him like a charging bull into the shop of the cigarette-maker, it
led him in pursuit down the lane, over the rampart, into the ditch and
through the market garden; it was leading him now on the most desperate
and dangerous chase that man ever engaged in, and it would lead him to the
end, whatever the end might be.
The serious fact for Mansoor at that moment lay, not in the fact that he
was a murderer, but the fact that he was five hundred francs. He was
bundles of Algerian cigarettes, bottles of blue Algerian wine, jolly evenings
at the canteen, lots of soap to wash uniforms with, kisses from black-eyed
girls, glasses of coloured liqueurs at Kito's—and he was being chased by
Jacques!—heaven help him!
The half-moon blazing in the sky lit the chase, and the cold of the
Algerian night checked the breath of Jacques.
At this pace, the marching pace of the Legion, he could keep on all night
and half the next day.
As he kept up the pursuit the thought suddenly occurred to him that the
barracks would have long closed by this, and not answering to the roll call
his name would be posted as a deserter. This thought amused him for a
moment, then it troubled him. He had deserted from the regiment before;
that always leaves a stain on a man's name, no matter how good his
subsequent conduct may be. The punishment for a second attempt is very
heavy and the Legion is deaf to excuses and very merciless. Stung by this,
he determined to finish the business at once, if possible, close with his prey
and chance it. He broke into a run, but, lo and behold, as though gifted with
eyes in the back of his head, or a supernatural sense of hearing, Mansoor
did likewise.
Five minutes later, both men, as if by tacit consent, had fallen back into
the old pace.
There are occasions when men hold quite long conversations with one
another without a word of speech, and whilst they are grasping for one
another's throats. Mansoor was saying to Jacques, "If you increase your
pace I will increase mine; there is nothing to be gained by you in
overhauling me like that; quite the reverse, for, seeing that I have a long
lead, you would be the most exhausted of the two if you managed to
outstrip me. Besides, in a racing test you might not be able to do so."
Jacques was saying, "That is true—curse you!—well, then, let's heel and
toe it, I have the advantage of the practice marches of the Legion on my
side, and I can stick to you till we both drop. I know, you have method in
your game, for the further you lead me the more chance you have of falling
in with some tribe of wandering Arabs who would back you against me.
Well, I must take the chance."
These two men had once known each other; at a distance, it is true, still
they had known one another and exchanged greetings. Jacques had a
reputation of his own in Sidi-bel-Abbès, and so had Mansoor. They knew
one another's reputations. This knowledge helped in the mute conversation
between the pursued and the pursuer.
At dawn they had put some thirty kilometres between them and Sidi-bel-
Abbès; the outline of the Tessala Mountains hardened against the fading
darkness and then the sun rose, a ball of guinea-gold coloured, eye-dazzling
fire, in a blue, still, silent sky.
The solitude here was unbroken by any sign of life; grass patch, scrub
bush, ash-grey-green cactus, all seemed petrified in their natural colours,
unreal in the real and living sunlight. Forsaken, and given over to eternal
silence.
They had entered a little gully where years ago quarrying work had gone
on, for stone to metal the great south road, and Jacques' mind had just
returned from one of its momentary lapses, when he saw the man he was
pursuing wheel round and advance towards him.
It was the sight of the pistol that brought Jacques' mind vividly awake. A
pistol! And he had been absolutely certain that his enemy was unarmed. The
fact remained, and before the fact Jacques turned tail. But he did not run.
On his left a cave-opening in the rock caught his eye, and urged by the
dread of a bullet in his back he dived into the cave.
Right opposite the cave mouth, and thirty feet or so away, he flung
himself down on the ground, rested his left arm on a piece of rock and the
barrel of the pistol on the angle of his elbow, taking aim straight into the
cave.
Jacques, seeing this, flung himself flat on the cave floor and waited for
the first shot.
But Mansoor did not fire. He seemed content to lie recovering from his
exhaustion and holding his enemy at bay.
Jacques had retreated as far as possible into the darkness of the cave, the
opening was some nine feet or so from his face, and as he lay on his
stomach, his chin resting on his arm, the fact that he was cornered and at the
mercy of the other appeared before him in all its bleak simplicity.
But the man with the pistol showed no signs of such an intention yet, he
seemed content to wait and watch, keeping a strict blockade till his energy
and resolution found themselves again.
Jacques wondered what it would be like when he was dead and lying
there always in the cave. Mansoor would not bother to bury him. He
thought of what his companions in the Legion would say and think. They
would fancy that he had deserted and had succeeded in making his escape.
Then appeared before him the blue sea at Oran and Oran itself, with the
barracks away up on the heights just as he had seen it on the first day of his
arrival in Algeria, more than seven years ago. Then the sea, from a thought,
became a vision and shimmered up to him and over him. Mansoor
vanished, the cave, the sunlight at its door and the fact that he was held for
Death.
Had you fired a cannon in the ravine he would not have heard it. It was
the sleep that follows on high excitement or profound exhaustion.
Yet it was morning when Jacques had fallen asleep. All the burning day
the murderer must have lain like this, watching—or had sleep taken him
too?
Suddenly one of the great birds whose shadows had been flitting across
the ground swept down and lighted on the head of Mansoor. It stood there
for a second, fiery-eyed and swaying, like a funeral plume, then, shooting
its head forward and downward, it peeped up into the face of the watching
one and plucked out an eye.
The birds of the desert always attack the eyes of a man first. The vultures
will haul at a fallen man's head till they get the face sideways. Jacques, who
knew all about the birds of the desert and their ways, gave a shout; next
moment he was kneeling beside the dead man.
Mansoor had been dead for hours, death had struck him most likely the
moment he had changed the upright for the recumbent position, giving him
only just time to lie down and take aim. His heart had given out owing to
his exertions and the excitement of the chase, or a blood vessel had broken
in his brain.
Jacques took the pistol from the dead hand, not without a struggle. Then
he saw why the pursued man had not fired on him. The magazine was
empty.
Mansoor must have been unable to obtain ammunition after the murder.
He had used bluff. It is almost as good sometimes.
The birds had now drawn off. They could be seen perched here and there
on the rocks and waddling on the ground. Jacques shook his fist at them.
Then, taking a clasp knife out of his pocket, a knife as keen as a razor, he
did that unto the body of Mansoor which would ensure the reward of five
hundred francs.
As he stood up the sun was setting, and the half-moon, like a ghost in the
east, was strengthening in outline. From that eastern sky, warm blue and
infinite in depth, a gentle wind was blowing, shaking the leaves of the few
stunted plants that grew in the ravine.
Jacques, having finished his business, came out of the ravine and stood
shading his eyes with his hands.
The land far and wide lay glowing in the sunset light, all hardness had
vanished from it, and the desolation was almost masked by the colours that
spread the distance.
The légionnaire was looking now to the east. He had determined to make
for the great south road and strike along it back to Sidi-bel-Abbès. He was
stiff and so exhausted from want of food that he could take little pleasure in
his triumph and the prospect of the reward.
His one idea was rest and food and drink. As he tramped along, making
due east, he found by good chance one of those tiny oases which occur here
and there in this part of the Algerian desert. Here, by a well scarcely bigger
than a slop basin, grew a prickly pear bush with ripe fruit on it. He drank
from the well and cut some of the pears, taking care to avoid the prickles,
then, having smoked a pipe, he started again by the light of the moon,
which was now burning white and clear.
By the well he had heard the far-off crying and quarrelling of the birds
from the ravine; he could hear it still as he walked, the sound growing ever
fainter, till it ceased altogether before he struck the road just at the
milestone that marked the forty-first kilometre from Sidi-bel-Abbès.
Here he was lucky enough to fall in with a cart going in the direction of
the town, and obtained a lift to the rest-house, which lay five miles ahead
and where for a couple of francs, which he had taken from the pocket of
Mansoor, he obtained a bed for the night and some food.
At four o'clock the next afternoon, Jacques, in the highest of spirits,
dusty and tired, yet stepping out vigorously, saw the roofs and mosque
minarets of Sidi-bel-Abbès breaking up before him against the sky.
Besides, what a smack it would be at the Arab police. The police and the
légionnaires are not friends. The police have the power to arrest an escaped
légionnaire, and more than that, they receive a reward for his capture. You
can fancy, then, how sharp they were on the look-out for prey of this sort,
and the ill-feeling that results.
Jacques, trudging along, had quite forgotten the police, also the fact that
he had no doubt been posted as a deserter by this. All of a sudden the sound
of horse-hoofs on the road behind him made him turn his head. Two
horsemen were approaching at full speed. They had been scouting amongst
the broken ground on the eastern side of the road, and the dusty figure of
the légionnaire tramping along had attracted their attention.
They overhauled him, recognized him at once as the man for whom a
reward was out, and whilst one of them held him under the muzzle of a
pistol, the other clapped a handcuff on his right wrist. The handcuff was
attached to a couple of fathoms of thin steel chain, and next moment they
were mounted and trotting for Sidi-bel-Abbès, Jacques running behind them
in the dust of the road.
They passed the gates, and then down the main boulevard they came, the
infernal police, like boys returning from fishing, only too proud to exhibit
their catch.
They were bringing him through the town on purpose. He knew it, but he
did not care. He was promising himself a fine revenge, and the onlookers in
the street were treated to a new sight, an escaped légionnaire being brought
in bursting with laughter and shouting ribald remarks to his captors.
At the barracks the police dismounted, and leaving their horses in charge
of one of the légionnaires on duty, they marched their still laughing prisoner
off to the guard-room, Five minutes later they were standing before Colonel
Tirard, waiting for their reward, Jacques between them.
The Colonel was in a temper. Jacques was one of the best men in the
regiment, and one of the best marchers. He had been well treated. Desertion
on the part of a man like that was a big crime in his eyes.
"So, you scamp," said he, "they've brought you back. A nice thing truly,
for you, a man in authority over others. Well, I will teach you—what's in
that bundle tied to your belt?"
"There are things that explain themselves," said Jacques that night, as he
told the story of his interview with Colonel Tirard to his companions.
I
Jacques was a bird fancier.
The slums of London and Paris seem to breed bird fanciers, men who
supply the trade, and just amateurs, market porters, artisans and so forth,
who go bird-catching outside the city limits of a Sunday, or who content
themselves with buying the feathered article in the rough state and training
it for profit.
The Legion recruits its units mostly from the failures and broken-down
men of the world; consequently, and leaving aside young criminals who are
driven into it by the law, it numbers few very young men in its ranks.
He was quite young, not more than eighteen or so, a fine fellow in every
way, but unfit for the life he had chosen. He was a rebel, at least against
discipline and restraint.
He had no special chum, but he was popular in his way and friendly with
Jacques. He told the latter his history—how he had been brought up to do as
he liked by a mother who doted on him, how his mother had died, and his
father, a vine-grower near Avignon, had tried to make him work; how he
had rebelled, not against work, but against the monotony of regular labour,
how a man in the cavalry had told him of the glorious times to be had in the
Legion, and how he had enlisted.
However that might be, Raboustel took his gruel, to use the expression
of Jacques, and didn't grumble over the taste of it. A bad sign. Everyone
grumbles in the Legion, and naturally, for the man who has sold his body
and soul for a halfpenny a day feels that he has something to grumble at.
The silent men and the men who keep up an appearance of unnatural
cheerfulness are the men likely to make trouble.
For the first couple of months, then, Raboustel, loathing the life that had
seized upon him, but saying nothing or next to nothing about his feelings on
the matter, seemed on the highway to one of the hundred forms of revolt
common to légionnaires.
Any day Jacques would not have been surprised to hear that Raboustel
had mutilated himself, or made an attempt to escape, or committed some act
equally mad and equally sure to lead to punishment or death.
But time went on and nothing happened, and then, strange to say,
Raboustel, so far from trying to run away or attempting some mad act, all at
once became cheerful—really and unfeignedly cheerful—and began to
grumble at the small pin-pricks of an Algerian soldier's life just like a
healthy légionnaire. He had fallen in love.
One evening, passing through Kassim Street, in the native quarter of the
town, he had stopped to admire the brass-work exposed for sale in a little
shop near the corner where Kassim Street is cut by the Street of the
Crescent. The owner of the shop, a Spanish Jew, Abraham Misas by name,
was not there. His daughter was looking after the place in his absence.
She was lying crouched on a rug in the dark interior of the shop, and
seeing what she supposed to be a customer looking at the wares, she came
forward.
When she saw that the customer was a légionnaire she was about to turn
away in disdain. Légionnaires never buy things, and consequently are
looked upon as scarcely human beings by the trading population of Sidi-
bel-Abbès.
However, before she had time to turn Raboustel spoke to her; there was
something in his voice that pleased her, and in a couple of minutes they
were chatting away one to the other quite amicably across the brassware, so
that a passer-by might have fancied them old acquaintances. They interested
one another immensely and at once, and their talk about nothing in
particular, the weather, the doings of the town and the Legion, had for each
of them the charm of a new and surprising adventure. She spoke French
with a Spanish accent. She asked him how long he had been with the
Legion, and how he liked the life, and in a moment he found himself telling
her all about himself, where he had come from and how he had joined the
regiment for the sake of a more active and interesting life than the life of a
vine-grower.
He had arrived at this when suddenly the girl broke off the conversation,
and an old man, looking something like Svengali grown grey, passed
Raboustel and entered the shop.
Raboustel, with a glance at the girl, turned and went on his way. He was
very quick in the up-take, knew at once that the old man was the proprietor
of the place and almost exactly what his feelings would be to find his
daughter chatting to one of those penniless, good-for-nothing scamps of the
Legion.
The next day the same thing happened, but on the third evening, as luck
would have it, the old man was away on some business and Manuella, that
was her name, was in the shop.
She came forward smiling and they talked together as before. Love
grows quickly in Algeria, especially when he is pressed for time, and before
they parted that night there was an understanding between these two, and
Raboustel returned to barracks in such a high state of spirits that his
companions fancied he had been drinking.
It hit him first in the pocket. Out of a halfpenny a day you cannot save
much to buy presents with, and the first instinct of a man in love is to offer
a present to the woman he loves.
One day near the barracks he met Raboustel, noted that he was dejected
and out of sorts and asked the reason.
"I know that nothing," replied the other. "I have suffered from it myself.
Come, out with it, is it the food that's making you sick?"
"You haven't!" cried Jacques, with a burst of laughter. "Then you must
be singularly easy to please. Ah, I know, you are homesick."
Raboustel laughed.
"I have not thought of home for a week. No, you are wrong, Corporal, it
is neither the food, nor the barracks, nor the thought of home that is
troubling me, it is something else."
He told his position in a few words. He had come to care for a girl and
he had no money with which to buy her a present, nothing to offer her.
Jacques listened. At the word "girl" he had been on the point of laughing,
then he saw in a flash that this was a serious business for Raboustel.
The position of a man in the Legion is such that honest aspirations and
ambitions are absurd, unless they be purely military, and even then they are
rarely fulfilled, and as for love!
"You will have trouble there," said he. "You will have the old man on top
of you; does he know about it?"
"Well, he is sure to get to know, and then your trouble will begin. You
see, you are a légionnaire."
"What of that! Nom de Dieu! You wouldn't be asking 'what of that' if you
had a daughter in love with a légionnaire. You would be getting out a gun
and shooting him. Well, the thing is not to be helped. It is a matter
accomplished. When a man makes a fool of himself there is only one thing
to be said for the situation, it is a matter accomplished. When do you see
her?"
"Where?"
"Well," said Raboustel, "I saw her the first few times in the shop of her
father, lately she has come to speak to me at the corner of the Grand
Boulevard where it cuts the Street of the Crescent. She meets me there and
we talk. Sometimes we walk a bit in the Boulevard and she looks into the
shop windows, not wanting me to buy her things, you understand, but still,